Chapter 12: The Edge

The same visions were being rehearsed for the last three weeks, ever since he put Bob on that hospital bed. He hated the concept of sleep for how the visions would torment him, but the chip required a phase where only the unconscious dominated. Besides, the renewal of neurons that fed the chip's electric brain energy required deep sleep, often more than six hours the least. He did not visit Jeremy much after the other day's incident. He could still remember how he stood behind that wall, glaring at the patrolling police lugging the poor Jerry out of his house while his wife, son and daughter watched in hopelessness. Louisa did not only intend to blackmail him, but to actually imprison him by sending the evidence Bob and Roger found on him to the police department. Roger's mind was trapped inside an electric box that kept stinging him whenever he had a brighter thought. He could no longer look at his friend right at the eye; he could no longer talk to him or try to comfort him. He could no longer seek Bob's guidance after having learned about his past, neither did he try to seek his dead father's guidance. Everything was blurring and darkening with every passing day, and nothing seemed to be making any sense any more. The paintings on the wall, the brush, the colors, the portraits were not supposed to mean anything anymore for they did not contain numbers or patterns. The novels and the philosophical articles that he had stashed under his table were as good as nothing to his soul, if he had any to begin with. Owinson disappeared; he did not frequent Roger's dreams or appear watching him in the street.

He had wished his chip killed him before waking up that morning, but he did wake up. Instead of slowly starting to open his eyes, curl a bit in his bed, his eyes were lifted like curtains and heaved his upper back off the bed like a resurrected bot. Of course, even his sleep position had changed, he slept like a dead man in a coffin, like a mummified pharaoh. His body seemed to be shifting to this position whenever slumber carried him to the land of the unconscious. Roger sat with his head tilted, lost in wonder as every form of entity seemed to be undecipherable. His fists were clenched; he drew back into his bed with his fists directed at the door when his uncle opened the door. Uncle Derek was left in shock of how ready the young Roger was to attack him, despite living with him for a while now.

"What is happening to you, Roger?" Uncle said, watching how the young Roger retreated to his seat position. He looked at him, seemingly deliberate and cunning. His eyes had shown deep reasoning and calculation.

"I am talking to you!"

"Yes, nothing is happening to me, Uncle," Roger replied with calmness.

"Nothing? Ever since you came back from your three day travel, you have become a completely different person," he said before he started picking up his fingers as if counting. "You don't talk anymore, you don't smile anymore, you don't sit with me around a single table anymore. You either stay a whole day in your room, or you leave the house from dawn till freaking dust. Your friend Jeremy called me the other day, asking about you. You'd better not be dealing with drugs, Roger, because I swear I will beat the crap out of you if you do," Uncle yelled at the top of his lungs. His shriek was so high that those downstairs could hear him. A passenger was frightened outside. Yet Roger remained cold and calculating, processing each word while keeping in mind the level of temper in order to find a suitable answer with a suitable tone of voice for the best possible outcome.

"Uncle, I assure you I do not do anything illegal. I do not visit Jeremy because I choose not to. I am fine, there is nothing to worry about," Roger said, leaving a second and a half between each word. Uncle crouched, nearing his Roger's face. He showered him with spit as he screamed. Roger did not blink before the elaborate time; he did not wince or waver. His face remained stiff like a boulder.

"You prick! Talk to me like a goddamn human being! Stop acting like a robot!"

"I am talking to you like a human being, I am not acting like a robot!"

"Hell you ain't! You keep on acting so cold, thinking so smart and superior. I raised you, boy, not your father. And now you have become just like him!"

"I'd rather be like him than like you," Roger said, not giving the least of thought to what he said. Uncle Derek took a step back as if someone had smacked him. He looked at the young Roger in perplexity before withdrawing to the door and stepping out of the room. Roger stood off his bed and stretched his arm, almost calling for the departing Uncle.

"Uncle! I--"

"Sush," Uncle Derek said. "You are right, you shouldn't be like me. I am a failure, your mother used that to say that. I'll spare you the apology part."

Uncle Derek left the room, leaving Roger shaken at the center of it. The young Roger took up his vest before venturing outside of the house, adjusting his jeans vest. Throughout the course of three weeks, starting from the moment he managed to bypass the mobs' security system with the help of his little chip, he managed to take full grasp over minor local securities and unofficial bots that did not contain the governmental seal. Vehicles with outdated softwares were easy to control. Roger would often practice his skills with older wheeled cars, some rarer times with hovering vehicles although most of these were made with important seals. Other days he would sit in a bench with a hood over his head, seemingly giving the impression that he was only pondering into his own thoughts, while he was pondering into the thoughts of others. With every passing pedestrian with a phone, either walking or jogging, he could read their texts, listen to their phone calls and hear the music that they were hearing while remaining like a blinking statue. It was harder at first, often stingy and pressuring, yet it was easier with time. The moral question of whether this form of eavesdropping was the right thing to do frequented him less often.

That day as he walked outside, it was not any different. He did think about the way he answered his Uncle, how cold and thoughtless when the striking words left his tongue. The idea left his mind once he was into the street, once every voice and text notification started popping up everywhere around his eyes and ears like bees around the honey, leaving no room for his eternal voice to speak. He kept on walking, trying to clear the other conversations so as to focus on a single one. He wondered why it was pleasant to hear or read other's stories; how hateful it was when he encountered a high sealed phone. His bench was right there, always empty on either side as he would sit in the middle with a slight space between his feet. Blinded by the visuals and deafened by the voices, he could not spot the two feet against each other. Only after her second call that he raised his head, letting the sunshine touch his forehead as he looked and looked. Her black flowing hair, that red shirt of hers. It was her, the one who'd push his heart to gallop at a speed he'd never expected.

"Hello," Tamara Polion said, smiling. Roger opened his mouth, leaving a slight opening as he felt like someone grabbed his vocal cords, disallowing him to utter the words of welcome.

"Can I sit?" She asked. Strange, she seemed friendlier than before. Roger nodded after two seconds, rushing to the other end of the bench in order to leave space for her. His movement made her smile; she sat beside him on the bench with her hands on her lap.

"I didn't expect to see you," Roger said. Tamara put the backpack in the front as she leaned on the wooden bench, her eyes moving by every pedestrian with a phone.

"Well, school didn't end for me," she responded, showing him a fine number of blank painting papers inside her backpack with rolled brushes and concealed dyes. "I'm frequenting a private art school these days; they bring people from outside Garlem."

"Oh," Roger said. "Okay."

There was a little pause.

"I thought you'd be interested," she said. For some reason, Roger thought that this whole conversation was too good to be true, even his sensors read an ingenuity laugh with every comment. Still, he remained neutral.

"I have other things to do. Umm, look I'm in a bit of a hurry so…" Roger said in a similar way to how he spoke to Uncle Derek earlier that day. The chip seemed to be wishing for him to distance himself from her because she confused his thought process. Her presence incited pressure, and thus a quick conclusion would seem like a viable solution.

"really?" she asked, resuming to her old self, her true calm self instead of throwing fake smiles here and there. Roger kept silent, there was more for her to say. She then went on speaking. "I pass everyday by this road, and you always sit in this very bench until the time I go home. When we were at school, you used to notice me from afar, but now I walk past you twice a day when the street is both full and empty, yet you never notice me. I wondered, what makes someone stay here all day? How does he keep… his mind busy?"

"I have a strange way of thinking. I get lost in my own thoughts sometimes," Roger said, rubbing his nape with his forefinger's nail.

"You must be having so many of them to be doing this each and every day for the past three weeks. You shouldn't hide it anymore, I know what's going on."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Roger said, raising both of his eyebrows.

"Oh, okay," Tamara said before she tossed her hand into her pocket. Roger yearned for a way to slip out of this strange reunion, but there was no denying that it was going to extend a bit longer. He sniffed

"Do you remember the last time we talked? I was painting a green chip, and I told you I found it once in my father's basement."

"Alright, and how is that related to 'knowing what's going on'?"

Silence did its role. It proved Tamara right and Roger wrong. Both figures looked at each other in expectation of the other to yield. When Roger turned his head to the other side, Tamara had him right where she wanted. It was as if he had told her she was right.

"How long did you know?" Roger asked.

"For a while, since my father got sick and refused to talk about it much. Mom doesn't know, but I do. I know that him, his friend, your father I mean, and apparently you possess this thing," she said, her finger on the portrait with the green chip.

"I'm sure he didn't want you to worry, his research was bigger than any of us," Roger said. Tamara tossed the portrait back into her bag before pulling the zipper and focusing on Roger's glowing eyes, so fast and instant that it seemed like a thing of imagination.

"I never cared, and I thought you didn't too. I thought you and I were in agreement that their families are much more important than their research."

Roger shrugged with a quick lip movement of carelessness. "This is said from an emotional point of view. If you analyze the outcomes of his research, it would benefit more than it would benefit if he let his research go for the sake of properly raising you."

Tamara turned towards him. She was confused, the young Roger remained unmoved and spoke his word with no remorse.

"You're different," Tamara reacted, almost without a second thought.

"Technically speaking," Roger started as if he was reading his words from a script, "you did not take the time to know me. We've only met two times, so you cannot notice the change unless you knew what my initial pre-change state was. Perhaps I am not different, perhaps this is who I truly was since the start."

He turned and their eyes met. The glassy eyeballs he had, reflected the sunshine and sent shivers down her spine. It was only a moment before the glowing faltered, turning back into its blackness again. She nodded while blinking, almost seeming to be feeling offended by Roger's robotic coldness.

She said abruptly, "I came to ask you about my father."

"What about him?"

"You don't know where he is? Where does he go? You must know something," Tamara insisted while Roger seemed to be withdrawing himself.

"I honestly don't know. Last time I saw him was three weeks ago in his workshop. Why? Does he not stay at home?" Roger asked, concern found its way to his voice again.

"No," Tamara said. "He doesn't talk to anyone, keeps to his room and leaves the house early. He didn't come back home yesterday."

Roger looked down. Looks like Bob was suffering just like he was, only in different ways.

"So, what do you expect me to do?"

"I didn't want to my mom to worry. I figured you may help me track him using your… you know your thing," she said, sticking her forefinger on her head as it was mingled with her hair. Roger turned the other way. "I can't do it now. Tracking's a hard process, and I may make a scene here. Can't draw attention to myself."

"But… but he can be in danger. He helped you so many times, he brought you into our house!"

"And he did this to me," Roger roared, showing her the scar atop the crown of his head. Tamara sensed her heart sinking at the sight of the stitches and the redness surrounding scar. His eyes showed great pain and loss of slumber. "He did this to me and he forced many other people to their own… loss in the name of science. I don't care, I don't wanna help."

He stood off the bench and strode to the other way, leaving the poor girl looking at him in both pity and confusion; she did not know which of these prevailed over the other. One thing for certain, Roger was crawling to a dark hole, one even his chip wouldn't be able to save him from. He kept on walking while more voices from fragmented memories echoed around his ears, mixing between Bob and Isaac's, with instances of Tamara's voice. He hid in a dark alley, holding his head as he sunk himself into a little pond and kept his head in between his legs. A storm of contradictions was no longer bearable. He did not even know why he was suffering. He took a deep breath and leaned his head on the wall, watching the invading clouds accumulating atop the cursed city of Garlem. He blinked as a response to the cold droplet of rain before more followed, propelling the passengers to hide under covers and inside buildings. He remained under the rain. He would usually seem to lose himself in the symphony the sounds of the dripping rain made, like a mediator. He felt nothing, he cared not to feel. His mind was all about Bob.

No, I'm not going to look for him.

He fell silent for a few seconds, thinking of a way to keep his mind off it. Last time it was his card, and he did regret calling Bob. This time it was his daughter that asked for help.

What would my father do?

Roger shook his head in distress.

No, I wouldn't care what he'd do. He did horrible things, he doesn't even deserve to be remembered.

Roger looked back at the cloudy sky. It was not long before his fist hit the wall behind him a several times, leaving blue bruises around his knuckles as he went on his knees and closed his eyes. Some of the passengers thought of him as trying to meditate in the rain. His form of meditation was slightly different than the usual one. As his eyes only saw in-depth darkness that sprawled throughout a borderless world, the lines and the blueness of the virtual world returned as an imagined holographic form of the city. He opened his eyes and found himself floating atop a 3D map of Garlem. His chip came in contact with Bob's before, so tracking it was not supposed to be that difficult. Points of interest started popping up across the city before funneling them into those that only concerned Bob in person. There was a small dot that kept popping everywhere in the city with no intention of stopping anytime soon. Roger recognized that form; there must had been a device to confuse the tracking process.

Looks like Bob knew he'd be tracked eventually. Either that or who has him knows I'll come for him.

Roger returned back to the real world, about half a day passed and the bloated clouds had already left Garlem. His clothes were dripping as he stood up, desperately looking at the sky. He then looked at the city, contemplating at the sight of its skyscrapers.

"Aren't you going to help me?" he muttered, waiting for a response from the blind one. Roger spit before he walked out of the alley, initiating a searching phone call through his chip to Tamara's phone. The device was turned off; Roger was faced with her voice mail.

"Listen to me, I tried to track your father. I had four important locations, there is a fifth but… the signal's not constant. I will text you the coordinates, maybe you can help me find him," Roger said before he hung. As he walked down the street, Lorenzo was sitting in his bench with a burger in his hand. He had no phone, only his eyes to scan the passengers and mock their idiocy.

"Ah, Mr. Garaldson, glad to see you," Patrick said, munching a chop of his burger.

"Mr. Lorenzo," Roger nodded. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, you have to know your playground before you start to play, I have a habit of just sitting in a public place and watch people, hear them. I have noticed you took a liking to the same habit as well."

"I just like to sit here is all."

"Of course, of course, how's Mr. Polion doing?"

Roger wondered how Lorenzo made the connection. The agent didn't allow him to even answer.

"Oh don't worry, I know about you two, about the auction and Jerry's arrest. Louisa did play you well, but that is not my concern. I am currently in a predicament and out of evidence."

"If you're looking for something to prove your fa--"

"No, no, not that, I'm not way past it but that's not why I'm here. My concern is some shady people in this city, those at a higher rank in Red Tech. I'm not one hundred percent authorized to speak of every nickel about the case. Point is, the bureau would be really grateful if you decide to give a hand."

"Why me? What's so special about me that everyone needs my help all of a sudden?"

"Well, because the only lead we have is that you are your father's son. Both Polion and Garaldson were involved in Red Tech's higher class. It's not even an accusation; we're just trying to chase loose ends. I don't mean to issue a threat or anything, you seem like a nice guy, but we do have evidence on you injuring Theodor Brinkins and beating the crap out of his goons. Besides, I may know a thing or two about what's in your mind. You may keep your record clean if you help us," Polion said, taking his leave as he threw the oily bag into the trash bot. "Just tell me whenever you find something interesting!"

Roger stood at the middle of the street, looking at the ground.

What would have happened if I just didn't call you that day, Bob?