| Jane | 01-12-2004 10:16 PM |
ACT:27
Roger the Dreamer
“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, pushing an invisible strand of hair back from his brow 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 women stood silloheted 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 green eyes, “Roger Smith,” she said smoothly and mechanically, “If neither of us has memories and we met. Then would you and I fall in love?”
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 terror. He dropped to the floor, shaking violently. His mind went black and strange images began to flash in his mind’s eye: 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.
Again and again the images flashed, and through him he heard the soft and calming voice of the girl.
“The Bigs do not forget,” she said, “Big O and I were together when Big Venus came. He held onto me and I remembered. This time, I remembered.”
“Memories are very precious to people’s lives. They give us the opportunity to prove to ourselves that we exist.”
Another scene flashed in Roger’s mind, himself as a child, shaved and wearing a strange uniform. A serial number flashed in his eye.
“No,” Dorothy said.
“If we lose them, we have an unrelenting feeling of uncertainty.”
He saw himself again, a vagabond and a wanderer. Helpless and alone in a Paradigm City where everyone had a place but him.
“No,” Dorothy said again.
“I, myself, don’t even know who I am.”
Then he saw himself piloting the Big O against another Big, one bent on detroying the city. He saw himself standing in the cockpit and speaking to noone.
“No,” said Dorothy.
“I was the one who made that choice.”
And then he 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.
“Look closer,” came Dorothy’s voice out of the dream, “You are not one of her tomatoes.”
“I made it for myself, so I can live in the present, and in the future; because I must go on believing there is a me.”
Someone else was in the control room, someone with just as much control. Someone tall and imposing and dressed in black. It was Roger.
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “That’s what Big O thinks too.”
“You must stop denying your own existence.”
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 was 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.
“R. Dorothy Wainwright,” Roger said slowly, as if testing the sound of the name “Where is Angel?”
Suddenly there was a deep, deafening sound from outside the window. Roger stood up and ran to the window. He knew that sound, somewhere inside the Domes there was a megadeus.
Roger held his watch up to eye-level, and turned towards Dorothy.
“I guess you’ll be coming?”
She nodded.
“Norman,” Roger spoke into the watch, “I’ll be needing the Big O.”
Roger the Dreamer
“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, pushing an invisible strand of hair back from his brow 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 women stood silloheted 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 green eyes, “Roger Smith,” she said smoothly and mechanically, “If neither of us has memories and we met. Then would you and I fall in love?”
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 terror. He dropped to the floor, shaking violently. His mind went black and strange images began to flash in his mind’s eye: 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.
Again and again the images flashed, and through him he heard the soft and calming voice of the girl.
“The Bigs do not forget,” she said, “Big O and I were together when Big Venus came. He held onto me and I remembered. This time, I remembered.”
“Memories are very precious to people’s lives. They give us the opportunity to prove to ourselves that we exist.”
Another scene flashed in Roger’s mind, himself as a child, shaved and wearing a strange uniform. A serial number flashed in his eye.
“No,” Dorothy said.
“If we lose them, we have an unrelenting feeling of uncertainty.”
He saw himself again, a vagabond and a wanderer. Helpless and alone in a Paradigm City where everyone had a place but him.
“No,” Dorothy said again.
“I, myself, don’t even know who I am.”
Then he saw himself piloting the Big O against another Big, one bent on detroying the city. He saw himself standing in the cockpit and speaking to noone.
“No,” said Dorothy.
“I was the one who made that choice.”
And then he 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.
“Look closer,” came Dorothy’s voice out of the dream, “You are not one of her tomatoes.”
“I made it for myself, so I can live in the present, and in the future; because I must go on believing there is a me.”
Someone else was in the control room, someone with just as much control. Someone tall and imposing and dressed in black. It was Roger.
“Yes,” said Dorothy, “That’s what Big O thinks too.”
“You must stop denying your own existence.”
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 was 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.
“R. Dorothy Wainwright,” Roger said slowly, as if testing the sound of the name “Where is Angel?”
Suddenly there was a deep, deafening sound from outside the window. Roger stood up and ran to the window. He knew that sound, somewhere inside the Domes there was a megadeus.
Roger held his watch up to eye-level, and turned towards Dorothy.
“I guess you’ll be coming?”
She nodded.
“Norman,” Roger spoke into the watch, “I’ll be needing the Big O.”
