Chapter 9: The Auction House

"Sorry for not telling you earlier, Uncle," Roger said.

The young man was covered with a large jacket andh a hood shrouding his skull. He was inside a phone booth. Bob was watching the lines of communication, tending to encrypt Roger's line. That was not the only thing to do, Bob had to fake the IP of the local phone booth in order to give the impression that Roger was indeed outside the walls of the city. Uncle Derek on the other side of the line was sitting alone in the living room with a stick of cigarette stuck in between his thumb and forefinger, a habit his sister had always urged him to stop tending to. The phone was held on the other side of the door.

"What the hell were you thinkin' ? You get outta the house for two days and then think it'd somehow fix things if you make a call. Did you know how many doors I knocked on my search for you? Now, you tell me that you are staying for a few days with a friend of yours outside the city."

"I'm sorry, Uncle. I had to take a few days off, you wouldn't have let me leave if I told you, you'd ask too many questions."

"You bet I will, and guess what, I have more questions now. Now get yourself back home, Rogers, I can't stand these walls all by myself. Besides, you haven't told me about this outside friend, I thought that Jeremy kid is your only friend," Uncle said, pulling a plate of pizza from work. He was already chewing his first mouthful; he seemed to be less worried than before.

"I had other friends, Uncle. Look, I'm kind of going through something, it hasn't been easy, so I'll stay for more days with him," Roger explained, spotting Bob placing his middle and forefinger together on his neck, aligning them after a separation like a scissors. Roger nodded, his finger on the hanging button.

"Uncle, I gotta—"

"I never knew my father, Roger. Your mother and I lived alone for a very long time, I'd lie if I say that I fully got over it. I still feel that I hate my father for leaving, or hate destiny for snatching our mother away from us. Still, we had to think of our tragedy as a form of purpose, as a guarantee that we would do anything for a child if either of us were given one. I was not blessed with a kid, but my sister was. That's why I call you everyday, that's why I ask too many questions, that's why I act as if… I'm your father. You remember our little pact, do you?" Uncle Derek explained. His voice was calm in an unusual manner, something Roger noticed. After a silence that stretched for more than a few seconds, Roger bid the Uncle goodbye before he hung the phone. Bob and Roger went their separate ways in order not to draw suspicion. Both had to use a bit of their chip's energy to deviate the patrol bots' attention over them.

On the way, Bob used his chip to make a direct phone call to his home. His daughter was better behind the phone than his wife, especially when issuing an apology. He waited for a few seconds before someone picked up the phone.

"Hello?" a voice from the other side came, looking younger and seeming at the edge of weeping.

"Tamara, it's me, I'm your Dad," Bob said. His eyes scanned the area, spotting two patrol robots before he swerved to the left, keeping himself in a dark alley while a bit of rain dropped atop his covered head. Clouds spawned across the whole of the sky atop Garlem, forcing the bots to draw external hands that carried a plastic recyclable tarpaulin which covered the whole of their metal bodies, an idea Bob suggested to Owinson back in the day.

"Dad, where are you? You disappeared while we were moving out, you should have seen how mom was worried," Tamara said, looking at her tired mother lying on their new couch under a newer roof. Tamara kept the phone under her jaw while she covered her mother with her own blanket.

"I— I got work honey, tons of work. They called me from the company and I had to attend," Bob said, looking at a bag he was carrying, hearing Sylvester's parts clinking. He snatched what had been left of him somehow.

"But you said you left work, you said that you weren't supposed to work anymore. You know, Sylvester disappeared too," Tamara continued

"I took Sylvester with me to work, honey. I had to make a few modifications here and there. I know I told you that I would stay with you until… until the time comes but this is an urgent matter. I promise I'll explain everything to you once I'm done, honey," Bob said, wishing for a tone of satisfaction coming from the tiny holes of the phone.

"I hope you get to explain it to me before your sickness kills you," Tamara said before she hung the phone up. Bob sighed once he heard the beep. He walked inside the apartment, spotting Roger sitting alone in the room. There he was, that look on his face, that finger under his chin, he thought, the way his father looked. Bob placed Sylvester on the table, putting his head aside while spreading bits of torso and limbs on the table.

"So you're after your friend's father?" Bob said, scanning the damaged parts in Sylvester's torso.

"That was the deal, yeah. Louisa said she would just blackmail him to clear the competition for the family's throne."

Bob pulled a chair from the back and then sat facing the table, both hands rotating Sylvester's head. It was charred on the sides with a stretching crack across his skull.

"They never liked one another. Both had a different view, a different idea of what a modern crime family should be. That woman shouldn't be trusted, Roger. She really is smart, isn't she? With the boss in critical condition now, and Jerry out of the way, the Pacific is hers."

"This is not our concern, we need to get the file for Owinson. Only then will we be able to get home," Roger said. "I managed to connect the leads we have. The auction house where Jerry works is not entirely used for regular wares, but for the pit robots. They meet during the day to bid for the arena robots, giving the viewers and the state a fake facade of a different ware, then they need meet at night to witness the result of the bet. Jerry's role, or plainly speaking, the mob's role is ensure the bet goes smooth," Roger explained.

"And the mob would then get a little something for securing the bet and ensuring that the fight happens. We need proof of this, Roger," Bob said, turning back to the young man.

"We need to visit the auction, get enough evidence and we need to find a fight pit. I don't know it's entrance, it'll take a stronger chip control than mine."

"Mine, then. I'll do it, I'll find the fight pit," Bob said, looking back at Sylvester's dead eyes.

"What? No, I can't drag you into this. I'm only here because you promised to protect me until I clear my name. I'll do them both, I can keep a low profile."

"It's not like that, I too need that file ridden of. You see, I worked with Owinson, I need to make sure it doesn't fall into the wrong hands."

"I thought Owinson is the only one with a stench," Roger said, arms folded.

Bob took a few seconds in silence, spreading his lips in a smirking smile. "We are all with a stench, the only difference is how strong that stench is. I need to get the file."

"How are you even going to compete in the pit? Each bidder has his own robot."

"That's why I brought Sylvester with me, I'll make him look like a bidder's robot and make him fight as a winner would," Bob said.

"Okay then, that's the plan," Roger said clapping on his way to the toilet. Bob raised his head to the ceiling, slapping his own forehead as he rethought the plan again.

"Ah Roger!" he called, stretching his head through the corridor, spotting the young man opening the door with his hand on the zipper. "Jerry knows you, knows you well, doesn't he?" Bob asked. Roger raised both of his eyebrows before he gasped.

"Yeah, he does, but I'll try to—"

"No, you won't try anything. One mistake and we're toast, so we can't allow the possibility of a mistake. We'll swipe roles, I'll head for the auction house while you head to the pit. It seems that I will have to teach you how to take control of a robot because you'd have to buy as much time as you can in order to get enough evidence," Bob explained, keeping Sylvester's head in between his palms. Roger's lips went apart in disbelief. He blinked before he wiped his hands and walked back to the work room.

"Bob, you'd be putting the mission in much more danger. This is a bad alternative, you'd have to think of something else," Roger said, taking back his seat beside the computer. Bob stood off his own chair and then sat at the ridge of the table atop which the computer was, plainly facing the young man.

"Either now or later, eventually you'd have to learn to control a robot. Besides, Sylvester doesn't have to win the contest, just keep on strolling until the evidence acquisition is complete. I love Sylvester but he is no more valuable to me than a ten year old fridge," Bob said.

"Bob, it's not just like that. If I force myself to control the bot, I will break too many walls. What happened this morning could… I don't want to think about it," Roger said, tossing his head into the darkness of his forearms on the table. Bob put his hand on the young man's head.

"I'll teach you how to do it, Roger. I do it all the time, you just have to learn how to feed the chip enough brain energy for the process to take place. You see, you only allow the chip to take control of your mind if the number of neurons you feed it is bigger than what is needed. If you manage to direct your stream of neurons, you can be your own master, not only that, but a stronger master too. Now, you have to learn to trust me, Roger," Bob said. The young man craned his head; there was a look of consideration in his eyes. He then nodded in quick manner.

"I'll do it," he said with hesitation.

"Good, now get some rest. I'll have to work on getting Sylvester back in one piece," Bob said, determined to bring his robot back tolife. Roger withdrew to bed. His chest would rise and fall. While struggling to shut his eyes, glimpses from a reality he refused to believe would start to pop in front of his eyes for a matter of seconds, leaving him in more doubts. He saw the faces of the mobsters he beat, his legs while moving and the compassionate boss who ended up in the hospital for going against his habit for once. He slept in hope that the chip would no more take the pilot seat.

Dust floated when Bob pulled his suit from the closet the following morning. He wore a blue vest covering a white shirt and then tossed his legs into blue hoses. Roger was already splashing his face with cold water, trying to shake off the visions of the previous morning's violence. He saw Bob adjust his suit around his shoulder, and then he was locking his belt as he drunk a cup of water. Roger withdrew from the bathroom on his way to the workshop, spotting Sylvester back in shape. Bob kept the bot's face with a change around the rest of the skull. Its torso was a whole new one, it was a design for a robot Bob contemplated designing back during his late years in Red Tech. Its upper chest seemed larger. There were more metal plates atop the core layer of his lower torso. The legs were reserved; they were not touched by the bullets.

"Looks as good as new," Roger said, drying his face with a blue towel. "Why not turn him on? I thought we had a stock of batteries in the other room."

"Because each battery contains a specific landmark. If I use a standard Red Tech landmark, Sylvester will not be able to compete in the arena. You see, the arena robots are constructed on demand, other branches of Red Tech or other tech companies contribute in making these machines, portraying a facade instead. The bidders are compelled to run a technical check after the bidding takes place. Once I get to the place and get enough evidence, I'll have to change the batteries, get the one with the proper landmark to compete," Bob explained, placing his elbow atop Sylvester's right shoulder. He picked up the coffee cup, sipping a bit of it.

"Going there by yourself, I'd say this is getting heavy for you," Roger said, arms folded. Bob raised his eyebrows as he took the cup to the kitchen, tossing it in the foamed soap water.

"I may be getting old, but I am experienced and most of all more capable over my chip. My time is nearing but I will know how to handle it. Besides, you can consider this a lesson," Bob said, looking at the mirror while he adjusted the tie. Roger took a couple of steps towards the table, placing his arm with Sylvester's head in between.

"Have you thought on a way to help me get control of Sylvester?" Roger said.

"Oh, about that!" Bob turned, holding a little device in his hand. "You'll have to control a little one first, you would have to experiment with the override aspect. This little machine here," Bob said, raising the little adjustor with a few lights around the corner."

"What little thing?" Roger exclaimed.

"Oh Little Reggie!" he yelled before they heard some crackling. A metallic puppy leaped to the room. The little thing even had a metallic tongue swinging out of its mouth. The little thing let out recorded barks, calming once Bob put his hand under its neck. Roger pouted, covering his eyes with his palm.

"A puppy? Really?"

"A Chihuahua to be precise, only that we never had the time to cover the little thing with aritificial dog hair. What? You don't think little Reggie is a challenge, this one was how me and your dad broke the wall of overriding, you'll have fun," Bob said, grabbing the handle of the door before slipping out of the house with a sinister smile. Roger turned slowly to see the little bot withdrawing away with a fierce growl. "He is devoid of feeling huh?" Roger thought. "Bob, you prick."

Bob closed the door of the cab behind him as he stared at the gigantic auction house. It was built with the finest of marble, white with no sign of dirt around the corners. Flying cameras were all around the place and inside as well. Beside the door stood two humanoids with the height of the door itself, wearing sunglasses and having earpieces with kits that stretched to their chests. There was also a lady around her forties standing just an inch after the threshold of the door to greet the guests and check if they were on the list. Bob had already tossed his name there.

"Good morning to you, sir," the woman said, beaming at the old Bob who nodded back with a smile. "May I know what your name is?"

"Raymond Jiggins," Bob said, keeping his hand on his chest. The woman clicked on his name on the list to ensure his coming. She stepped away to let him in as he bowed and then stepped inside the sanctuary of the richest of Garlem, the ones who helped Owinson build Garlem from scratch. The suited men and woman bustled inside the auction house all around Bob as he kept his hand on his chest with a motionless smile. Seats were aligned with each other across a large platform, stretching to the back like a theater. There were about four doors on each side, each were topped with a flying camera and located next to a guardian, a higher grade in defense robots. Still, humans did the welcoming. In a matter of a minute, Bob had already assessed the number of cameras, guardians, service bots and the possible pathways across the room. He had to play it safe, he could not search for the evidence while the show had not yet begun. He blinked twice, initiating the recording through his eyes. Mastering the conversion of a recorded video inside his brain to an actual file actually took longer than he had expected, a skill that required youth and freshness rather than strength and experience. He scanned the movement. sService bots shuttled across the higher platform while preparing for the beginning of the auction.

Despite the availability of seats at the front, a man in his thirties came close to Bob, sitting on the chair to his right. The sight of him, Bob thought, was not strange at all. The man sat beside Bob, placing his hand on the chair's rail in alignment with Bob's. The old man withdrew his hand from the rail, rubbing his wrist while keeping a strident look on his face. The man's eyebrows were raised as if he was mocking the whole show.

"Do these people not disgust you, sir?" the man said, placing a leg over the other. The chip inside Bob's mind was tingling for a reason.

"I am sitting among them. I should not dare to be disgusted by them," Bob said, rubbing his shaven beard.

"Sure, this doesn't contradict with the fact that we may all be disgusting after all. These are the times, but I have a feeling you are a special kind of those. You sit at the back while most of these hounds with fancy suits are nudging each other for the closest place to fully examine what they are willing to bid on. Either that or it's because they want to be the first choice of the announcer, all because of little money to be made out of an unreleased prototype."

Bob's eyes ridged the left side of his eye sockets, fully glaring at the young man with the scar across his face and draping hair across his face. Despite his obvious youth, there was a sort of darkish depth stretching around his eyes, either because of lack of sleep or sense at all.

"Then what do you make of us, of those who sit at the back?"

"Ah! a nice question indeed. I would have to say those who sit at the back come for the sake of mocking, of watching those who control this city be lowered to the level of the hungry beasts that only see a prey. It's just funny and somewhat satisfying in a strange way, I'm sure you understand. Others come to see people be destroyed by their greed when a bidder pulls back at the last second, but that's not very common here in a rich city like Garlem. There is the third type, the smarter type. These sit at the back because they know when they raise their hand they will be seen because none sits at the back, these are smart and strategic."

Bob smirked, closing his eyes in trying to sense what the man was trying to say.

"Then what type are you supposed to be?"

"None of them, because just like you, I don't belong to this auction house and my presence here is somehow faked. Isn't that right, Mr. Polion?"

Bob frowned. "You know me, but I'm not sure if I know you."

"You do not, sir. But you knew my father, he actually spent the last years of his life seeking your company. You, and two others, gave him a purpose in life, and that's noble of you because after his death you gave me one too. Whether you meant it or not, I have to admit I should not waste time before thanking you," the man said, keeping a stable tone of voice.

"Do I have the honor of knowing what the name of your father is?" Bob asked, resuming the strident look on his eyes, sensing a sort of ruffling when attempting to scan for an identity. This must be an agent or something, Bob thought.

"Darius Lorenzo," Patrick Lorenzo, adjusting his FBI badge to make it more visible. Everything made sense to Bob, it was clear.

"I get you came here following me," Bob said, spotting a movement just behind the curtain of the platform. The initiation was nearing, not much time left.

Patrick giggled, trying to keep his voice low. "No, Mr. Polion, I'm not here because I am following you. The bureau needs an agent in this auction house in order to ensure everything goes legit. You have no idea how deep corruption is in this city, the cases we pulled were uncountable."

"I bet you are willing to tell the guards that I am not who I claim to be, wouldn't you?" Bob said.

"It has been really fun conversing with you, Mr. Polion. A cunning fellow like you wouldn't be here for the pleasure of watching these rich pigs humiliate themselves. This makes me curious to know, but I won't ask. I'll let you slip out of it," Patrick said, withdrawing from his seat and setting out to the other room.

"Did the bureau open the case again?" Bob uttered, his heart galloping.

Patrick stiffened, turning back to Bob. Silence reigned before it was filled with Patrick's furthering footsteps. Bob refrained from thinking about an old foe's son, keeping his focus grounded on the platform. No more than few seconds, as if it was strangely obvious, the crowd was silenced as a figure appeared in between the red curtains. Jerry Jackson spread both of his hands. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this week's auction!" he said with his gaze up on the ceiling while the others clapped in exhilaration. The auction had been active for almost two years, only delaying during holidays or special cases.

"Before we begin, I would like to issue an apology on behalf of Mr. Theodor Brinkins for being absent today," Jerry said, uttering the boss' name since a very long time.

"I would also like to pass on the salutes of Garlem's glorious creator, Mr. Carl Owinson, as he had always dictated, and whose newer prototypes we bid on and compete for," Jerry said with an unwavering smile, sensing the microphone under his neck shaking whenever he raised his voice. Most of the crowds nodded in acceptance. An old lady leaned on her husband and whispered, "If he is so eager to deliver his bloody salutes, then why doesn't he come here and say them himself?"

"Shush, I don't give half a damn about Owinson, we only need to get our hands on his prototypes," the weighty old man replied, adjusting himself in his seat.

"Now, without further ado, let us begin the auction!" Jerry said, pointing at a large screen that was uncovered with the moving the curtains. A circle was displayed following its end until the screen blurred and each particle went away to portray the newer machine. Even Bob himself was curious what Red Tech had been producing after his resignation from the company.

The screen showed a video instead of the usual picture. The crowd watched with attentiveness as a shape constituted with smaller metal fragments was shifting both of its size and height, even its whole nature. One would think it was a ball before it would turn into an axe and then into a chair and even into a self portrait of Owinson himself with the smallest of details. It was wild and hectic, unaware when it was proper to stop moving up. The crowds were left with shock, wondering how far Red Tech can get in its quest for impressing the buyers. It was as if one took tiny metal cobbles and adjusted them based on whatever piece he had thought about. Bob held his head while keeping a bewildered expression; he had the assumption that Red Tech would never go beyond without him and Isaac. Nanotech was not among his expectations; he had not thought that Red Tech would go that far. Either that or Red Tech got better at marketing.

"What you see here, ladies and gentlemen, is a shape shifting pile of metal particles that move in accordance with the designer's wishes. If you intend it to be a ball, it would become a ball. If you intend it to become a chair, it will be a chair as you have seen and I'm sure Red Tech had never disappointed you before. If you want it to be a funnel, it sure is a funnel. What you see is the very very very initial prototype of this part of this technology. For this first time in this auction center's history, three prototypes will be equally given to three bidders. Mr. Owinson desires to ensure that this new technology will be greatly invested upon before it enters the market. Now that the opportunity is divided into three, we expect of you to do your part in contributing to the creation of a world-changing technology," Jerry explained. Some of the crowds, especially those with less experience with Owinson, took it for a scam as they bustled out of the auction house. The majority remained inside because they knew Red Tech never lied about its products.

"Now, let us begin the bidding, starting from a million dollars," Jerry said, seeking a sign of interest.

Despite the excitement, there was an unusual sense of the hesitation roaming across the audience, even Bob himself was shocked that Red Tech started to take the production to the next level. Still, the hesitation was broken when a man from the third row raised his hand in the air, initiating the auction. Jerry pointed at the man with a beaming smile, attracting the attention of the other bidders.

"Two Million," the man spoke and then withdrew to his seat.

Jerry gave three claps before the audience raised their hands in excitement each gave out prices the poor would think imaginary.

"Two Million and half!"

"Two million seventy five"

"Three Millions"

"Five Million"

"Ten Million"

The crowds started to calm once the bidder spoke ten million. Silence ruled for the following seconds, Jerry sought interest again and he sure had the initial stages. Bidders raised their arms in the air while adding zeroes to the numbers they had already given. Bob held his chin in bewilderment. The video was rehearsed the more people spoke their bids. The movement of the particle in the air was just like a desert wanderer's fresh water for the thirsty bidders. Hands ruled the air.

"Fifty Million Dollars!"

"Again!"

"Fifty Five!"

"Seventy!"

"Again! Again!"

One of the bidders, one whose silence was prolonged before one spoke his word.

"One Hundred Million Dollars!"

Jerry pulled back, wondering what magic Owinson had put in that shape shifter.

"Wow… Well, anyone else?"

Silence stayed longer, yet the rich folk were not going home yet. It was the technology of the new world. Bob noticed that someone sat next to him, and yet the chair seemed to be empty as it was supposed to be pulled back. There was no strain upon it. He knew who that was. His hair was pulled back, he wore a simple gray shirt with old blue jeans. His eyes were literal glass. Bob wondered why Owinson would portray himself as a simple suited man, more importantly as still blind despite being all seeing thanks to his chip.

"So, Bobby, what do you think of my creation?"

"You really think it's a good idea to have a conversation with me at this particular time, do you? I fear your friends here would think I'm crazy," Bob said.

"You shouldn't worry about that. They're all busy looking forward towards my creation, they won't bother looking at the back row. Everything went as I expected, Oh, even better than I expected. You see these people keep on bidding, adding more money with every sign of competition. You may think that they are eager to invest, like it is a financial matter, or maybe they seek the betterment of mankind. You may even think that they seek to write their names in the records by being the first to adopt such a technology. But that's not why they keep on bidding."

"What reason do they have in mind then?"

"Because they love creation. You see, they all see a different shape with my invention. Everyone of them wants to have the might to create, create something and pour life into it just for the sake of doing it. This is the goal behind everything, if not then at least reproduce. We crave having made something, you'll see how the bidding will rise as high as the ceiling because none of these egoistic fools are able to waste the opportunity of having a creation of their own choosing."

"I wonder if you realize that it is for this same reason that Isaac and I turned rogue on the organization. It is because you seek to become God."

"I wouldn't necessarily see it that way. I know you believe it is a matter of control, a matter of ego, but it is none of that."

Despite being in his own mind, Owinson's avatar moved closer to Bob as if he was about to whisper something.

"It is a matter of instinct," Owinson said, dusting to the air and through the window, all in Bob's mind.

"I hope you enjoy the company of the Lorenzo boy," Owinson said on his way out. Bob raged, he knew Owinson had something to do with bringing the Lorenzo boy to the city.

"Five Hundred!"

"Six Hundred!"

This time almost the majority of the crowd withdrew from the bidding while about four kept on adding numbers. The more numbers spoken, the more Bob's view on everything would darken as these folk seemed to be willing to go into debt just to ensure they take a grasp of it.

"Nine Hundred!"

"Nine Hundred Fifty!"

"ONE BILLION DOLLARS!"

After the yelling of a trio from the first row, everyone was silenced. Even those who intended to raise their hands withdrew from such an act. There was a man who slowly raised his hand before his wife gripped him by his elbow and pulled it down. Some of them had tears in their eyes. The flying silence in the room was a direct answer to Jerry that today's bidding was over. He bumped the red button to ensure the transaction.

"Sold! All three parts go equally to Mr. Liam Troddle, Mr. Rodrigo Devin and Miss Tanisha Powers," Jerry said with a smile again. He tumbled off the platform, signaling for the three bidders to follow him to the other room behind the curtains in order to ensure the transaction. One of the women in the front took a withering stand, she seemed to be sniveling.

"Please, Mr. Jackson, tell Mr. Owinson to keep a small part of the invention for me. I would do everything to get it, please! I would sell my house and my cars, I can even sell my company, sell the rights to my books, I would even go into debt and live homeless just to take a grasp of it. Please, give me a chance to hold it in my hands and put it as I wish, please!" she said, collapsing on the floor with her palms carving her trenched face, tears and mucus went through the openings between her fingers. A rich fellow knelt closer to her, trying to help her while she looked at the departing Jerry in despair. Bob sighed, looking at the window, up in the sky.

It is an instinct.

"I should not waste any more time. The three bidders would also bet on tonight's fight, I should follow them," Bob thought, rejoicing at the sight of the passing crowds, it seemed like the perfect cover for him to slip and squirm towards the room. If only his hack over the camera drones and bots would remain long enough, he wished. He nudged the crowd as he passed in between like a worm, excusing every step of the way. There were two bots on the way, two which were temporarily distracted by a fake stimulation, one which Bob spent designing the night before to properly execute his hack. The camera bots were blind to his presence as well. Along the corridor, there were two doors, one at the left and the other at the end of it. Bob walked with his palm swabbing the wall, trying to sense possible hacks behind the room. The door was almost shut; Bob peered through the opening. He could not spot Jerry and the bidders, yet there was a camera on sight. His chip started tingling; there was a possible connection. Yet he knew if he could focus his hack on a single machine, his control over the other pathways in his simulation would lessen. More importantly, his brain damage would exceed with more usage of his chip, without forgetting that he used an energy he had not used for years during the events of the day prior.

He hacked the camera. His eyes had become the camera itself. The three suited bidders sat around a small table while Jerry brought three tablets with him, displaying them on the wooden thing while the bidders stretched their hands and held each tablet in their hands like a restaurant menu. Their eyes scanned the screens; there were videos showing the outer form of the warrior robots, the ones that were supposed to fight in the pits. The camera caught Jerry explaining how the pits work, at what time they begin and where. He walked towards the light switch, turning it off as a hollow screen took place in the middle. There were robots tearing the arms off each other in a wide sand arena, around which sat rows of supporters. What caught Bob's attention was the presence of those whose faces the camera could not display, the faces of those that belonged to their organization; Those at the top of Red Tech, those who at the top of Garlem. The Future Dictators.

The chip within Bob's skull started to tingle, alerting Bob that his hack was nearing its end. He withdrew from hacking the camera as he took a couple of steps back, hitting the wall with the back of his shoulder. After his haziness had worn off, he turned to the right towards the door. He pushed it, standing beside a long stretching chair digging into the depths of the ground. As he reached the entrance to a basement at the end of the staircase, he pulled the curtain aside. The three pit bots were facing each other. Their skulls were tilted and there was no light in their eyes, implying that they were turned off.

The doors were not closed; there was no guard apart from two service bots at the entrance of the upper corridor.

The mission was about to end, all he had to do was to exchange the battery of a bot with that from his workshop. He put his own battery aside, first undoing the chest metal with a G-wrench and a special electrifier to stop the flow of electricity from the battery across that part of his body just in case he was in rest mode instead of full shutdown. Once he placed the electrifier on his chest, Bob's heart sunk at the sight of the robot's canon arm stretching upwards to his neck. He locked on his neck. His feet were raised off the sky before he was struck next to the wall, gripping the robot's arm with both hands while landing fierce kicks on his skull. Nothing was felt, nothing happened. The bot's grip over his neck was tightening and even started to choke him. Bob snarled, landing fiercer and faster kicks on the chest near the place behind which the battery remained. There was no point in preserving what was left of the hack anymore. Bob blinked before a flying camera bot came down the basement and dug in the bot's chest, finally tilting the battery and thus turning the big bot off. Bob fell on the floor with stretching spit; he was panting while he touched his neck. He coughed, unable to stop the blinking. He woke up from his abeyance once he realized that his hack was over; he even sensed that the other bots were starting to search for him. He quaked as he crawled towards the camera bot, ripping its neural interface before kicking it away into a dark corner. Bob put his own battery inside the bot before extracting its own. A metal feet was plainly visible and Bob still had his G-wrench on the bot's metal chest.

The bots could not sense the wind, yet their visual senses were high enough to track footsteps. Still, there were footsteps all over the place in a line of infinity with some steps in between. Bob knew that they would follow the footsteps, creating a scenario of who was inside before they would stumble upon a crossing of steps was the perfect solution. He hid behind the third robot, bouncing to the next warrior bot in order to hide from the searching bots. He took the stairs, landing one feet in front of the other as he spotted a buzzing camera bot scanning the corridor. He could hear his own heart pumping against his chest, like a striking hammer atop the anvil. He was saved by the algorithm, the little bot was not supposed to scan anything other than the corridor. The flying thing moved away from the stairs, giving Bob the opportunity to sneak behind it.

Before he could even realize it, he was on the threshold of the main entrance, panting with his hand on his heart. A line of darkish red went down his nostril to cross his lips; he tasted its bitterness before he wiped it with his forehand. Patrick Lorenzo was back on that same chair with a leg over the other, watching Bob leave last. The old man could tell that the Lorenzo boy's smile meant he knew the whole of it, yet he chose to refrain from blowing his cover. He seemed like a hunter who would let his prey eat and breed for as long as she needed, until the time was right and strike a bigger reward, at least that was how Bob thought it to be.

Was it age? Was it the chip playing with his nervous system?

Bob did not want to care about the crawling pain in his body and the aching within his skull. He turned the keys and pushed the door, sensing his knees dancing and bumping into each other. He was lucky enough to find a chair; he sat with tiredness as he sighed and panted afterwards, his fingers sensing the beating of his heart. None of it mattered, what mattered was that he was in possession of the battery, no more than that mattered. His recording of the dirty work within the auction house was finished. The file was stored in his phone; sending files with his own mind was a skill he learned long ago. As his eyes went blinking and his head tilting, he noticed a figure in between his legs, tilting its head as well. Its eyes were brighter than usual, and the little thing was calmer than it was programmed to be. He had realized it was reprogrammed and more importantly not in the usual way, but using the chip.

"Roger? Roger! Where are you?" he said, limping to the other rooms, pushing a door after the other. The last room was Roger's; the young man was laid in the middle of a mess. He was under a grave of books, chairs, a turned table, a few snacks and a whole carpet with a sea of scrap. He was holding the little device Bob left him to help him control the neural feeding. Bob knelt down, pushing the junk away while shaking the young man. He noticed his eyes twitching; he was not fully asleep. As he stood, he heard the coming footsteps of the puppy bot. Bob turned around with a look of mixed confusion and fear, looking at the bright eyes of the little one.

"No way," he muttered. "Roger?"