Styx and Stones: Chapter
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The clock in the hall chimed ten times, and Dorothy rolled over in bed, then sat up. The shades were open, as always, and outside the morning sky was the color of wet cement. It was going to rain later. Dorothy could hear the rumbling roll of distant thunder.
She made a mental note to have Norman recheck her systems: her vision was slightly fuzzy and dark, though the feeling was slowly clearing, her joints were stiff, and she felt disoriented.
Was this how humans felt in the morning?
Shaking her head slightly, Dorothy pushed that thought away, kicking off the covers as she turned her mind toward the day ahead. Thinking idly about how much it would irk Roger if she wore anything but black, she swung her legs over the side of the bed-
-only to fall forward as her legs collapsed beneath her. The cold floor nipped at her bare knees, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. Her palms smarted from breaking the fall.
Something was terribly, horribly, wonderfully wrong.
Grabbing the edge of the dresser, Dorothy pulled herself up slowly, her knees shaking. Tiny fireworks of bright colors burst in her vision, and she stood still until they cleared. A deep, unfamiliar ache in her chest began to burn its way into her thoughts, and she realized that not only was she breathing, she was gulping down air in short, deep breaths.
Her thumb brushed the cool, hard stone that lunatic woman had given her, and she pocketed it without a thought.
Then, like a toddler on wobbling legs, she left her room, still clad in the white nightdress. A robe was the farthest thing from her mind.
She had to find Roger and Norman.
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The mere fact that Roger had woken on his own, at 9:47 (four quarters of an hour after Dorothy usually woke him with her piano playing) was more than enough to set the negotiator in a pleasant mood, for all of about 2 minutes. Dorothy had never been late without reason: reason usually being that she was not in the house because some lunatic, like that Beck fellow, had taken it upon himself to sacrifice her for the greater good (i.e. his own pocketbook and power).
After this realization Roger was irritated, foul-tempered, and though it pained him to admit it, worried.
She's more than able to take care of herself, he reasoned. Norman would have woken me if something had happened… unless he's gone too…
Shut up, brain, Roger thought, shaking his head as he made his way to the dining room.
Norman was whistling in the kitchen, and breakfast sat on the table, covered by a tray to keep it warm. Though the eggs, ham, and biscuits (and not to mention the coffee) smelled divine, Roger doubted that he would be able to eat until he found out what had happened to Dorothy.
"Norman," he asked, entering the kitchen to see the old butler scrubbing a skillet in the sink. "Have you seen Dorothy this morning?"
Reaching for a dishtowel to dry the skillet, Norman answered, "I don't believe she's awake yet, sir."
Roger's eyebrows shot up into his hairline at this statement. "Androids don't sleep," he reminded Norman, more out of habit than anything else.
Norman smiled (smirked really) at this, and said, "Whatever the case, she hasn't come out of her room since retiring last night."
"Hn," was Roger's nondescript reply as he absently scratched his chin.
"Do you think she's all right?" he asked suddenly.
Smiling (smirking) again, Norman said, "I'm sure she's just fine, Master Roger. Why don't you go check on her, though, just to be sure."
Throwing an unamused, I-know-what-you're-trying-to-do-and-it-won't-work look over his shoulder, Roger stalked off back toward Dorothy's room.
The dull thud of bare feet on wood floors registered in Roger's brain moments before the living room door flew open, missing him by mere inches. This was followed by a flash of red hair and white nightgown, a weight on his chest, and the feeling of falling backwards. A loud crack (his own head hitting the floor, he would realize a split second later) rang in his ears, through his entire skull, almost drowning out the panicked, ragged breathing emanating from the body now lying across his own.
"Dorothy?" he questioned, lying still as the stars cleared from his vision.
She did not answer, but rolled off of him, and pushed herself up on shaking knees. Roger climbed unsteadily to his feet and watched in growing alarm as Dorothy stood and stumbled back to lean against the doorframe. Her bowed head, and the lack of the black band that forever adorned it, sent a wave a terror rolling down his spine. It took a firm, controlling mental shove to keep the fear at bay.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and expressive: not the eyes of an android. Her cheeks, usually pale and cold, were now pink and lively, and in the cold of the dining room he could feel the heat radiating from her small form. Her body heaved in time with the staccato rhythm of her breath, and her legs shook uncontrollably beneath her.
The doorframe appeared to be the only thing keeping Dorothy off the floor, and the chivalrous, slightly chauvinistic gentleman in Roger bade him step forward and pull her off her feet (Roger had always described this motion as "pull" rather than "sweep" because Dorothy weighed more than he did, but within seconds of taking her in his arms Roger's mind would change the motion back to a "sweep" because she was light as a feather).
She looked impossibly young and delicate, cradled against him in such fashion. One of her hands was fisted in the cloth of her nightgown, and the other had found a secure hold on the front of his robe. She was still shaking, her face pressed to his shoulder, as if she could block out whatever it was that had happened after she had gone to bed last night.
"Master Roger?" Norman called from the other end of the dining room, his voice full of concern. "I thought I heard someone fall-"
"Something's wrong with Dorothy," Roger cut him off, turning, Dorothy in arms, to face the older man. "Her headband's gone."
Norman, ready for anything, did not even bat an eyelash.
"Take her into the living room and set her on the couch," he said, and followed Roger into the living room.
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In and out.
In and out.
In and out.
Don't stop breathing.
Draw the air in, let it out…
Is that running water?
No, it's the blood rushing in your ears.
Oh god, oh godohgodohgod…
In and out.
In and out…
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Prying Dorothy off the front his robe had been a difficult task. She had clung to him like a petulant child, refusing to let go, and when he finally managed to pull her fingers loose from the fold of his robe she just latched onto his hand instead. Her grip was weak, warm.
Norman waited patiently as Roger tried in vain to prize himself loose of Dorothy, but she refused to let go. Finally the negotiator just gave up and sat down on the couch, pulling her down beside him.
"Now, let's have a look at you, shall we?" Norman said gently, kneeling before Dorothy. She did not look at him, but stared at Roger's hand, which was clasped tightly in her own.
Roger, for his part, was doing his best not to look at anyone in the room.
"Look at me, Dorothy," Norman prompted, and she flinched, but complied.
If Norman was surprised by the change in her gaze, he showed no physical sign.
He placed a hand on her cheek, and feeling the heat there moved his hand to her forehead. Warm…
With gentle hands he tilted her head forward, and combed through the soft, red locks on her crown. Finding no trace that there had ever even been a data port there was startling to say the least, but it gave him an idea that hadn't occurred to him.
Tilting her head back, he placed the first two fingers of his right hand at the juncture of her neck and chin.
And there, beating beneath his fingers, erratic and quick, but unmistakable, was a pulse.
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As soon as Norman had pulled his hand away from her neck, Dorothy had snatched her own hand from Roger's and mimicked Norman's motion.
When she felt the blood beating through her veins she very nearly passed out.
Instead she bowed her head and took a few steadying breaths. She vaguely remembered hearing somewhere that this was good for humans who were having a panic attack, and hoped that it was true.
"Did anything happen after you went to bed?" Norman asked softly when Dorothy seemed steadied.
Dorothy looked up at him, gathered her thoughts, and answered.
Or tried to, anyway. All that came out was a small cough.
She tried again. And again.
Roger's eyebrows rose with each small, hacking cough she emitted.
When Dorothy realized that her voice was not going to work, she began to gesture frantically in a manic attempt to convey what had happened to her at the carnival. She stilled when she accidentally struck Roger in the nose with the back of her hand, and folded her arms about herself as she tried to think of a gesture they could understand.
The next obvious form of communication was writing, and the motion was an easy one.
Using her left hand as the imaginary sheet of paper, she mimed writing, looking first to Roger, then to Norman.
Norman smiled, and nodded.
"I'll get you some paper and a pen, Miss Dorothy," he said, standing. "And a glass of water as well, I think."
Roger, who had been unusually silent the past few minutes, chose this moment to speak.
"Do you go looking for trouble when I leave you alone?" he asked, frowning at her.
Dorothy glanced at him angrily, but chose not to dignify his question with any more response.
"Really," he continued derisively. "I thought I had problems getting caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Dorothy wished she could point out that Roger made it his business to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Fate kept her silent.
Before he could make another snide comment, Norman returned with a glass of water, a few sheets of lined paper, and a pen. Dorothy took the water glass and drank down half of its contents, wondering idly why anyone would drink the stuff when it tasted so bland. She then shoved it toward Roger, who had to take it from her to avoid having it spilled all over himself. Norman handed her the paper and pen, and began to write a very simple description of what had transpired in the time that she had been away from Roger.
After writing the first two words she looked around for a hard, flat surface, and ended up scooting farther down the couch to make use of the end table.
Almost fifteen minutes later, when Dorothy felt her description was sufficiently detailed, she capped the pen, and handed the papers to Norman.
She watched the old butler's brow furrow as he read farther into her writing. Deciding she didn't like the look on his face one bit, she turned to Roger, who was still frowning at her. She took her glass of water back from him, and took another drink.
Her right hand, which was resting in her lap (it was odd how tired a limb could be after such a small exercise), brushed against the stone in her pocket, and Dorothy pulled it out to examine it once again.
For the third time that day Dorothy nearly passed out; the image on the stone had inverted itself. The mermaid, which had stood out in dark lines on a light stone, was now light as snow, and the stone had turned black as tar.
The sound of glass shattering reached Dorothy's ears, and an unfamiliar, unpleasant sensation (she automatically assumed it was pain) shot up her arm from her hand. The feeling of cold water splashing over her stomach and lap was secondary to that of something warm and sticky running down her arm.
Her eyes moved from the stone in her right hand, to the shards of glass in her left, to the brilliant red that was creeping down her arm, dripping onto her immaculate white nightdress.
This time Dorothy did pass out.
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Exactly five hours and thirty two minutes later, a little over seven miles south, and a complete world away, Brigit McFearson, aged six years and three months, would wake up from her afternoon nap to discover, to her horror and fright, that her eyesight had fled.
And though she could not see it, her pretty little stone, emblazoned with a proud hawk, had changed its colors, just as Dorothy's had.
End Chapter the Second
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Author's Notes: I feel like I should say something before I continue. To be frank, I do NOT believe in OOC in extreme situations like those I've written about above. Everyone changes, especially when a tragedy is involved, and believe you me, though this will probably have a happy ending, there are going to be some extremely tragic moments. Expect some changes in the major characters.
Secondly… DAMN! Did I put this off or what?! I'm so bad….and keeps deleting my asterisks!
THANKS SO MUCH TO EVERYONE WHO REVIEWED, and for those of you who pointed out the Little Mermaidness of this (you know who you are!), I was actually watching that movie and Hercules when I got the idea for this. No one laugh at me, Disney rocks!
Please be patient with me! I love all my stories dearly, and refuse to work on them when I don't want to, for fear of turning them to shit.
Keep up with the kind reviews, folks! They really help my muse (or lack thereof).
Also, it's not very hard to shatter a glass with your bear hand, especially if you've just gotten a huge shock…