Act Fifteen - Scene Three: Off Duty

'Sometimes it's easier to forget the past than to come to terms with it. I had thought to leave behind the Military Police, but there was a disturbing trend, it seemed, that lately I was becoming more and more trapped by what I was trying to forget. I supposed it was just one of those times when running headfirst into the thing you're trying to get over is better than trying to hide it under the rug.'

Nadine Fitz. I should've recognized the name the minute the woman said it, but I didn't. One of the pictures on the mantle downstairs has her brother in it. Jerome Fitz. He was a lieutenant in the Military Police the same time that I was, and last I knew, he was still in the MP.

She is still the same collected, pretty brunette that she was when I knew her years ago, only her prettiness has faded from the stunning beauty it was when she was in her prime. Back then she would have given Angel a run for her money, now, while she would still cause heads to turn, but the blond bombshell might win out in a contest between them.

Unless you decided to bring in personality.

After opening their mouths and having a conversation, Nadine would easily be the chosen woman. The slight smile lines on her face around her eyes and mouth are more than easily overlooked when matching personalities with a heartless woman like Angel.

"I haven't heard from him in a year, Lieutenant Smith, and I thought that because you worked with him…" Her hair is neatly pulled back in a bun and her clothing, while not the latest fashions, is nonetheless well kept and looking smart. I remember how I used to have such a crush on her, when I was working on the force.

"Miss Fitz," I start, glancing at the clock. "I am no longer an officer of the Military Police. I'm just 'Mr. Smith' now."

It's almost eight-forty. She wasn't just around the block, she was down by the precinct. I would rather be spending this time with Dorothy, in all honesty.

The thought is discomforting.

I would rather be spending time with Dorothy than a live woman.

"I am sorry, I realized, I just didn't think that..." Nadine trails off.

But then is she really all that dead? It's the opposite of being alive. No. Dorothy is alive. She thinks, she has a pulse and can be injured… the only thing she doesn't do is eat. And even that she can fake, some. Is it all that necessary that she be completely human for me to consider her a 'live woman'?

She glances around the room pointedly and nods, "Indeed, I suspect you don't need to." There is a hint of reproach in Nadine's voice, one that I also remember from before. She never approved of me, truly. "But I need you to get in touch with Jerome for me. And since you're outside the system, and you were the head of Jerome's squad."

*

I can make out the voices from here. Norman asked me if I would clean the downstairs hallway outside the elevator, and there was no reason that I thought I should deny his request. Now I wonder if he is trying to be helpful in my knowledge of Roger Smith.

I do not know how I feel about that. And I do not know what to say about it.

This 'Miss Fitz' seems to have known Roger long before I even existed.

That is a hard thought to swallow. If one has to swallow thoughts. It is an expression I heard Roger use in relation to something the other day, and one that I do not quite understand. I will have to ask Norman about it later.

I wonder if it will be another one of the 'troublesome' questions that I will be asking Roger. It seems that the more I want to know about the way that humans live their lives, the more troublesome it is to him. I do not know if that is because he is starting to see me as more and more human, or if the memories that are stored within me are starting to make me more of a girl.

Finishing with the dust mop, I turn and head into the side parlor.

The liquor cabinet stands with it's glass doors, tall and straight and silent in the slight darkness of the room. I turn on the light quickly, suddenly afraid of all the darkness and the empty space, and shake my head. It's silly, this reaction of mine. There is nothing, afterall, that can hurt something like me in the darkness. There is nothing in the empty space that should be frightening to me.

And yet, I wonder.

It brings to the forefront of my mind lying undressed on a table while my body was being finished. I recall Timothy Waynewright standing over me with a caring expression on his aged face, and being quite aware of the state of completion of my body. There were people behind him.

And then there was darkness.

A flash of the night that Roger passed out after we tested the cards used in Miss Hope Dorland's 'Psyche' project. The look of pain and wonder on his handsome, I now admit that he is such, face. I step over to the table with picture frames and hourglasses and lift one into the light, inspecting the sand within.

After a long moment, I set the hourglass on the well-waxed table top, turned over, and sit on my haunches to watch the sand run out.

*

"Miss Fitz, that was a long time ago." The look on her face tells me that it doesn't matter to her, and I bite back my sigh. "You do realize there's a fee involved in my services…" I have a feeling she's wasting both of our time. The Fitz family was never very well off, not that they were poor, but the siblings all held jobs, last I knew.

"Of course I do, Mr. Negotiator. I may not have known you were no longer with the Military Police, but I am aware that you charge for your services. Major Dastun was the one who told me to seek you out, and he mentioned that. I told him that my husband will be more than glad to pay you for bringing word of my brother to us."

"Dastun?" He's never recommended someone come to me before.

Either he's really busy, or he doesn't have a clue how to handle Jerome's case. I hope it's the first, but it is more than likely the later of the two. Something he'd like to help with but Paradigm won't let him. It's happened before. And Nadine was always a caring sister to all of her brothers. I give it a quick thought… he was, afterall, something of a friend to me when I was on the force…

"The Major does not know what's become of Jerome either, and apparently he doesn't have the time to care what's become of my brother, so he sent me to you to solve one of his personnel problems."

"And if your brother is deceased, Miss Fitz?"

"Then you will get your fee, and I will get my answer."

An easy enough decision to make.

"Do you have a number where I can reach you?"

She takes out a card and writes on the back of it in pen before handing it to me. "So does this mean-" her voice is breathless and hopeful, for all her reticence and withdrawn nature before she seems eager now, and there's a light in her eyes that wasn't there moments before when she was chiding me. It's endearing, and it brings back the spark of beauty that was in her when she was younger.

"I'll take the case, Miss Fitz… though it will be a few days before I can get back to you with anything. You must realize how close it is to the Saint's Day Ball."

She smiles broadly, and takes the hand I extend to shake hers in a firm grip, "I understand. But the last I knew, Roger Smith, you hated that holiday, and never celebrated it."

She rises and I see her to the door.

"Things change."

"I'd be interested to meet her."

I choke on my breath and blink, holding the door open for her personally.

Just before she turns to step out into the light snow, she stops and turns to embrace me. "Thank you, Roger." I blink and she continues, "I didn't believe what Dastun said about you for a minute, you know. And I'm sure Jerome didn't either. Thank you," she repeats, and quickly lets me go and turns to disappear into the night.

I turn to get back into the elevator when I see the mop and bucket set neatly to the side. I glance around, and for a long moment I cannot decide who was cleaning the floor here. And then I hear the noise of an hourglass being set down in the room to the side, where I keep the alcohol.

No. Not a single hour glass.

Many.

There is a quick movement overturning them all, I realize, and turn to look in on her through the doorway. She hears me, and asks a question, "Roger, how do you swallow a thought?"

I blink, my eyebrows lifting on my forehead, and try to understand the question a little better. But she obviously doesn't mind not getting a proper response, because she doesn't prompt me with a clarification. Instead, she seems entirely focused on the hourglasses before her.

I know what they mean to me, but not what they mean to her. What is it that she thinks of when she looks at the shifting sands in the small glass containers?

"I dislike taking people so late."

*

"You did not know she would be here so late, if I am not mistaken," I reply. He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. His words mean something else, I think. Something he won't say aloud to me, yet. "If you did not want to be disturbed, you should have turned off the phone in your office."

"You have a point there, Dorothy," he says, crossing to the fireplace to glance at the pictures on the mantle. I moved the hour glasses into this room earlier when cleaning, and so that the sunlight would not bleach the wood that they are made of. There are mostly dark woods in their construction, though there are several larger ones made of pine that I left in the drawing room.

"If you are cold, we could start a fire in the fireplace," I say, noticing that he has his arms folded in front of him. I turn my head so that I can watch him. I like to watch him. The rise and fall of his shoulders when he breathes, the gentle motion of the fabric on his frame as he does the simplest of things.

It is at the same time constant, and less constant, as the sand in the hourglasses that I have overturned. "Don't be ridiculous, Dorothy, why would I be cold?"

"Because your breath is making steam in the air, and that means that the temperature is near freezing in the room. It is only natural to feel coldness, Roger."

He glances half at me, over his shoulder, "Do you feel cold, Dorothy?"

"Yes," I admit, quietly.

"What else do you feel?" he asks, kneeling to gather some of the wood from the container next to the fireplace and setting it up inside the iron basket inside the opening. After a long moment, I rise and retrieve the matches from the far end table drawer.

"Darkness," I say, settling down on my knees next to him and offering the matches. He smiles and takes them from me, lighting the fire before standing and turning off the lights in the room.

I glance at him and he pauses on his way back over to me.

"Is that too dark?"

"Are you going to leave?"

"Of course not. I wouldn't have lit the fire if I was planning to go back upstairs. We could've gone together, and it would've been-" he stops his words and simply shakes his head. "No. I'm staying."

"Then it is fine."

He crosses and sits beside me, stretching his long legs towards the fireplace. "You said," he begins, and then stops himself, turning his eyes towards the fire.

"Would you like a drink, Roger?"

"What?"

"A drink."

"Not particularly." He leans back, against the lower end of one of the sitting chairs in the room, and tilts his head up towards the ceiling with a sigh.

As quietly as I can, I scoot over next to him and lean my head against his chest.

The sensation is awkward at first, having her leaning against me. The ribs that I broke aren't entirely well healed yet, but they seem to hold up well under the pressure of her. And she was the one to nurse me back to health, so she should know, quite easily, what weight I can and cannot stand on what parts of my body. I start to comment, but instead find that it is easier simply to put an arm around her and let her fingers rest gently on the lapel of my jacket.

I did not know that Dorothy rested.

Recalling back to when we were last this close to one another, it is comforting to have her so close. I thought, when she was shot, that there would be nothing left of her to hold on to. It was a scary thought.

And the only other time she got this close to me, or at least the only memorable time, she was not herself. I cannot afford to believe that she was entirely in control when she said the things she said to me. Or that her actions were her own. It reminded me much of when Timothy was attacked by Beck's men at the Nightengale club, and she reacted to protect him.

I don't believe she is programmed to injure humans.

And even if she were, I do not think that she would ever attack me.

She settles more comfortably against me, rubbing her cheek gently against my jacket. I wonder if she gets cold, in the darkness, at night. When she powers down… is it like when we dream?