A/N: Yes, I do know where the title of this story comes from. Thanks for the reviews. ^_^
Disclaimer: I do not own Big O and all the stuff in it.
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Chapter 2
"Master Roger, dinner is ready." Norman called from the dining area, carrying that ever-obedient yet somehow confident air. Roger looked up, and nodded slightly; he pushed himself up, exhausted without having done much of anything that day, and walked to the table.
Dorothy appeared from the dark corridor that led to her own room—that room having never been entered by Roger, but maybe Norman. Maybe. That was a key word. As far as Roger knew, Dorothy's room was pretty much an enigma.
She nodded, and walked to the table, sophisticatedly pulling out a chair, smoothing her dress, and sitting down.
"Good evening, miss Dorothy. Are you feeling well?" the old man inquired, giving a short, appreciative bow in her presence.
"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" she responded calmly. Typical Dorothy. She would never admit her worries or fears to anyone, if she had any. Especially Roger. Roger frowned slightly at that thought, but shrugged it off as Norman placed plates upon the table with food carefully applied on fragile porcelain. Dorothy folded her napkin onto her lap and began to eat in the same way she always did—smoothly, no hesitation.
There was silence at the table for most of dinner.
Every now and then, Roger would steal a glance at his robot associate, and quickly return to his plate before she would notice anything. Her dark eyes revealed nothing. So he was quiet, and unconfused.
The phone rang.
Norman made a start for it, but Roger extended his hand in a soundless order to halt; he dabbed at his face like a gentleman with his napkin, and then slid out of his chair and walked to the phone on his desk.
"Hello, this is Roger Smith."
"H-hello? This…my name is Julia…um, Julia Hibiya. And…well, I'll get to the point. My android—is missing… It was stolen from me. Could you…help me?" A timid voice emitted from the opposing line, and Roger's brow tilted upward slightly upon seeing Dorothy glance upward, still unresponsive. "And, um…other peoples' androids have been missing too…"
"…Right." Roger finally answered after about twenty literal seconds of silence, slightly entranced by the apathetic face Dorothy put on. "…Where do you live?" There was a nod, and Roger scribbled down a street address on a tiny pad next to the phone.
He said a small goodbye, and placed the receiver back onto the stand, maneuvering to the table.
"I don't see why people are so concerned." Dorothy finally spoke frostily, never removing her vacant gaze from her plate and carefully placing a piece of chicken into her mouth. "Machines can be replaced."
"I…" Roger paused for a moment, almost letting out a 'guess so,' but then remembering that Dorothy herself was…a machine. Dorothy's black stare maneuvered to Roger for a moment, readily awaiting an unfavorable response; he stared back, uncertain, slowly placing his hand with the fork onto the table. Finally, he gave a small smirk. "I don't think you're too replaceable, Dorothy."
Dorothy paused slightly, having slightly lowered the teacup; her arm remained suspended in the air for a few precious, surprised moments. She blinked, as if snapped out of a long daze, then nodded and placed the cup down.
Roger felt a small swell of pride. Yes, Roger Smith can woo even androids.
Well, he wouldn't use the word "woo". Flatter, maybe. Dorothy wasn't a "woo" type.
"That's different." Dorothy said calmly, causing Roger to sigh inwardly. What need had she felt to press the subject—was she really so bitter towards the androids and their owners? "All they need to do is go and buy a new one. I am not one of those models."
"I guess they're pretty expensive. One might be enough." Roger shrugged, stabbing a tomato violently with his fork. A small crunch emitted from the impact, and he twirled his fork around.
"But why do they care about something that was never alive?"
Roger flinched slightly, gazing down at his near-empty plate as if it held some significance to him. He knew she was awaiting some kind of response, unafraid of eye contact if the answer meant Roger didn't—well, you know; he moved around the food on his plate absentmindedly, attempting to go as long as he could without answering. What could he say, anyway?
"Humans are so material." Dorothy said in what could be heard as a bitter tone, yet remaining calm in the actions of eating and drinking. Roger blinked a few times, and then frowned slightly. "Does a nut or a screw have affection? Do they not know that the robots' warmth is only constructed, and never real?"
"What're you talking about?" Roger raised an eyebrow, his hand shaking slightly around the rim of his mug. She seemed so nonchalant about this. And Roger felt as if he'd walked into a brick wall all of a sudden.
"Why do people care about things that aren't alive?" she persisted, her tone no longer calm—it had an edge, a very slight one. Her gaze was removed from her food platter and she stared at Roger Smith, awaiting a response.
Well, let's be honest here. What could he say?
"…" Roger removed his hands from the table, staring at the wall to his left and trying to conjure up a response. "Because…they…" Silence. "…Because they care and…have hearts." Roger said simply, and then resuming his eats.
Dorothy paused for a moment.
She nodded slowly, as if understanding yet another concept of human nature, and finished off the last of the plate before standing. The red-haired girl nodded shortly at Norman, before carrying her dish to the kitchen to wash it.
Roger stood up, meal unfinished. He didn't feel like eating anymore. He sighed and walked into the hallway, ready to change into the evening robe and possibly turn in early.
He paused in the corridor. Dorothy's room's door was open—wide open.
Roger sighed, rolling his eyes. Dorothy never opened her door for anyone, and no one had ever seen it. There was probably a good reason for that, so Roger turned to his room. But something barely escaped the corner of his eye. You know the feeling when you go past some place you're not supposed to, but you see something interesting and turn around? That was Roger right then.
It was too bad that when he chose to turn around and make a start for her room, he almost crash-landed into Dorothy. Why does the bad crap always happen to the Negotiator? And why did she have to be so damn fast?
"What are you doing?" Dorothy inquired flatly, eyebrow twitching slightly upon seeing him.
"Uh…nothing," Roger stammered, backing away from the doorframe. "Err…I wasn't going to do anything. Really." He stumbled backwards, glancing idly over his shoulder to make sure he was headed to his own room.
"You'd better hope that was true, Roger Smith." Dorothy's tone could've been distinguished as seething, or just bitterness at work; whatever it was, it was unnerving, and she spun around to walk into her room, closing the door gently behind her.
Roger sighed shortly with relief. God knows what Dorothy would've done if he'd actually had the chance to enter the room.
He walked into his own bedroom, stifling a yawn and changing smoothly into his traditional robe and slippers and such. It was dark out, and when it's dark in Paradigm you can barely see out your window. That's how dreary it is. He glared outside for the moment. Maybe the sun would be up tomorrow. Dorothy would like that.
Roger walked into the corridor again, only to find her door open and inviting once again. He glanced out into the main, open area.
"Norman, where's Dorothy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The balcony. I thought you would know?" Norman also raised an eyebrow; Roger gave him an indignant look and walked to the stone pavilion, ignoring his butler's slight chuckle. Surely enough, Dorothy was standing on the marquee as usual, gazing over at the blacks and grays of Paradigm uninterestedly. She probably wanted a city with color.
Roger watched Dorothy from behind, and she was deathly still for a while—gazing perhaps straight ahead, or maybe glancing around without moving her head.
"Hello, Roger." She didn't turn around to acknowledge his presence, and her tone was somewhat lifeless and unexciting with her greeting; she gazed halfheartedly at the building across, where some lights flickered in the window.
"Hey." Roger responded offhandedly. "What're you staring at?"
"Look at that." Dorothy points bitterly to the building across—probably a hotel or apartment, with stacks upon stacks of windows, several lit.
Silhouettes of people dotted a few scattered windows, and a figure with fake, catlike ears next to it—androids. People, with those humanoid computers, enjoying themselves and believing they weren't alone. …Or maybe Dorothy just wanted to believe they were alone. What was her deal with them?
"Isn't it strange?" she asked softly, brow furrowing in thought. "If a person fell in love with one of them, would they think—would they believe the love was real?"
Roger was silent for a moment, ready to welcome any words or thoughts she could spare. He glanced at the dancing shadows of people and their "coms," doing whatever they pleased. She seemed disgruntled. This was pretty awkward for Roger… Upon realizing she had nothing further to offer then await a response, he made a small "ahem" in his throat.
"What do you think about love, Roger?"
Ah, crap.
"Well…uh…" R. Dorothy Wayneright was possibly the only person who could catch him at an awkward moment—well, all right, Norman occasionally. "I…think," he said slowly. "Uh… it's…different for everyone, I guess." That sucked.
It was cold again, and snow began to float gently onto Paradigm; steady fall meant one or two inches would blanket the streets and houses of the city. A cool breeze prompted Dorothy's hair to float gently on the wind, no matter how short it was, and she remained on the balcony, arms clasped together behind her. It wouldn't be long until her dress would be matted with it.
There's something symbolic about snow at night. It also seems rather lonely, too, in a somewhat quiet, depressed city.
Roger and Dorothy stood on stone, in silence; not a word was spoken between them, and Roger was grateful. She had asked enough intimidating questions for the day.
"It's cold."
"You can feel that kind of stuff?"
"Yes. If you set a computer on fire, its systems would be heated. This isn't necessarily the same thing, but is similar nonetheless." She responded desolately, and her arms were removed from her back to be hanging limply at her sides. Roger was quiet for a moment.
//You've been through enough embarrassing situations for the day.// he reminded himself. //One more couldn't hurt.//
Letting out a very audible sigh, Roger took off his thick robe and hung it loosely on Dorothy's shoulders. Underneath was his usual bed attire—pants, slippers, and what may be distinguished as a "muscle shirt"—and it was cold for him, too. Why'd he have to go and do that? However, he revealed no sign of chill on the outside, and tucked his hands into his pockets.
"Thank you."
"Easy for you. I'm going inside. You coming in anytime soon?" Roger started towards the glass sliding door, turning his head slightly and nodding towards the inside.
"I'll stay out for a little while longer."
Roger nodded and walked back into the warm comforts of his mansion, starting towards his bedroom. And then there was that—the thing that had earlier caught his eye. A cool breeze emitted from the window in Dorothy's room…
He walked in, and his eyes widened slightly. Snow scattered slightly on her bed and things, and on the black silk draperies she stationed in various areas—and finally, the window had a large hole smashed in the middle, brushing aside the curtains.
Broken glass was pieced onto the small flowerpots attached to the rim of the windowsill seen outside.
He walked further into the room, glancing around. There, lying on a clean black wood desk, lay a leather-bound book with a fountain pen lying next to it. Roger walked uneasily towards it, and brushed his fingers slightly against the letters embroidered in the cover.
He shouldn't read it…
Disclaimer: I do not own Big O and all the stuff in it.
-
Chapter 2
"Master Roger, dinner is ready." Norman called from the dining area, carrying that ever-obedient yet somehow confident air. Roger looked up, and nodded slightly; he pushed himself up, exhausted without having done much of anything that day, and walked to the table.
Dorothy appeared from the dark corridor that led to her own room—that room having never been entered by Roger, but maybe Norman. Maybe. That was a key word. As far as Roger knew, Dorothy's room was pretty much an enigma.
She nodded, and walked to the table, sophisticatedly pulling out a chair, smoothing her dress, and sitting down.
"Good evening, miss Dorothy. Are you feeling well?" the old man inquired, giving a short, appreciative bow in her presence.
"Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?" she responded calmly. Typical Dorothy. She would never admit her worries or fears to anyone, if she had any. Especially Roger. Roger frowned slightly at that thought, but shrugged it off as Norman placed plates upon the table with food carefully applied on fragile porcelain. Dorothy folded her napkin onto her lap and began to eat in the same way she always did—smoothly, no hesitation.
There was silence at the table for most of dinner.
Every now and then, Roger would steal a glance at his robot associate, and quickly return to his plate before she would notice anything. Her dark eyes revealed nothing. So he was quiet, and unconfused.
The phone rang.
Norman made a start for it, but Roger extended his hand in a soundless order to halt; he dabbed at his face like a gentleman with his napkin, and then slid out of his chair and walked to the phone on his desk.
"Hello, this is Roger Smith."
"H-hello? This…my name is Julia…um, Julia Hibiya. And…well, I'll get to the point. My android—is missing… It was stolen from me. Could you…help me?" A timid voice emitted from the opposing line, and Roger's brow tilted upward slightly upon seeing Dorothy glance upward, still unresponsive. "And, um…other peoples' androids have been missing too…"
"…Right." Roger finally answered after about twenty literal seconds of silence, slightly entranced by the apathetic face Dorothy put on. "…Where do you live?" There was a nod, and Roger scribbled down a street address on a tiny pad next to the phone.
He said a small goodbye, and placed the receiver back onto the stand, maneuvering to the table.
"I don't see why people are so concerned." Dorothy finally spoke frostily, never removing her vacant gaze from her plate and carefully placing a piece of chicken into her mouth. "Machines can be replaced."
"I…" Roger paused for a moment, almost letting out a 'guess so,' but then remembering that Dorothy herself was…a machine. Dorothy's black stare maneuvered to Roger for a moment, readily awaiting an unfavorable response; he stared back, uncertain, slowly placing his hand with the fork onto the table. Finally, he gave a small smirk. "I don't think you're too replaceable, Dorothy."
Dorothy paused slightly, having slightly lowered the teacup; her arm remained suspended in the air for a few precious, surprised moments. She blinked, as if snapped out of a long daze, then nodded and placed the cup down.
Roger felt a small swell of pride. Yes, Roger Smith can woo even androids.
Well, he wouldn't use the word "woo". Flatter, maybe. Dorothy wasn't a "woo" type.
"That's different." Dorothy said calmly, causing Roger to sigh inwardly. What need had she felt to press the subject—was she really so bitter towards the androids and their owners? "All they need to do is go and buy a new one. I am not one of those models."
"I guess they're pretty expensive. One might be enough." Roger shrugged, stabbing a tomato violently with his fork. A small crunch emitted from the impact, and he twirled his fork around.
"But why do they care about something that was never alive?"
Roger flinched slightly, gazing down at his near-empty plate as if it held some significance to him. He knew she was awaiting some kind of response, unafraid of eye contact if the answer meant Roger didn't—well, you know; he moved around the food on his plate absentmindedly, attempting to go as long as he could without answering. What could he say, anyway?
"Humans are so material." Dorothy said in what could be heard as a bitter tone, yet remaining calm in the actions of eating and drinking. Roger blinked a few times, and then frowned slightly. "Does a nut or a screw have affection? Do they not know that the robots' warmth is only constructed, and never real?"
"What're you talking about?" Roger raised an eyebrow, his hand shaking slightly around the rim of his mug. She seemed so nonchalant about this. And Roger felt as if he'd walked into a brick wall all of a sudden.
"Why do people care about things that aren't alive?" she persisted, her tone no longer calm—it had an edge, a very slight one. Her gaze was removed from her food platter and she stared at Roger Smith, awaiting a response.
Well, let's be honest here. What could he say?
"…" Roger removed his hands from the table, staring at the wall to his left and trying to conjure up a response. "Because…they…" Silence. "…Because they care and…have hearts." Roger said simply, and then resuming his eats.
Dorothy paused for a moment.
She nodded slowly, as if understanding yet another concept of human nature, and finished off the last of the plate before standing. The red-haired girl nodded shortly at Norman, before carrying her dish to the kitchen to wash it.
Roger stood up, meal unfinished. He didn't feel like eating anymore. He sighed and walked into the hallway, ready to change into the evening robe and possibly turn in early.
He paused in the corridor. Dorothy's room's door was open—wide open.
Roger sighed, rolling his eyes. Dorothy never opened her door for anyone, and no one had ever seen it. There was probably a good reason for that, so Roger turned to his room. But something barely escaped the corner of his eye. You know the feeling when you go past some place you're not supposed to, but you see something interesting and turn around? That was Roger right then.
It was too bad that when he chose to turn around and make a start for her room, he almost crash-landed into Dorothy. Why does the bad crap always happen to the Negotiator? And why did she have to be so damn fast?
"What are you doing?" Dorothy inquired flatly, eyebrow twitching slightly upon seeing him.
"Uh…nothing," Roger stammered, backing away from the doorframe. "Err…I wasn't going to do anything. Really." He stumbled backwards, glancing idly over his shoulder to make sure he was headed to his own room.
"You'd better hope that was true, Roger Smith." Dorothy's tone could've been distinguished as seething, or just bitterness at work; whatever it was, it was unnerving, and she spun around to walk into her room, closing the door gently behind her.
Roger sighed shortly with relief. God knows what Dorothy would've done if he'd actually had the chance to enter the room.
He walked into his own bedroom, stifling a yawn and changing smoothly into his traditional robe and slippers and such. It was dark out, and when it's dark in Paradigm you can barely see out your window. That's how dreary it is. He glared outside for the moment. Maybe the sun would be up tomorrow. Dorothy would like that.
Roger walked into the corridor again, only to find her door open and inviting once again. He glanced out into the main, open area.
"Norman, where's Dorothy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"The balcony. I thought you would know?" Norman also raised an eyebrow; Roger gave him an indignant look and walked to the stone pavilion, ignoring his butler's slight chuckle. Surely enough, Dorothy was standing on the marquee as usual, gazing over at the blacks and grays of Paradigm uninterestedly. She probably wanted a city with color.
Roger watched Dorothy from behind, and she was deathly still for a while—gazing perhaps straight ahead, or maybe glancing around without moving her head.
"Hello, Roger." She didn't turn around to acknowledge his presence, and her tone was somewhat lifeless and unexciting with her greeting; she gazed halfheartedly at the building across, where some lights flickered in the window.
"Hey." Roger responded offhandedly. "What're you staring at?"
"Look at that." Dorothy points bitterly to the building across—probably a hotel or apartment, with stacks upon stacks of windows, several lit.
Silhouettes of people dotted a few scattered windows, and a figure with fake, catlike ears next to it—androids. People, with those humanoid computers, enjoying themselves and believing they weren't alone. …Or maybe Dorothy just wanted to believe they were alone. What was her deal with them?
"Isn't it strange?" she asked softly, brow furrowing in thought. "If a person fell in love with one of them, would they think—would they believe the love was real?"
Roger was silent for a moment, ready to welcome any words or thoughts she could spare. He glanced at the dancing shadows of people and their "coms," doing whatever they pleased. She seemed disgruntled. This was pretty awkward for Roger… Upon realizing she had nothing further to offer then await a response, he made a small "ahem" in his throat.
"What do you think about love, Roger?"
Ah, crap.
"Well…uh…" R. Dorothy Wayneright was possibly the only person who could catch him at an awkward moment—well, all right, Norman occasionally. "I…think," he said slowly. "Uh… it's…different for everyone, I guess." That sucked.
It was cold again, and snow began to float gently onto Paradigm; steady fall meant one or two inches would blanket the streets and houses of the city. A cool breeze prompted Dorothy's hair to float gently on the wind, no matter how short it was, and she remained on the balcony, arms clasped together behind her. It wouldn't be long until her dress would be matted with it.
There's something symbolic about snow at night. It also seems rather lonely, too, in a somewhat quiet, depressed city.
Roger and Dorothy stood on stone, in silence; not a word was spoken between them, and Roger was grateful. She had asked enough intimidating questions for the day.
"It's cold."
"You can feel that kind of stuff?"
"Yes. If you set a computer on fire, its systems would be heated. This isn't necessarily the same thing, but is similar nonetheless." She responded desolately, and her arms were removed from her back to be hanging limply at her sides. Roger was quiet for a moment.
//You've been through enough embarrassing situations for the day.// he reminded himself. //One more couldn't hurt.//
Letting out a very audible sigh, Roger took off his thick robe and hung it loosely on Dorothy's shoulders. Underneath was his usual bed attire—pants, slippers, and what may be distinguished as a "muscle shirt"—and it was cold for him, too. Why'd he have to go and do that? However, he revealed no sign of chill on the outside, and tucked his hands into his pockets.
"Thank you."
"Easy for you. I'm going inside. You coming in anytime soon?" Roger started towards the glass sliding door, turning his head slightly and nodding towards the inside.
"I'll stay out for a little while longer."
Roger nodded and walked back into the warm comforts of his mansion, starting towards his bedroom. And then there was that—the thing that had earlier caught his eye. A cool breeze emitted from the window in Dorothy's room…
He walked in, and his eyes widened slightly. Snow scattered slightly on her bed and things, and on the black silk draperies she stationed in various areas—and finally, the window had a large hole smashed in the middle, brushing aside the curtains.
Broken glass was pieced onto the small flowerpots attached to the rim of the windowsill seen outside.
He walked further into the room, glancing around. There, lying on a clean black wood desk, lay a leather-bound book with a fountain pen lying next to it. Roger walked uneasily towards it, and brushed his fingers slightly against the letters embroidered in the cover.
He shouldn't read it…