Chapter 3: First Time?

What are we supposed to do?

He is not responding.

Keep trying to reanimate him

Damn it, we shouldn't have tried this on a young mind.

Keep going, don't stop otherwise we'll lose him.

Wake up, son!

As if he was splashed the coldest of polar water, Roger awakened. His eyes were lifted like stage curtains; his mind was still clouded and the voices of his dream were still ringing in his ears. He was blinded by the sunshine that penetrated through the room. There was a bandage around his head just above his forehead; he felt as if something was aching inside his head. He was sleeping in a white bed with the nutrition serum attached to his arm. On the other side of the room was another man whom the shade had covered before his face was uncovered.

"Mr. Polion, what happened?" Roger said, rubbing his eyes as he sat and stretched his arms around the bed. Bob was sipping his coffee; he had bandage rolled around his head as well.

"You're awake, I'm glad," Bob said with such coldness as if he had expected him to wake up. Roger put his hand behind his skull, sensing a weird aching inside that he hadn't got used to before. His vision was still blurry, roughly clearing from the sides while the heavy beating on the drums of his ears deafened him for a few seconds.

"I don't understand, how did we get here?"

"We had an accident. A hovering truck rushed into us, trying to catch the light. I was really worried about you, your father would never forgive me if something happened to you," Bob said, limping to the other side of the room before he sat next to his late friend's son. Roger sighed, moving his fingers as he sensed that an electric charge passed through his veins. He blinked a few times, losing his focus before it shifted back to him.

"What's wrong, Roger?"

His eyes were lost; some tears escaped his eyes. His face was pale, everything implied laziness and slumber except for his own mind which was wild. Every time a hovering vehicle passed; a scream he couldn't hear would light up his head, encourage the aching in his head. He rubbed his eyes again. Bob noticed how Roger's eyeballs played across the white field of his eye socket. Roger was panting, as if he was jogging and halted all of a sudden.

"I had a dream," Roge said.

"What was it about?" Bob asked.

"I don't quite remember, I can just recall fragments of it. It was like you drugged me, and planted a chip in my mind," Roger said, observing how colorless images of a surgery struck his vision.

Bob smiled with a strained chuckle. "What a strange dream that is, what was it all about? Why would I plant a chip in your mind anyway?"

Roger smiled as well, having a sense of comfort that what he feared was spoken in a sense of a joke. "It was like you were trying to protect the city from an organization, perhaps you belong to that one, I'm not sure. It seemed noble when you said it, but I didn't accept. Strange things the mind can tell you."

"If it seemed noble, then it is justified. Then… you wouldn't mind if it actually happened, would you?"

"No, I—" the young man parted his lips before his eyes froze. He had a sharp aggressive look in his face. His hands coiled into fists while they shook, having a feeling of intense grudge against the smiling Bob. His breaths fastened. His face reddened as veins crawled up his neck. He frowned and snarled.

The tension was broken with an exploding lamp above their heads. Bob walked back to his bed; his hands pillowing his head as he sat in his bed. The farther was Bob away from him, the less aching he sensed in his head. No words were spoken, but Roger was clueless no longer.

"You should rest, Roger. It was a tough accident," Bob said, closing his eyes.

Roger was still shaking in his bed, drenching the sheets in his own sweat. A thin blood trail was falling off the bandage, crossing the field of his forehead before it dripped in his lap. The pain returned, this time twisting his nerves and whipping his mind. His hands crawled up his face as he let out a wild shriek. Bob was unmoved like a boulder.

"Your current behavior is a normal reaction to what happened, Roger. We all felt it, me, your father, Owinson, there was no accident but I had to shape up this scenario in order to avoid suspicion. Garlem PD is also on our tail; your father was the one who came up with the plan in the first place. It's okay, scream, you will get used to it."

"Shut up!" Roger screamed, watching fire spreading across the room and ashes scuttling his own skull.

"What is really surprising is that you started to control your powers way before any one of us did. That lamp didn't blow itself up, Roger. You controlled the voltage, broke the first wall already," Bob said.

Three nurses crashed through the room, gripping the screaming Roger from both hands. They tossed a needle through his arm that calmed his nerves and shut the voices in his ears. Numbness invaded the whole of his body. His voice died before his eyes were closed; his head hit the other end of the bed. On the way out of the room, Bob spotted how Roger's mouth was still moving yet in a slow manner, and his eyes were still fidgeting. Bob felt nostalgic, envying Roger for what he was about to experience.

A fall, he was falling. Ever since his eyes were closed, Roger had his hands roaming across the empty space while gravity pulled him down to the ground. As the pressure played him in the air, he stretched his hand to grab at least a single one of his own paintings that stretched up the sky, furthering away from him before he finally hit the ground. An instant darkness spread and then disappeared, letting his world form bit by bit. Strange blue lines spread, making way for more lights to occur.

An instant later, everything that human technology had striven to achieve or maintain was just a step away from his control. Roger stood like a pillar at the center of it all, wondering what choice he had. There were so many data, so many pictures, so many codes, so many pathways to a whole different use of that technology. There was another fellow there. A man wearing a long jacket with gloved hands and old black jeans, raising his arms in the air, welcomed him. The fellow seemed to be in his middle ages. There was a small mustache under his nose, and his face was brighter than expected, almost artificial.

"Dad?" Roger exclaimed. Metal scrapes were incorporated with his skin, covering his body from ankle to wrists and lower neck.

"Hello there, Roger. I am glad that you made it this far without me," Isaac said, keeping his hands behind his back. He walked in a circle around his son. Roger was panting; rage consumed him as he rushed with a flying fist in the air.

"It's all because of you!" he said, shocked at the way his shaking fist crossed his father's transparent body and thus with the whole of his weight, he fell on the invisible ground. Roger bumped his fist in the floor again, rising up to look back at his father.

"I understand that you are angry, I really do. But this is the point of this simulation, to make you understand, to explain everything to you," Isaac said in a calm manner, unmoved by his son's rage. He put his finger on the wall, switching between the portraits until he reached the dinner with the Polions.

"Simulation?" Roger reacted.

"Yes, a simulation. You see, this can only be activated after with the eventual chip implant on your brain. I hope you to comfort in knowing that the pain you experienced after you woke up," Isaac said, pointing at a portrait of the screaming Roger with Bob facing him, "will not return. The chip was programmed to intimidate you, to pain you until you start to scream and therefore be given a strong drug."

"What was the point?"

"To activate the stimulation, the chip is at a direct connection with your subconscious now. It used your ability to dream in order to convey this message that I was preparing to deliver. In the real world, this would only take seconds. But here, it will remain long enough. This also one of the privileges that the chip allows, to alter your perception of time and space," Isaac said.

"Privilege? I hope that you are aware of what you are talking about. You destroyed me, Dad. Leaving me alone was not enough for you, so you decided to curse me with this chip. You don't get to call it a privilege at all, there is nothing you can use to convince me," Roger said, placing the tip of his forefinger in Isaac's transparent chest. Isaac looked down at him before he craned his head again.

"Please, do not scold me. I am no more than an AI version of your father, not him. Perhaps what you say is true. Still, I will only stop if my goal is not met. I was programmed to carry this simulation to its very end, I have to make this explanation whether you desire so or not," Isaac said. Roger stepped away from him and sat in between his portraits while Isaac explained.

"You see, Roger, everything that ranges from personal privacy to world security is in danger. Owinson's passion didn't stop at creating a force for good, for the preservation of human thought, but it took its course until he desired nothing but total dominance over the virtual world," Isaac spoke when he pointed at the portrait of a long-haired suited man with a bit of shade that covered his face. His eyes glowed behind the darkness. Roger had already imagined he would shape him that way.

"At first, we only volunteered because we were convinced that it was all for the sake of linking a superior mind, ours, to a lower one, a machine's. When we knew his true intentions, we were clear that we wanted no part of it. Since me and Bob were the only ones who furthered the search on the neural interface, he needed us and he threatened to hurt our families if we didn't comply with his orders. He was no longer that professor we saw as a role model, but a smart dictator who knew that, in the modern age, true dominance consisted in breaking virtual walls up all the way to the core. I died, Bob will soon follow. Owinson's chip is the only one that kept him far enough from death. There is no denying that he will come after your chip, he will use whatever resource he had to find it. However, we realized that a chip is usually untraceable unless it breaks enough walls, I will to come to that in a minute. If it remains hidden in your head, he will never find it," Isaac said.

Roger turned around to him with watery eyes, "Why me? What makes you so sure that someone like me can save the world from this… tyrant?"

"Because I trust you, Roger, or at least Isaac did. I know I haven't stayed with you when I should have, but I trust you more than anyone else. Who did else did I have after the death of your mother? You see, everything up until now is a plan me and Bob cooked, but the rest is up to you now. All I hope for is that you remain within the dedicated walls, I pray for that."

"Hell you don't, this is just something you programmed the AI to say. Tell me, what exactly do you mean by walls?"

"Oh, even though I already expected you to ask such a question, I actually find it hard to explain. Actually, the concept of walls is just that, a concept, something metaphorical that refers to your limitations. You see, the chip draws power from your neurons, and the level of strength that is in your chip will allow you to control larger and more sophisticated technology, believe me when I tell you that controlling world satellites is not even an exaggeration. You just have to break enough walls to reach it," Isaac explained with taller walls emerging from behind him and on the sides, all the way to the top. There were newer portraits in the walls.

"You see, my mind, same as Bob's and as everyone else's in Garlem, lacks your perceptive ability. Those who spent a lifetime looking at the screens of their phones for the whole of their days will lack the perceptive ability to going beyond two-dimensionality. At first, we thought that a younger mind is all we needed, but we realized soon enough even older minds can regenerate neurons and new pathways in their minds, only that their screen time hinders the process. Now we know for sure, even a younger mind from your generation won't be fit to endure the breaking of the walls, because they lack your artistic perception," Isaac said, pointing at a portrait at the very top of a figure with a bright skull from which lines extended across a stretching starless space.

Roger smiled, yet his heart pounded. He was anxious and sweaty. "How far can my power extend?"

"Well, that's not easy to answer, we don't know. The power we possessed, me Bob and I, is not the same as Owinson's. I did tell you that walls are metaphorical, yet their patterns are not. If you control a single robot, you broke a wall. If you hack a whole system, you would have broken dozens of walls. There is no limit to how many walls you can break, but I have to warn you… know when to stop breaking those walls."

"Why? Do they pose danger to my health?"

"This is not exactly what we are worried about, Roger. I have to be honest, they do pose a danger to your health, but they are also capable of ruining your perception."

"What do you mean?"

"If you keep on linking your mind to bigger chunks of technology, you will no longer possess the ability to empathize or… feel anymore, you will think in digits, of ups and downs, of yes and no. The gray will be forbidden, and you will only choose between black and white."

"I'm sure there is a solution to that, you thought about it before, didn't you?"

"I did, and that is why you are only an instrument of hiding the chip from Owinson and the organization. You can tell me you will do nothing with it, but the choice will be presented to you."

The AI's voice seemed to be different, more human.

"Every time I left the house in the morning, I was sure you wouldn't make a mess of yourself, that you'd always make the right choice. It isn't because we are of the same blood, but an intuion, you see I too saw things beyond ones and zeroes. I have no proof that you can be trusted, Roger. There is no logic behind what I did. I just did it, I just chose you. This power is in your hands now, I only ask you do the right thing. Eventually—" Isaac said, falling into silence while he started to vanish with the world and the walls behind him.

"You will—"

Roger had an urge to hold him, but he wouldn't. The nurse that placed him in his bed noticed the tears falling from his eyes. He closed his eyes while every bit of the world turned from blueness to darkness. He could only hear the echoing sound of his father in his ears.

"—decide what the right thing is,—"

He opened his eyes again, hearing the last thing his father told him before he drifted back to reality.

"—my son."

He was still lying in a bed with his bandaged head sinking into a pillow. This time he didn't feel anything, nor did anything. The pain in his head into a halt once the simulation ended. He wiped the tears off his eyes as he stood, walking towards the wind, watching the hovering vehicles come and go, cleaning and patrol robots passing by. He could feel a sense of yearning to connection. He was certain he didn't break enough walls, nor did he desire breaking enough walls. He looked at the large skyscraper from the side of the street, wondering if Owinson was on his tail or not. He closed his eyes, observing red and green vertical lines that were aligned with each other, moving in opposite routes. A small prickle at the back of his skull would hurt him if he went far enough. He stopped thinking, and sat back, thinking of his father's words.

"You bloody bastard!" a scream came behind the door as someone kicked his way inside. Roger's eyes were pulled to the visitor, yet he made no movement. Somehow he felt his coming. Uncle Derek held his nephew' hands; he was shaking.

"How could you do this to me you little snake? Running off with that creepy fellow and then get yourself in accident! You shithead I'll never let you out of me sight," Uncle Derek said.

"You have two notifications," Roger said; he was a bit surprised that his words didn't ask for his permission as they escaped his tongue. Uncle Derek frowned, trying to make sense of his sudden words before he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket.

"You're right, but how did you know?"

Roger wondered about that himself. "I— I saw your phone glowing inside your jeans pocket."

"Oh yes, I have an email from the bank. The idiots refused to land me the bloody money. They didn't approve of my plan for a multicultural restaurant in Garlem, bloody hell," Uncle Derek said, squeezing the phone in his palm.

"They usually accept projects that are pitched by Red Tech, or anything that is related to opening up a Tech shop or service anyway. All banks do that," Roger said in a calm manner, no specific nuance was raised as he spoke. The look in his eyes was colorless; his voice was similar to a robot's.

"All banks do that?"

"Yes, all banks in Garlem. The data says—" Roger said before he stopped.

How the hell did I know that?

"Ey, snaky boy, what were you saying?"

"Ah," Roger said, "nothing specific. Keep on searching, you may find your opportunity."

"Yeah, whatever that may mean. I spoke to the doctor, he said you're okay. I'm not gonna talk to you about the accident, the doctor said you're experiencing a sort of a memory loss so… I'll let it slip. Anyway, you're just gonna stay here for a day tops, and then go back home with me. Since you're not a phone guy, I brought ya something you'd like, I'm more than sure of it," Isaac said, placing a blank portrait in between Roger's feet. He then put the painting equipment atop the table.

"You'll have some fun. Paint me something I'd wanna hang in my kitchen," Uncle Derek said.

"Actually, Uncle, bring me your computer or… a phone maybe when you visit me next time, I want it… I really do."

"Wot? I don't understand, I thought you're not into these stuff. Did the accident turn your mind upside down?"

Technically it did.

"Just do me a favor and bring them to me," Roger said, putting the blank portrait on the table with the rest of equipment. Uncle Derek nodded, leaving the room.

Before he could even realize it, whether the chip ruined his perception of time or his constant trial on controlling the laptop took most of it, he was already walking out of the hospital. He wore a white shirt with gray pants. He covered his arms with a long sleeved vest, warming him against the coolness of December. Smiling couldn't find its way to his gentle face as he walk0ed and observed the phone users all around him, this time with a higher intensity than before. He would hear fragments of voices that seemed to be echoing far away, somewhere he couldn't reach. Whenever a thumb touched the soft screen, a small prickle would alert Roger. Through the whole of the walk, Roger was half deaf to the words of his Uncle who was suggesting things to do after he had gotten better. It didn't take long before they came across the doctor, a tall fellow with a short mustache and dark eyelids.

"Mr. Garaldson," the doctor said with half a smile, his lips rising from one side. He put his hand on the limping Roger's arm; the latter didn't think look at him at all for some reason. Uncle Derek stepped in. "My name is Samuel Barris."

"Hello there, doctor, thank you for taking care of my nephew here, I'm glad he wasn't hurt in that bloody accident," Uncle Derek said. The doctor didn't divert his eyes away from Roger who craned his head and sharpened the look in his eyes. During his stay in the hospital, he had continual dreams that showed him the surgery, everyone who was present during the surgery. The doctor was the one who took care of the surgery, the one who managed to save Roger when his mind didn't respond to the chip at first.

"Be careful," the doctor whispered in Roger's ear. Roger nodded before he went on his way, leaving Uncle standing in the middle of the corridor.

"Ey, Ey, what did that shithead tell ya? I thanked him yet he didn't respond to me, ah those doctors, they think they're better than most," Uncle Derek said as he raised his hand in the air once they walked through the front gate of the hospital. "No more hovering cars for you boyo!"

A taxi that came rushing lessened its speed, almost bayoneting through the back of another parking car. Roger limped his way to the back seat while his uncle helped him inside. Roger sensed a direct connection between his skin and the constant shaking of the electric vehicle. He couldn't control its movements or what was on the radio, but he could still sense a connection through a series of invisible currents. Uncle Derek sat in the front seat beside the driver whose mouth emitted the scent of alcohol. Uncle Derek turned around; the road was deserted of other taxis. He prayed for everything to be well before he chose the destination. The driver placed a cigarette in between his lips as he turned the steering wheel, exiting the parking section before the car was immersed into the electric cattle as Roger had placed it before. The young man closed his eyes as he hung his palm on the car's surface, noticing how the numbers in his infinite darkness shifted and their colors varied while they were scattered across a multitude of pathways.

"So today's a holiday for taxi drivers or what?" Uncle Derek asked, missing the glowing yellowness of taxis.

"We work everyday, it's just that there are less taxi drivers."

"What happened?"

"What happened to factory workers and street cleaners, replacement. Now robots drive people to work, shitty machines decide to take you from point A to point B. How are we going to live if robots do everything?" He said, unaware that his speed was exceeding the regular road limit. Uncle checked the seat belt, pulling it a couple of times.

"I wonder if robots drink on the job," Uncle said.

"Ah, I see what you're sayin' old man," the driver said, letting out a hiccup. "I only took five rounds. Beer tastes like shit in this city, I was wrong to come here two months back," the driver said.

"Five rounds? You sure you don't wanna stop, mate?"

"Don't worry. Like I said, it tastes like shit and the effect wears off quickly. This city lacks taste, shame most of these fools don't know," the driver said, turning the steering wheel to the left without lowering the speed, shaking the wheels. Roger felt the vehicle in pain while his hands were on the wheel, if only he could toss him out of it, he wished.

"Well, at least you got a taste. I am a newcomer too, you know. Their burgers taste like trash too," Uncle said, letting out a chuckle while the driver let out a loud laugh while patting the steering wheel, accidentally releasing the klaxon on the road. Uncle looked back at Roger in distress, both sharing fear of the drunken driver.

"You may not know, dear sir, but the only ones who drink tasty mead and eat burgers that don't taste like shit are those above. The bastards who ride the hovering cars, who live the high skyscrapers, those who build the robots and sell us the tasteless nonsense. Those take whatever the hell they want and we'd have to smile at them because we should be grateful that they brought this, the future. This city made me crazy, really crazy," the driver said, his breaths escaping his lungs faster. The vehicle was speeding up as well. The chip in Roger's brain was slightly shaking, alerting Roger of the coming danger.

"Careful there, sir," Uncle said.

"They took my business, and then one of them pricks who attends the balls and leaves on flying limousines took my wife from me," the driver said, pushing on the accelerator with full speed. Robot patrols came from both roads with glowing sirens atop their heads. He was speeding all the way up to the traffic. Uncle tried to toss his hand pull the brakes, but the driver resisted. Roger was in deep stress.

"I have to think of something," he murmured while panting. He closed his eyes while he put his hand on the door, watching numbers go by him while he struggled to take a tight grasp of them, of making them stop. Something whispered in him, telling that if he managed to stop the numbers, he would be able to put a strict halt to the vehicle's wheels. With each passing second, the aching in his head was elevated to another level. He could hear walls falling atop each other like domino stones. The shaking in his mind was transmitted to his eyes, rattling up the whole of his world. His heart was pumping as he sensed that the movement of the engine was at the movement of his fingers. He sensed his spine collapsing, his feet numbing and his eyes winking without his own control. Uncle Derek was about to start a fist fight with the drunken driver when he noticed his nephew's jaw opening with a bit of a falling sticky spit on the side. There was a falling drop of blood escaping his right nostril and almost crossing his upper lip.

"What the—"

The vehicle's engine was off as the wheels froze in parallel, taking an immediate halt as the vehicle left a dark trail on the asphalt, stopping an inch away from the first line of vehicles. Uncle Derek looked back at his nephew who was still lost with and open mouth and closed eyes. He jumped out of the vehicle before he pulled the young man with him. Another line of blood crossed through his lips. He was still unconscious despite how many times Uncle Derek slapped him. The engine was on again; the wheels started turning. The vehicle bumped into the car in the front, ruining its lights before the wheels uncontrollably turned to the back. The driver jumped out of it as he observed how it kept moving forward and backward. It stopped after a trip of moving forward and backward like a bull. Roger's eyes were opened; he went in a burst of panting and coughing blood. Him and his Uncle were already inside the apartment.

Roger's head was between his hands.

"Dear God, I was car itself. It was like my heart was the engine, my feet were the wheels. It was like my spine and my neck and my eyes were a single viewing and moving entity, what the hell have I gotten myself into?" He muttered while shaking in his own distress. Once the chip pain left his head, he gasped and closed his eyes, barely able to see the passing digits.

"What's wrong with you, kid? You blacked out," Uncle Derek said, sitting next to his nephew.

"I'm okay, Uncle. It's just the accident, I… I probably blacked out because it was scary. I'll just rest now," Roger said, sitting back in his bed.

There was a slight knocking on the door. Roger was already devoid of any slumber, thinking about the moment he had become the drunken driver's car days priro. Maybe Uncle had forgotten to take his keys with him, he thought. He put his hand on the wall as he waddled his way to the door, sensing a sort of sizzling inside his head, something too quick to be fully noticed. There was a bit of tingling once he was closer to the door, twisting the key before gripping the handle and pulling the door. The fellow behind the door had his long brown hair dripping behind his back. He was fully suited, holding a cane in his hand. He had a slightly short. He took off his sunglasses, revealing his gray colored eyes. Roger realized the man was sightless. Still, something about him was disheveling.

"It's a wonderful morning," the blind one said. "Cloudy, moist and no rain. Grayness filling the sky. Ah, exactly what I think of a wonderful morning, it gives a sense mystery, don't you think?"

Roger blinked, trying to deduce how this one knew how the sky looked. The whole of it was murky, yet it was safe to keep silent. "Yeah, I may have to agree with you. Um, how can I help you, Sir?"

"Ah, the one I'm addressing is the lovely Roger Garaldson, son of my brightest student. Let us say that I am a friend of your father's," he said. Roger rubbed his chin, looking at him before he stepped aside and stretched his hand to help him inside.

"Alright, you can come inside, Sir. I'm stretching my hand to you," Roger said, bewildered at the sight of the stranger gently shoving his hand away.

"Worry not, Roger. You don't have to act all rueful now. I have mastered my senses… all of my senses and I know where to go," the stranger said as he found his way into the living room and already picked a sofa on which he would sit. He placed his right leg over the other; he put his hands on his upper knee over the downer leg. He was smiling; his head was turning towards Roger. The latter found it awkward how the blind one knew his direction, and at such an instant pace.

"Your father was a dear soul to me, a very dear one. You know, it was me who introduced him to your mother, they were both good students," the stranger said, his voice was strangely calm and comforting, as if he was humming in the ears of the sleepy. "You see, it really pained me to know that your father passed away lately. We live in a time where the softest of us usually doesn't bulge when the soul of a dear one passes away, a senseless time really. But I do have to say that I am really sad."

"Thanks, sir. But you still haven't told me who you are."

"Who I am? I get it if you are trying to be careful of a stranger walking into your home. Apart from that, we're living in a concentration camp, bounded to our own bodies and referred to as numbers. You can't be special in a time like this, even if you are the president of Red Tech itself."

Roger's heart started pounding. The blind one seemed to have more to say.

"You see, even if you did matter, it would be for a short time. You are soon forgotten when you become inactive, buried under the shallowness of the new world. Death, the vilest of all creation, strips you of it all, even of your name. So tell me, Roger, how is my name supposed to matter?

Roger was distorted. "Maybe it's supposed to mean something to people more than others."

"Supposed to, true. Reality? No, everyone perishes, legacies will turn to ash. Names will never matter. Still, your father was working on something, something that is supposed to make some names matter more than others. Sadly, some gifts can't be spread equally."

"What thing?" Roger asked, his heart galloping as his chip prickled the back of his head. He was in minor pain; yet he had to keep himself intact in front of him despite his sightlessness.

"You tell me, I reckon you are the one most knowledgeable of the project. Your father has always kept his distance in work, at times even from Bob Polion."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, sir."

"Hm, sure you don't. I mean how could you, right?" the stranger said, making his stand and about to take his leave.

"That's it?" Roger said, expecting more of the stranger.

"Yes, I found what I came looking for already. Maybe with this little conversation of ours names, whole particles of existence, will matter after all.

"I'm hopeful of that too."

"Ah, you are just like your father, the same habits, the same… cycle. We shall see each other again, Roger, that I can assure you," the stranger said, recalling his way back to the exit door.

Roger walked behind the old man, something about him was agitating.

He stopped at the exit before he turned back to the young man.

"If you are one of those people whom my name is supposed to matter to, then I am Carl Owinson. I wish you a nice day, Roger."