Chapter 2: The Polions

The stranger stepped out of his balcony with a stick of cigarette in between his trenched lips, exhaling the smoke through his nostrils. Facing his apartment was a gigantic building with red lines going all the way up along with two elevators on each side, the Red Tech Headquarters. This time he wasn't wearing a long black jacket or a wide hat, but a white shirt with short pants. He was a stranger no longer since that was his family's house; he heard his wife talking with his daughter inside. Beside him sat Roger's nonexistant father, holding a cigarette in between his middle and forefinger.

"Don't look at me like that, Isaac," Bob said. "You were the one who said not to force it on him. You do remember when you asked me to tell him the whole truth, to let him decide his and the world's fate eventually."

The chair beside him was empty. Bob's phone shook as it vibrated its way to the edge of the table before it fell into the man's palm. As he glanced at the number, the same number Isaac told him about a few days prior to his demise; he rejoiced and stubbed the cigarette.

"Hello there," Bob said.

"Hello, is this the man I met in the graveyard?"

"Yes, and please do call me Bob Polion, I'm a stranger to you no longer. I admit, I didn't expect you to make this call."

"I didn't expect myself to dial your number either, but I did, and you know I did it for a reason."

"Like your father, always straight to the point. Not to mean anything, I've always liked that about you two."

"I want answers. All of it, everything you know about my father, I want to know it all and without any exceptions."

"I see, but knowledge often comes with a cost. I thought you knew that."

"I do, name your price."

"It's not about money, kid."

"Doesn't matter, I'll pay you in whatever currency you choose. All I want is answers."

"Sure, I'll tell you everything you desire to know. Besides your father was the one to entrust me with the duty of explaining why… he wasn't always there. Please, do accept my invitation to dinner with my family tonight at our apartment. It is located in the seventh, I figure that's not too far away from your district. Give me a call when you arrive, I'll show you the apartment."

"Can't you tell me everything on the phone?"

"Roger, me and your father go back a long time. We are more like brothers; inviting you to dinner with my own family, into my own house, is really the least I can do. My wife keeps on telling me to invite you, we have a picture of you when you were a child. I do understand that there is a lot you don't understand, but everything is to be explained soon," Bob said, coughing a couple of times. As he waited for him to regain his stillness, Roger chewed the idea.

"So, son, what do you say?"

"At what time?"

"Say about nine, yeah, that's the time," Bob answered, coiling his fist in minor victory. Roger hung the phone call, approaching the window while perceiving how the droplets of rain crawled on the other side of the glass. It was already the afternoon by then, but there were still hours before the meeting would take place. His uncle had already placed his head on the pillow to take his usual siesta, Roger laughed when he saw him snoring.

"Your restaurant isn't going to build itself, Uncle," Roger said, heading for the kitchen to tear another slice of the grilled stake. He rolled the slice across his tongue to sense its taste, to water his thirst for true passion. As the hours passed in plain waiting, he would either lie on his bed with his feet on the wall and his head in between his palms, imagining how the conversation would go. He would occasionally stand in front of the mirror trying to imagine the course of the upcoming encounter.

"Hello sir, glad to meet you."

"I am truly glad to meet you."

"How did you meet my father?"

"Were you friends with my father?"

"Did you know my father?"

"Did he tell you anything about me?"

Roger pulled his hair to the back, realizing that only an hour had passed since he had put himself in his bed. He rolled around the floor, gripping the chair's leg to get up and then sat facing his computer. He turned it on, waiting for the system to start as the choices of exploration appeared.

"Powered by Red Tech," appeared on top of the screen, portraying a group of red lights aligned with each other before they melted into a single background that produced spreading ripples across a red sea. Then, Roger selected the Red search engine before he wrote "Bob Polion" in the search screen that popped the answers up in an instant manner. Many articles that dated back to the 2010s contained both his and Isaac's name together. In a biographical article, It had been mentioned that him, Isaac and Mr. Carl Owinson, the current owner of Red Tech, started experimenting on neural interfaces and animal brains back when in their original headquarters in Florida. Their work was shutdown eventually as a reaction to their constant unlicensed experimentation, but the years that followed saw the rise of Red Tech. After having noticed that his eyes skimmed through more than dozens of articles, Roger raised his head up to the electric clock, showing the exact hour.

8: 39 PM

He fell off his chair as he hurried to his closet, sending outfits after the others as the screen portrayed a different variety of clothes. He cursed the mechanized closet before it opened with a bit of hot steam accompanying his father's black suit. He tossed his hands into the vest's sleeves and his legs into the hoses, adjusting the buttons around his wrists and ankles. He tossed the tips of his fore and middle fingers into a transparent hair cream and then trimmed it, surely after letting his mechanized tooth brush clean his teeth to its fullest whiteness. He passed by his uncle who was eddying a wooden spoon through a soup, letting the traveling scent pass by Roger's nostrils.

"Hey, where do you think you're going? You shoulda seen yourself looking dully into that computer, and now you hurry out of yourself. Oh, is it a date? Oy, wait up you little—" Uncle Derek said as he followed. Roger had already been outside, almost blinded by street lights. Uncle Derek tossed his upper half outside of the apartment through the kitchen window, holding his soup dropping spoon up in the air.

"I swear if you don't come back, I'll kill ya with this spoon!"

Roger struggled with adjusting his tie as he ran through a horde of phone users, some of which he accidentally pushed, yet none cared. He soon had enough of his tie before he threw it away just as when a cleaning robot came flying and picked it up.

"You dropped it, Sir! You dropped it, Sir! You dropped it, Sir!" The robot with the rounded body and the small integrated hands flew around trying to catch the sprinting Rogers. He crossed streets through alleys, melting into huge crowds of people before he hid behind a parking car. The robot was nowhere to be found; Roger smiled as he craned his head and watched a stretching red skyscraper, the base from which the other bases of Garlem were set. Just across the street, Bob stood from his balcony waving at the weary Roger. He opened the first button of his shirt so as to breathe properly. Bob opened the door for him, noticing drops of sweat throughout the whole of his face with a bit of spots in the sides and in his chest. Roger felt quite better to see Bob's face in a proper way instead of being covered by a large hat. He seemed to be old with a small gray beard; his cheeks were a bit fat and so was his belly. He wore a suit as well.

"Good afternoon, Sir," Roger said, panting.

Bob greeted him back with a spreading smile and a short bow.

"You dropped it, Sir! You dropped it, Sir! You dropped it, Sir!" The robot spawned once again, stretching its metal arm holding his father's black tie. Roger covered his face with his hand, Bob smiled seeing a similar image of his father running away from a service robot they designed after throwing his tie during Bob's wedding. Bob picked up the tie, gently patting on Roger's shoulder.

"Come on, Bob. I'll tie it for you."

Both of them walked inside the apartment; Roger untied his shoes and kept his socks while stepping inside the house. There was something intriguing about it, a sense of novelty and tradition at the same time. There were robots all over the place. There were robots that cooked, robots that cleaned, robots that washed, robots that served as mirrors, robots which adjusted the lightning system, robots that guarded the house and robots that made sure all the other robots what they were supposed to do. Still, there were different paintings from across different human periods hung on the walls of the corridors and in rooms and around the living room. There was notably The Storm On the Sea of Galilee, The Son of Man and Wanderer Above The Sea of fog, all which Roger recognized . Then, there came the Alpha robot in the house, the butler Sylvester. The latter moved with a ball serving as his feet and wheels, rolling around the house in a circuit like a race car. The butler came to a halt next to the table in order to pull the chair for Roger to sit; the young man stood bewildered watching how the robot pulled the chair with elegance while not even intending to raise his rounded head.

"Sir Roger, welcome to the Polion house, please do sit, Sir. I do not have all night," the butler said, touching Roger's elbow with his cold metal fingers. Roger shuddered before he sunk himself into the chair, waiting for the butler to push him into the table. The other robots invaded the living room with the plates atop their metal finger tips along with forks, spoons and napkins. Roger's heart almost sank when a robot surprised him with his arms all around him, trying to adjust the napkin. Roger kept looking at the empty plates that spread atop the table, hearing Bob talking with his wife in the kitchen. Ms. Polion walked out of the kitchen. Her hair was quite short; her face was less wrinkled than that of her age peers. She was skinny, wearing a sleeved shirt and wide pants.

"Welcome my dear," she said with a tender voice, holding the young man close to her in a motherly embrace. Roger's cheeks reddened in shyness.

"This is Cindy, my dear wife and mother of my daughter. You know she used to sleep with you on her chest when your ma was sick," Bob said, sitting on the other side of the table facing Rogers. The lady came back with a portrait in his hand. The portrait showed two women in their early thirties with a baby in one of their arms. Cindy pointed at the baby.

"This is you, little Roger. When your uncle was traveling, your mother used to let you stay with me whenever I me. You are such a sweet babe," Cindy said, holding both of Roger's cheeks and pulling them while her movements went in at eddying motion. She then stepped back to sit in the chair while two more robots, fronted by the butler, approached the table. Each robot turned his hand into a spoon, slowly rearing the chicken soup and pouring it into the plate while the butler placed a grilled steak, more refined than that of Uncle Derek. Roger admired the fact that they used two types of meat in their meal, or at least specifically in his own hospitalization. Still, there was an empty chair.

"Sylvester! Where is Tamara?" Bob asked. The butler put its hands behind its back as it bowed.

"Sir, Lady Tamara is in her room. I did remind her to come out for dinner, but she would not listen to me, Sir," the butler said. Bewilderment was carved in Roger's face as he observed how the robot spoke in different tones of voice and not a regular speed like all the others. It seemed as if he had emotion; he had the ability to distinguish whether it was appropriate for the daughter to greet the guest or stay in her room.

"Interesting," Roger muttered, almost below the level of voice as his cords almost hadn't shook. Bob stood off his chair as he walked around the table to the other room. He seemed to be about to bang on the door but he froze before his knuckles gently hit the wooden thing. He then knocked on the door in a quiet and calm manner before he heard the young lady's approval. Roger saw how Bob tossed his head inside the room, struggling to keep calm and nice.

"Tam, this isn't appropriate. This is my best friend's son, you have to greet him now and eat dinner with us," Bob said, closing his eyes with a widening smile.

"But Dad, I have—" she answered before Bob let out a short roar.

"Tamara!" he roared before he smiled again and the loudness of his voice fell by distant degrees. "Please come greet my guest."

Bob nodded before he returned to his seat, followed by his unexpectedly recognizable daughter.

Her dark hair, her red shirt, her glassy eyes, that cat mouth… my unattained goal.

Roger turned numb while his heart raced at the sight of his classmate. Her hair covered her right eye. Roger quickly looked down on the table, watching his resting wrists quaking at the edge.

So Tamara is her name.

"Roger, this is my sweet daughter, Tamara," Bob said, Tamara nodded.

"Tam, this is Roger my late best friend's son," Bob said when turning to the young Roger.

"Glad to meet you," Roger said in a quick manner; his words went almost unheard. The family began to pour the soup through their mouths and so Roger followed with shaking lips at the sight of his crush a few inches away from him eating as well. While Cindy would look at Roger from time to time, and while Bob would address Roger in a conversation, Tamara kept tossing the spoon into the plate and then into her mouth without a change in motion, as if she had been one of the robots that danced around the house.

"So, how did you know my father?" Roger asked, sensing a knife prickling his chest after thinking that Tamara took a quick glance at him.

"The same way I knew everyone then, college. We were both Neural Engineers by the time we graduated. We were top of the class, the current owner of Red Tech, Carl Owinson was actually our professor and he offered us work. At first we began working on designing neural interfaces for primal forms of robots, nothing like these here. At some point we got ambitious, we started working on linking neural interfaces to organic brains, animal brains in particular. After the work was shutdown by the state, Carl Owinson disappeared while your father and I remained in Florida, still repairing and designing new forms of neural interfaces in secret. We did it for sport, most people didn't understand the vision your father and I had. Unexpectedly, years later, during which we both got married, we got a call from who? From Carl Owinson himself," Bob said, tossing a slice of grilled steak into his mouth.

"We didn't believe it, ever since the whole shutdown affair none heard anything from him," Cindy said. "He was a whole different person."

"Yeah, I thought it was a joke at first or something like a college reunion, but it was something else. Carl Owinson sent us an invitation to work with him on a project named Red Tech, his own technology company which branched it out to include many sub companies around the country that didn't have anything to do with technology. We didn't expect he would build a company, let alone build a whole city that depends exclusively on the products of that exact company. You see every robot in this house and out in the streets; We designed the original designs of their neural interfaces, sometimes we used the same designs we created back in Florida. The business extended to computers, phones, watches, anything that works with electricity flowing through its system. The whole feeling, the whole tone of this city is the creation of Owinson, your father and I," Bob explained.

While he spoke, Roger's jaw was dropped in shock. He knew his father worked in Red Tech, yet he didn't realize that they didn't just move to Garlem, they built Garlem itself.

So it was you and my father who created this hell, who killed perception.

He then took a quick glance at Tamara whose eyes could tell long and deep stories about how the city darkened her point of view, somehow he found comfort in knowing that someone shared his same point of view, someone who was accused of being primal, of clinging to tradition.

"What happened after that?" Roger asked.

"Bob?" Cindy asked with rising eyebrows. Tamara's eyes were lost in the motion of her spoon throughout the soup.

"Oh yeah, after that, we were given executive roles, some days we worked on newer projects, other days we worked on improving existing ones. We created a system of autonomy between different neural interfaces. Since that Owinson was the one who funded the whole of it, by the majority of shares, he became the president of the company. We watched how buildings grew up to reach the height of the clouds, the first city to be built by robots ever. In a matter of years, Garlem became the corner of technology in the whole world. A dream finally came true, I was truly happy when it did," Bob spoke with brightening in his eyes.

"My father didn't tell me all that. I spent most of my childhood with my Uncle. When I grew old enough, especially with my mother's death, I was usually left alone in the house. My father and I talk only during the weekends. Sometimes I used to wonder if I was his son, if he chose to raise me by some sense of pity, I still think about it to this very day, but not as intensely as before. So, my dear Sir, was it you who robbed me of a father?" Roger said, sharpening the look on his eyes. His breaths were fastening, shortening the pace between each time his nostrils widened. The robots were starting to move before Bob's forefinger moved. This time Tamara craned her head, observing the tension between the two. Cindy smiled about three times, barely able to spread her lips the fourth time, trying to digest the possibility of a joke in the midst of this heat. Bob smiled.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm sure that was rude of me," Roger uttered, clearing his throat. Bob put his hand on the young man's right shoulder.

"In time, son, you will understand that we had a calling to attend to, a mission to fulfill. No man should ever sacrifice his chance to father those who come of his own spawn, but there have been a few exceptions of the rule."

"You mean just like you rarely spend anytime with us," Tamara said. It was the first time Roger had heard her voice. It was tender and not anywhere near sharp. If only she could speak more, if only she could entertain his ears with her revolt against the forced fatherless state.

"Tamara?" Cindy exclaimed.

"If you hadn't been sick, you wouldn't have found the time to sit in a dinner table with us, let alone invite your dead friend's son," Tamara said; the tone of her voice was a bit louder. Roger caught a drop of blood escaping Bob's right nostril and sinking into the napkin. The man held the napkin and cleaned his nostrils, leaving a red area around his nose. His eyes kept blinking as his vision blurred for a few seconds, he saw his daughter in double and heard his wife's voice echoing in his ears, ringing while he sensed the ground shaking under his feet.

"Bob?"

It was if someone pulled him back to his senses. He blinked finding himself back in his chair, holding the fork in one hand and the knife.

"Yes, I'm sorry I was a bit lost. You see, Roger, as Tamara had just mentioned, I'm quite sick so excuse me if I lose myself from time to time," Bob said, chuckling as he tossed the slice of grilled meat in his mouth. Tamara pushed the chair to the back, walking back to her room. Cindy stretched her hand and surrounded Roger's.

"My boy, please excuse my daughter, unfortunately Bob didn't get to spend much time with her during his early years at work, the same sin that your father is guilty of doing. Please do not hold a grudge against her," Cindy explained with teary eyes. Roger nodded.

"It's okay," he said, spotting the girl sitting back in her chair with a brush in hand, introducing color to a fully blank portrait, spotting her through her reflection in the mirror. Roger tossed the last bit of meat into his mouth, slowly picking up the napkin and drying the wetness around his mouth. An hour passed by as the only sounds were Bob's coughs and Cindy's chuckles, aside from the clash of silver and plates. Cindy asked the bots to deliver desert. Despite that the robots were in charge of the serving the table, Bob glanced at his butler in a way that stiffened both the poor thing and the other robots, as if they were turned off with a few glowing lights around their bodies. Cindy didn't want to waste time so she took the walk to the kitchen, checking on her daughter on the way there.

Roger could tell that Bob was waiting for the opportunity to be alone with him.

"Roger, this isn't the end of the story," Bob said.

A look of confusion spread across the young man's face. "What do you mean?"

"I haven't told you everything. All what I have said was just a mere prologue to what actually matters, to what the calling that robbed you of your father and my family of me is really about. This is far more important than you may think, so wait until I tell you before you go home," Bob whispered, smiling at the sight of his wife holding the plate in her hands. Atop the large plate were four banana cakes with a bit of melting cream around the sides and sweets atop its surface.

"So, Roger, tell us about yourself. What do you do these days?" Cindy asked.

"I study in Vertigo Art Academy. I study visual arts, modern painting in particular," Roger said, taking tossing a spoonful of his cake.

"Oh interesting, even though I thought you are going to follow in your father's footsteps, at least study in an IT university. Your father used to tell us that you were brilliant in technical modules, even done better than in those of abstract nature," Cindy said.

"My father wasn't supportive of my decision, not until he eventually came to the realization that it was my decision not his," Roger explained, tossing the spoon into the cake again.

"But did you ever think why your father wasn't supportive of such a decision?"

Roger shook his head in silence. Bob smiled under his nose, not wide enough to exceed the shade of nose.

"Art schools are withering in Garlem, my dear sugar. What good are you to a company if all you do is create forms that… frankly no one exactly knows that criteria by which they should be judged and appreciated in the first place, let alone spend huge money to acquire? What do you think, Bob?" Cindy explained, turning to Bob.

"Cindy's not wrong, Roger. To give you the hard truth, there is nothing you can do with your Art degree. Tamara studies where you study as well, I don't know if you've seen her there before. She studied neural engineering last year before she let it go for the sake of Art school. I understand that she has liking to it and that everyone have their special tastes regardless of our rational objections, but we will try to convince her to return to Red University by next year. Do you consider a similar decision?"

"Oh, you mean that if I'm thinking about quitting art school for the sake of a more technical major, and thus a technical job with technically a well paying salary?" Roger asked.

"If you say so, yes," Cindy said with a short chuckle.

Roger took a few seconds in silence before he looked them in the eye.

"To be honest with you, I did think about it before. I mean who wouldn't, right? My father, my friends, if there were any at the time, opposed me for choosing Art school. I understand they did it out of love; there could have been a feeling of superiority in them thinking that they know better than I did and thus more fit for advice, but they were still guilty of interfering with my life. I didn't want to justify anything I did because there was no one to ask why I chose Art school. Usually Art majors with a shaken trust in their decision will answer your question with their repeated monologue that they do what they love, they love the colors, the shapes, the brushes, the scent of the blank paper, the colored spots, this painter, that painter, this painting, that painting… but this will not be my answer. I chose to be an Art Major as a response to our dying ability to perceive objects for their true essence rather than their shape, to perceive the true beauty in everything. Garlem is devoid of any form of true beauty whatsoever because it has no art, or rather because those with ignorance do not have the means or think they do which they don't, to judge what is genuinely beautiful and what is not. It is not about the job, or the passion, it is simply about acquiring the right set of requirements to actually notice beauty when it passed by my eyes, to fully grasp it and feel it. So, no, Mr. Polion, I do not consider a similar decision and if one day I do, know that I lost my perception of beauty, and that I'm not better than any of the robots whose brains you and my father had designed," Roger, arms folded with his back facing the chair's upper rail, explained in a calm manner and stiff eyeballs. Roger spotted Tamara sitting with her hands thrown, letting her brush fall. Cindy's face was distorted into confusion, sensing herself lost in a few moments where she would try to utter a word but then refrain and retire to her silence. Bob was the only one of them who had an unwavering smile in his face. How could Isaac entrust his son with the one thing that would ruin his son's perception of beauty, of three-dimensionality? Bob thought to himself.

"I'm out of words, Bob," Cindy said, having a smile of admiration mixed with defeat. Bob nodded, putting his hand on Roger's elbow.

"You may not believe it, or even want to, but Isaac had always told me that you are going to change for the world. For the better or worse, I'm glad you are aware that you are the one who gets to decide that," Bob said, finishing up his cake. Roger beamed at Bob, seeing the fatherly look he begged for all those years.

"Sir, I want to thank you for your hospitality. If it wasn't for you, and for the lovely Ms. Polion, my memory of my father would still be foggy," Roger said, meeting his palms.

"You don't have to leave so early," Cindy said.

"I'm sorry, but my Uncle is going to be worried. He's an old man, I wouldn't want to leave him alone in the apartment so late. So if you excuse me, I have to leave," Roger said. Bob nodded as he pushed back the chair and picked up his vest from his butler's metal arm.

"I'll give you a ride. Have you ever got in a hovering car before?" Bob asked, showing Roger its keys. Roger shook his head, rejoicing as the car flied just outside the balcony. There was direct route to the door through which Bob walked. Roger's jacket flowed in the air as the engine of the hovering vehicle roared; the young man got into the passenger seat, watching how the double seat belts rolled themselves around his torso. Roger gripped the edges of the chair while the vehicle rose in the air. The car slowed down when approaching the invisible route through which hovering vehicles followed a certain line, portrayed in their screens. Bob's car was lost in the middle of a flock as the cars followed each other. Roger's face was hung on the window glass, watching the streets by which he walked to school everyday.

"I was impressed by the speech you have given about beauty. I see you're impressed by what technology offers too just now, if it wasn't for technology, cars wouldn't fly, don't you agree with me on that?" Bob said, giving a slight push on the acceleration pedal to make a quick jump, causing Roger to quake as he is not used to jumps in the air.

"It's not that I hate technology, Sir. It's that I hate how people don't get enough of it, even at the expense of their ability to perceive beauty. Still, I wouldn't care because I'm contemplating leaving this city once my studies are finished," Roger said; the lights of advertisements were reflected on his eyes. Bob remained silent, twisting his lips.

"There are a lot of things that you should know, Roger. Normally these things are forced, but it was your father's wish and my promise to him that it should be offered to you, not forced on you," Bob explained, turning to take another route while Roger's apartment was just one jump away. Roger's curiosity was its edge before Bob parked atop a building. The man picked up the pack of cigarettes in his car's box, tossing his hand into his pocket to pull his lighter. Roger walked out of the key, taking a step away from the edge of the building once he glanced the way down. Bob wasn't afraid though, he raised the fire to the other end of the cigarette.

"Sir, what do intend to tell me?" Roger asked.

"Roger, I wonder if you have given it a little of bit of thought considering how my butler operated," Bob said, exhaling the smoke with a sigh.

"It must have been in his system to operate that way, to respond and to serve. If I get to make a guess, it could be through trial and error."

"I see what you mean and half of it is true, but... Robots can never reach this level of advance. Let us say you keep on creating newer algorithms which in turn created newer algorithms… meaning newer patterns and possible pathways. Mistakes… imperfection are inevitable. I control my butler with my own mind. There have been a few instances during the dinner when my butler sensed that you are a form of danger, but I restrained him with my own mind."

"Sir, I hope that you are joking. How can you control a robot without giving it a direct command or at least do a gesture?"

"I was hoping that you are going to ask that. You see, during our jobless years in Florida, our work on neural interfaces was starting to become more sophisticated. Still, no one funded our project, especially after the whole experimentation affair. Then Carl Owinson came and funded the whole thing, we started working on linking the human mind with the machine. After the rise of Red Tech, your father, Owinson, your father and I along with three more cornerstones in the organization created a special division of Red Tech, an organization that worked on developing such a tool. Our core belief was that we will be replaced by these machines we created, and thus our consciousness has to remain. Whether it is immortality or the preservation of human dignity, our goal was noble in its nature. The first step was to link these tools to our minds, for years we labored to create this chip to control technology. I have one, your father has one, Owinson has one. We do control a certain amount of machinery, but not all of them. Still, the chip will start to sicken your brain and kill you, that is how your father died and that is how I am going to die eventually," Bob said, coughing a few times, the last cough carried blood across his tongue.

"But how is this related to me?" Roger asked.

Bob smiled, turning to the distorted young man.

"Three months ago, your father and I finally created the perfect chip. This is will allow you to dive into any type of technology and control it, it is nothing like mine or his, it is one of a kind. And to keep its user safe, we created what is known by walls. Each time the usage of the chip exceeds the wanted amount, it turns down without hurting the user. At that time, me and Isaac started to realize that the organization didn't care about preserving human consciousness, but to control it. They wanted us to make the chip in order to manipulate technology for their own ends. We had to keep the chip away from them, but they'll track it unless we planted it in someone's mind with the addition that the user doesn't exceed a certain amount of walls," Bob said.

Roger went silent for a few seconds before he realized the core of their conversation, the whole goal behind the dinner.

"No, I can't… please don't… I can't do it, I won't do it. I told you, Sir, that I'm planning to leave this city. This is too much for me," Roger said, stepping away from Bob.

"But Roger, it was your father who told me to trust you with this secret. Do you know that the FBI has been on our tail for years because of human trials? I'm choosing to trust you."

"Dear God… you experimented on humans? What…"

"I will explain to you why it mattered to do so, and you should know that we aren't selfish simply because we planted chips in our minds too. One day I will explain to you the essence of our philosophy, but right now the fate of Garlem is in danger, we can't protect everything if we don't plant this chip in your mind!"

"No! Why me? Couldn't you choose someone else?"

"We need a young mind, a less busy mind so you can fully control the chip. Besides, Isaac trusted you, he said you the only one to trust, we have no other option," Bob said.

"Sir, I promise on my father's soul that your secret will remain hidden. Other than that, I won't help you, I can't… I'm sorry," Roger said, sensing his heart hammering on his chest in fear of that twisted look in Bob's old face. A few seconds pass by in silence before Bob walked back to his car.

"Okay, if you insist, then let us get you home," Bob said, lighting up the engine. Roger, hesitatingly, tossed himself into the vehicle. Roger observed how Bob wore a mask that was tightened around his nose before a strange scent passed by his nostrils that blurred his vision, clouded his mind and forced his eyes to close, watching how the man who accompanied Bob in the graveyard walked up to the car.

"Isaac trusted me, Roger," Bob said.

Roger blacked out afterwards.