| Jane | 02-10-2004 08:55 PM |
This is my attempt at continuing the story of "Big O". It continues with
"Black Forest"
"Oh Ye Mortals!",
"In the Circle Cocytus"
Story Board
Sin and Sorrow
ACT:27
Roger the Damned
“My name is Roger Smith. I perform a much-needed job here in this city of amnesia.”
Roger Smith did not believe in things like doubt and uncertainty. Confidence was his credo, and certitude his shield. The elderly of the city, those who had lost so much forty years ago, would find him an unusual man, but to the younger citizens of Paradigm City the confidence of Roger Smith was a familiar mask. Those who live without a past must make a choice to live in confidence or to die in doubt. But today Roger Smith was dealing with an unusual sensation. He had the nagging feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere, even though today he had nowhere in particular to go.
“This place, Paradigm City, is a town of forgetfulness...”
The long limousine hit a large plate in the road which jarred Roger in his seat and made a loud clanking noise that caused several pedestrians to glance up at the long, sleek automobile. It was one more thing determined to bend Roger’s steely will, like the name that was on this tip of his tongue but refused to be said. Like the unnamed thing in the back of his mind that was screaming out to be recognized, but which wouldn’t stay put long enough to be dealt with. Roger chased it for only a moment until laughing he let it go, slicking his dark hair back as he did.
“Give it up,” he thought to himself, “If it really is important I’m sure it can be dealt with later.”
Deftly and with practiced ease, Roger erased the doubts from his mind and steered the Griffon homeward.
“...humans are adaptable creatures, they make due and go on with life.”
On the way home, Roger stopped at the Speakeasy. Without a glance at the other customers he headed straight for his favorite chair and leaned back against the wall. Out of habit he turned to his right, pulled a wad of cash from his coat, and set it on the table.
“Sir?” A young waiter asked, eyeing the bills eagerly, “May I help you?”
Roger paused a moment, slightly confused, before lifting the bills from the table and handing them to the boy.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d like a drink.”
“People can survive without knowing what did or didn’t happen in the past.”
He was delayed on the journey home when traffic stopped to let the military police vehicles through. It did not take long for the great beasts to lumber by, however, and soon he was being waved on. He drove the Griffon into it’s underground garage and rode the small wire elevator to the top floor. An aged man in formal dress was waiting there for him.
“Master Roger, welcome home.” the butler spoke in placid tones.
“Norman please check the breaks. Their efficiency has dropped by 1/8.” Roger answered, strangely annoyed.
“Really sir? I’ll see to it after I’ve prepared your dinner. Perhaps I haven’t been maintaining them properly.”
Roger pulled off his tie and held it at arms length. He felt inclined to say something, but nothing particular came to mind, so he let his arm drop and turned away.
“Master Roger,” Norman added quickly, “I’d nearly forgotten, but there’s a Miss Wainwright waiting to see you.”
“A lady guest?” Roger asked lecherously, “You let her in?”
“Yes sir.”
Roger returned the tie to it’s position and began the assent to where the young lady was waiting. Of all the rules that held sway in the Smith household, this was his favorite.
“But memories, like nightmares, sometimes come when you least expect them.”
The young woman stood silhouetted in the window as Roger reached the top of the stairs. The bright sunlight made it difficult to see her clearly, but Roger could see that she was small and thin and dressed all in black.
“I have a special rule...” Roger began, but somehow he could not complete the familiar introduction. Somehow it felt hollow and unnatural.
The young woman turned around and looked at him, sizing him up with deep and piecing eyes.
“Roger,” she said mechanically, and yet, almost familiarly.
Suddenly the name that had escaped him all day came to his lips.
“Dorothy.”
He did not know this young woman. He had never seen her before and yet he knew her name. Suddenly he began to feel something inexplicable. He began to feel uncomfortable.
“Roger,” she continued, ignoring his discomfort, “Our memories are gone. Do you love me?”
Roger choked down a gasp. “What?” he asked suddenly.
“You and I have lost our memories. Beck stole the one’s my father gave me and yours have been erased.”
Roger was feeling increasingly awkward; the girl was confusing and, perhaps, delusional, but he found himself intrigued. Perhaps her tiny waist was distracting him.
“So you have lost your memories?” He asked, trying to remain in charge of the situation, “and you want me to negotiate for their return?”
“Not my memories,” she said calmly, as if explaining something to a stupid child, “Those memories aren’t mine anymore.”
“Because they were stolen?” Roger asked, attempting to piece together her fragmented speech, “They don’t belong to you because they were taken?”
He paused a moment to loosen his tie, “And there was a romance that was erased with the memories?
“What never existed cannot be erased,” the girl said quietly.
Roger didn’t know how to respond to that one. He was inclined to think that this game of words had become a little tiresome, but there was something almost comforting in the gentle sameness of her voice, and something quietly reassuring in her small, pale face.
She stepped down from the window and began to walk toward him. Roger heard a faint sound as she moved, almost like the quiet whir of machinery, and suddenly he remembered--no--realized what she was.
Unheeded, quiet words of amazement crossed his lips.
“Damn.”
She continued to walk forward until she was standing directly in front of him, then, accompanied by the same quiet drone, she lifted her head, looked into his eyes, raised her right arm, and touched his cheek with her cold hand.
Suddenly he felt something akin to terror. He dropped to the floor, shaking violently. His mind went black and strange images began to flash in his mind: giant robots attacking Paradigm City, Paradigm City whole and healthy, himself dead in his own giant robot, the Megadeus Big O, and then an image of himself in Big O and this same young woman beside him, plugged into the Big O through an empty slot in her forehead.
“What is this?” Roger asked, curled on the floor and trembling as new images were painted across his eyes.
He saw himself as a child, his head shaved and wearing a strange uniform. A serial number flashed in his eye.
“Memories are very precious to people’s lives. They give us the opportunity to prove to ourselves that we exist.”
“Are these memories?” Roger asked.
He saw himself again, a vagabond and a wanderer. Helpless and alone in a Paradigm City where everyone had a place but him.
“If we lose them, we have an unrelenting feeling of uncertainty.”
“Whose memories are these!” Roger screamed.
In the darkness he heard Dorothy’s voice, “You are a true dominues Roger Smith.”
Roger saw himself piloting the Big O against another Big, one bent on destroying the city. Then he watched as that Big was crippled and another one rose up, pale and inverted. A Big that began to turn Paradigm city into a blank.
“I, myself, don’t even know who I am.”
“The Bigs are constant, they do not forget, they are never erased,” Dorothy continued.
Roger saw what appeared to be a control room with a wall lined with television screens. An attractive blond sat in front of them, directing the action, but there was someone else was in the room, someone with just as much control. Someone tall and imposing and dressed in black. It was Roger.
“Big O’s memories are yours,” Dorothy said, “and yours are his, and now they are also mine.”
“I was the one who made that choice.”
Roger Smith opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, his head in Dorothy’s lap. She was quietly stroking his hair, the same way she had once lovingly stroked a small gray cat. When she saw that he was awake she stopped and moved her hands to her side. Roger could hear the quiet squeal of metal as she moved.
For a moment they simply stayed as they were, waiting for something to happen.
“You must stop denying your own existence.”
Then Roger’s eyes went wide as another name came to mind.
“Angel.”
"Black Forest"
"Oh Ye Mortals!",
"In the Circle Cocytus"
Story Board
Sin and Sorrow
ACT:27
Roger the Damned
“My name is Roger Smith. I perform a much-needed job here in this city of amnesia.”
Roger Smith did not believe in things like doubt and uncertainty. Confidence was his credo, and certitude his shield. The elderly of the city, those who had lost so much forty years ago, would find him an unusual man, but to the younger citizens of Paradigm City the confidence of Roger Smith was a familiar mask. Those who live without a past must make a choice to live in confidence or to die in doubt. But today Roger Smith was dealing with an unusual sensation. He had the nagging feeling that he was supposed to be somewhere, even though today he had nowhere in particular to go.
“This place, Paradigm City, is a town of forgetfulness...”
The long limousine hit a large plate in the road which jarred Roger in his seat and made a loud clanking noise that caused several pedestrians to glance up at the long, sleek automobile. It was one more thing determined to bend Roger’s steely will, like the name that was on this tip of his tongue but refused to be said. Like the unnamed thing in the back of his mind that was screaming out to be recognized, but which wouldn’t stay put long enough to be dealt with. Roger chased it for only a moment until laughing he let it go, slicking his dark hair back as he did.
“Give it up,” he thought to himself, “If it really is important I’m sure it can be dealt with later.”
Deftly and with practiced ease, Roger erased the doubts from his mind and steered the Griffon homeward.
“...humans are adaptable creatures, they make due and go on with life.”
On the way home, Roger stopped at the Speakeasy. Without a glance at the other customers he headed straight for his favorite chair and leaned back against the wall. Out of habit he turned to his right, pulled a wad of cash from his coat, and set it on the table.
“Sir?” A young waiter asked, eyeing the bills eagerly, “May I help you?”
Roger paused a moment, slightly confused, before lifting the bills from the table and handing them to the boy.
“Yes,” he said, “I’d like a drink.”
“People can survive without knowing what did or didn’t happen in the past.”
He was delayed on the journey home when traffic stopped to let the military police vehicles through. It did not take long for the great beasts to lumber by, however, and soon he was being waved on. He drove the Griffon into it’s underground garage and rode the small wire elevator to the top floor. An aged man in formal dress was waiting there for him.
“Master Roger, welcome home.” the butler spoke in placid tones.
“Norman please check the breaks. Their efficiency has dropped by 1/8.” Roger answered, strangely annoyed.
“Really sir? I’ll see to it after I’ve prepared your dinner. Perhaps I haven’t been maintaining them properly.”
Roger pulled off his tie and held it at arms length. He felt inclined to say something, but nothing particular came to mind, so he let his arm drop and turned away.
“Master Roger,” Norman added quickly, “I’d nearly forgotten, but there’s a Miss Wainwright waiting to see you.”
“A lady guest?” Roger asked lecherously, “You let her in?”
“Yes sir.”
Roger returned the tie to it’s position and began the assent to where the young lady was waiting. Of all the rules that held sway in the Smith household, this was his favorite.
“But memories, like nightmares, sometimes come when you least expect them.”
The young woman stood silhouetted in the window as Roger reached the top of the stairs. The bright sunlight made it difficult to see her clearly, but Roger could see that she was small and thin and dressed all in black.
“I have a special rule...” Roger began, but somehow he could not complete the familiar introduction. Somehow it felt hollow and unnatural.
The young woman turned around and looked at him, sizing him up with deep and piecing eyes.
“Roger,” she said mechanically, and yet, almost familiarly.
Suddenly the name that had escaped him all day came to his lips.
“Dorothy.”
He did not know this young woman. He had never seen her before and yet he knew her name. Suddenly he began to feel something inexplicable. He began to feel uncomfortable.
“Roger,” she continued, ignoring his discomfort, “Our memories are gone. Do you love me?”
Roger choked down a gasp. “What?” he asked suddenly.
“You and I have lost our memories. Beck stole the one’s my father gave me and yours have been erased.”
Roger was feeling increasingly awkward; the girl was confusing and, perhaps, delusional, but he found himself intrigued. Perhaps her tiny waist was distracting him.
“So you have lost your memories?” He asked, trying to remain in charge of the situation, “and you want me to negotiate for their return?”
“Not my memories,” she said calmly, as if explaining something to a stupid child, “Those memories aren’t mine anymore.”
“Because they were stolen?” Roger asked, attempting to piece together her fragmented speech, “They don’t belong to you because they were taken?”
He paused a moment to loosen his tie, “And there was a romance that was erased with the memories?
“What never existed cannot be erased,” the girl said quietly.
Roger didn’t know how to respond to that one. He was inclined to think that this game of words had become a little tiresome, but there was something almost comforting in the gentle sameness of her voice, and something quietly reassuring in her small, pale face.
She stepped down from the window and began to walk toward him. Roger heard a faint sound as she moved, almost like the quiet whir of machinery, and suddenly he remembered--no--realized what she was.
Unheeded, quiet words of amazement crossed his lips.
“Damn.”
She continued to walk forward until she was standing directly in front of him, then, accompanied by the same quiet drone, she lifted her head, looked into his eyes, raised her right arm, and touched his cheek with her cold hand.
Suddenly he felt something akin to terror. He dropped to the floor, shaking violently. His mind went black and strange images began to flash in his mind: giant robots attacking Paradigm City, Paradigm City whole and healthy, himself dead in his own giant robot, the Megadeus Big O, and then an image of himself in Big O and this same young woman beside him, plugged into the Big O through an empty slot in her forehead.
“What is this?” Roger asked, curled on the floor and trembling as new images were painted across his eyes.
He saw himself as a child, his head shaved and wearing a strange uniform. A serial number flashed in his eye.
“Memories are very precious to people’s lives. They give us the opportunity to prove to ourselves that we exist.”
“Are these memories?” Roger asked.
He saw himself again, a vagabond and a wanderer. Helpless and alone in a Paradigm City where everyone had a place but him.
“If we lose them, we have an unrelenting feeling of uncertainty.”
“Whose memories are these!” Roger screamed.
In the darkness he heard Dorothy’s voice, “You are a true dominues Roger Smith.”
Roger saw himself piloting the Big O against another Big, one bent on destroying the city. Then he watched as that Big was crippled and another one rose up, pale and inverted. A Big that began to turn Paradigm city into a blank.
“I, myself, don’t even know who I am.”
“The Bigs are constant, they do not forget, they are never erased,” Dorothy continued.
Roger saw what appeared to be a control room with a wall lined with television screens. An attractive blond sat in front of them, directing the action, but there was someone else was in the room, someone with just as much control. Someone tall and imposing and dressed in black. It was Roger.
“Big O’s memories are yours,” Dorothy said, “and yours are his, and now they are also mine.”
“I was the one who made that choice.”
Roger Smith opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor, his head in Dorothy’s lap. She was quietly stroking his hair, the same way she had once lovingly stroked a small gray cat. When she saw that he was awake she stopped and moved her hands to her side. Roger could hear the quiet squeal of metal as she moved.
For a moment they simply stayed as they were, waiting for something to happen.
“You must stop denying your own existence.”
Then Roger’s eyes went wide as another name came to mind.
“Angel.”
I am speechless. Your writing, it.. it flows so well! I don't know what to say, I'm so floored by this. I get the feeling it's going to be a little darker than A Clockwork Tomato's series, and that's okay. Don't hesitate to post! Personally, I am very eager to find out where you are going with this.
Please continue,another Season 3 is always a good thing. We do need something to tide us over, after all.