“I believe in you,” said The White Knight. “I know you can help us. If you do, we’ll let you go, right?” he said, looking nervous at The Leader. “I mean, we never really wanted to take you anyway, only the robot.”

  The Man looked at Mr. Robot, and Mr. Robot looked at The Man.

  “Alright,” he said. “I can get you out of this.”

  The Man stared at the pervious figures sneaking through the darkness.

  “It won’t be easy, though.”

  “If anyone can do it it’s you.”

  “I’ll need a couple of things.”

  “Anything,” said The Leader.

  “Alright then,” he said. “A punch in the face and a blowjob.”

  15.

  “Get the station on the phone.”

  “No please? No can you? No would you?”

  The Reporter didn’t lower herself to respond.

  “You know I am driving here,” said The Cameraman. “You’d be doing yourself the favour.”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  And like that, she had applied just a smidgen too much blush.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you idiot.”

  It was clear the stress was overwhelming.

  “Ok, I got Jeff on the line. What do I say?”

  “Put it on speaker.”

  The Reporter struggled to find symmetry in the colour on her cheeks.

  “Jeff?” she said.

  “Yeah, what is it?”

  Jeff was an assistant producer. They went way back, or so she thought.

  “It’s me.”

  “Who?”

  “Me. It’s me.”

  “Look, I don’t have time for this, You got ten seconds. What have you got?”

  “A plot to kill hundreds, maybe more. The Engineer and his robot are at the heart of everything. It’s all real. It’s all happening right now.”

  “Footage…”

  Jeff had little time for verbs or prepositions.

  “I have proof of the conspiracy; photos of targets.”

  “Interviews?”

  “Well, no, not yet but…”

  “Never come to me without the full story?”

  “What we have will blow your mind. Trust me.”

  “Explosions and gunfire; and concerned neighbours who never suspected a thing. Interviews goddamnit, interviews!”

  “The Doctor is one of the targets.”

  “You on the scanner?”

  The Reporter made a sour face at her colleague.

  “It was left behind. But we’re on our way to The University.”

  “University is off-limits. No cameras, no reporters.

  “In all due respect, the author of this is…”

  “Motel Riviera. That’s where your robot is. There’s your story.”

  “But…”

  “Explosions, gunfire, interviews.”

  16.

  It’s safe to say there was a great deal more biting than he had imagined, let alone all the eye-poking and cigarette burns; but that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. And in the end, when The Driver and The Man finally left the bathroom, there was so much blood it was hard to tell whose was whose.

  “Well, well, well,” said The German, waving his gun irresponsibly as he spoke, “if it isn’t the great Justice Man.”

  The Man had barely even buttoned his pants and already he was in the thick of it.

  “Good, you know who I am. Then you know what I’m capable of.”

  His neck and face were covered in scratches and he may or may not have lost a tooth.

  “Yeah, Mofo, I know you. Or I knew you would be more appropriate. How do ya like that, punk ass bitch? You are being the past.”

  And he must have had a song in his head because…

  “This is not some revolution, this is evolution, motherfucker. This is the endless night –wrong or right, this is tight, the good fight, black on white. This is history in the making. It’s our history that we’re taking – back; proud to be black, can’t erase that, that and the fact that you talk back, I’m primed to attack, so you better know, motherfucker, there’s this and there’s that.”

  Gone was his polite, albeit racist, vernacular. And he wasn’t done yet.

  “This is our time, the end of times; this is the book of revelations; critical devastation; yo, some hard ass niggaz come to fuck you up.”

  And then it was quiet again. No one said a thing. Half the room was pointing guns while the other half was sitting dumbfounded on the bed. Sure, they were terrified, but for the most part, they were confused; it was hard to tell if they were supposed to be begging for their lives, or they should be begging to hear more.

  “You are Caucasian,” said Mr. Robot, breaking the awkwardness.

  The German was breathing heavy, almost wheezing; still, he had a very large gun in his hands. “Yo, fuck you, you hunk of tin, you heavenly sin, you know God ain't got no place for you on Heaven or Earth, or any place within. So fuck you.”

  The air was getting tense and dangerous.

  “What the hell’s going on?” whispered The Leader.

  “If this was on the internet I’d write something, I swear I would,” said The White Knight.

  He looked at The Empath as if to console her. His eyes said. “If I hold you, will you hold me back?”

  And so Mr. Robot continued.

  “You implied in your rhythmical anecdote that you were not Caucasian.”

  “So what, mofo? You gotta point?”

  “But you are Caucasian.”

  “Yo, fuck you. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. You’re white goods motherfucker. You and your dishwasher, tumble dryer cousin. You so white you see white in everything, except you can’t see the colour within, beneath the skin, deep within. Motherfucker I’m a person, a real live being, a being that’s been seeing, how Africa’s been treated, defeated, turnin’ one brother against another, bringing civil war to good folk’s front door, where a nigga can’t get no bigger than the hate and prejudice of which you have in store. So fuck you, you out o’ date machine, you nasty lookin’, low-tech home for tomatoes and ice-cream. I ain't proud of my history, of my white past, but I’m makin’ amends; I ain't kickin’ it like all you crackers in a house made o’ glass. I’m doin what’s right, the good fight, like a perfectly legible sign, black on white.”

  The Driver wiped her mouth. It was clear the blood on her teeth was not hers.

  “You realize how many blacks get held back that wanna study? But that’s a white privilege, yo, they can’t get that.”

  “No,” said Mr. Robot, but genuinely intrigued. “Is it an overwhelming percentage?”

  “Yo, it’s a lot motherfucker.”

  Mr. Robot turned to two of The Zebra’s guarding the door.

  “Are you a part of this percentage?” he asked.

  “Actually no,” said The Man with the Machete. “I graduated with honours. Actually, I’m in a scholarship program. And this, this group, it works towards credits for my social obligation portion of the program.”

  “You joined a knife-wielding gang for university credits?”

  “Actually we started out as a chess club, and on weekends we used to draw Venn Diagrams. But then Emmanuelle joined…”

  He stared at The German the same way a drunk would, an empty bottle of whiskey.

  “…and then the group kind of went in another direction. I mean, the guns aren’t even real. They’re replicas,” he said, tapping the plastic end of his weapon against the doorframe. “I should be working on my dissertation right now, but if I don’t do the four and a half hours per week of group activities, I lose eighteen percent of my scholarship. We’re all pretty much in the same boat,” he said, gesturing to the other Zebras.

  The German was not impressed.

  “Yo fuck that, fuck you, stop asking questions, white overlord, stop making my niggaz confused.”

  “Can I just….?”

  The Man with the Machete put his machete on the floor.

  It was starting to look like an intervention.

  “The whole ‘N’ word,” he said. “It’s just, I don’t use it myself. I don’t see a need. I’m not sure if you’re being ironic or if you just really like saying it. You seem to say it a lot.”

  “You lost your mind, nigga?”

  “You see, there. I know you have good grammar; I’ve heard you talking to your mother. But articles and models aside, do you really have to say that word?”

  “Yo, that’s our word. The same way the queers say ‘queer’ and the kikes say ‘kike’. We’re ownin’ dat word. We’re takin’ it, breakin’ it, fixatin’ it, and makin it ours, nigga.”

  “I’m a literary major, and it literally goes against the very foundations of my learning to be in the same room as you.”

  Immediately he took off the host of weapons amassed on his body.

  “Ya can’t leave, nigga.”

  “Now, you see? My name is Michael. More than anything, I think I take offense to your poor diction.”

  “And what about your credits?”

  “I’ll speak to my course councillor in the morning. And for the hundredth time, I’m not African; neither is Niles, Evelyn, or Melissa. We’re Canadian. This whole thing,” he said, gesturing to the frightened hostages, “It isn’t healthy.”

  And he left.

  The German circled the room like a wild beast. He was clearly outnumbered. Were this really the savannah, like in his imagination, he would have to attack; one quick, bloodied strike to quell any insurgency.

  “One of you has to die,” he said, aiming his gun at all and sundry.

  He then pointed it at The White Knight’s temple.

  “You really wanna be a superhero? You live by the sword you die by the sword, bitch.”

  He cocked the gun and The White Knight immediately pissed his pants. Anyone could have done something – anything – but not one of them did. They all watched on, stupid and petrified as if it were they who had a rifle pointed at their pimply forehead. No-one spoke up, no-one stood up, and no one stood out; and for that reason, the violence continued.

  “Please,” said The White Knight, desperately. “Don’t shoot me. I’m not like them, really I’m not. I’m not a hero, I’m not. I just…”

  He wondered what was worse, dying or telling the truth?

  “You wh-wh-wh-what?” said The German, mocking the boy’s speech.

  “I just did it to pick up girls,” said The White Knight.

  On one hand, it was a relief, and other he felt naked, exposed, and vulnerable; he felt weak, ineffectual, and emasculated – just like his hero.

  The German laughed.

  “You sneaky little thing,” he said. “Did it work? Did you get pussy?”

  The White Knight hadn’t the courage to look at anyone, especially The Empath.

  “I’m not a feminist, I’m not. No man is,” he confessed.

  He was crying hysterically, but he had opened the floodgates; worse was still to come.

  “I can’t pick up girls. I’m no good. I can’t do it; not like other guys do. I get nervous. I think it out too much in my head and I end up saying dumb shit if I even have the courage to say anything at all. And I’m not strong like other guys. I don’t have big muscles. And I’m not all that smart either. I’m not stupid, but like everything else, I’m average like everyone else. It’s not easy you know, having to always be strong and attractive and good at kicking footballs; and being so scared to death every time you talk to a girl you like. I always felt useless and insecure around girls. They have that power, and they use it a lot – every guy knows this. I just… I thought being a feminist would help me…”

  “Don’t be a fag. Say it. Grow a pair. Say it, bitch.”

  “I thought it would get me laid.”

  The German laughed while The White Knight dropped his head in shame.

  “You fucking queer; you don’t get pussy cause you are a pussy.”

  He laughed hysterically, but that laughter was broken by the sound of tapping and hypnotic whispering. The German’s reaction was fast and startling.

  He struck The White Knight in the back of the head.

  “Is that it, bitch?”

  “Please don’t kill me,” pleaded The White Knight. “I’m full of shit, ok? I’m not a feminist, I’m not. No man is,” he confessed. “It’s impossible.”

  He was crying hysterically.

  “I can’t talk to girls. I never know what to say, and I’m always scared all the time. They’re too intimidating. It’s not easy trying to find someone who will like you. It’s even worse when you like someone,” he said, looking at The Empath. “And you know that if you tell them they’re just gonna laugh in your face and make you feel like a worthless piece of shit. I can’t compete with big muscly guys; and I can’t compete with the smart, witty, and interesting ones too. This was the only way I could stand out.”

  “Do you listen to yourself now? What kind of woman would want to fuck you after hearing that? A woman with very low self -esteem, that’s who? And what kind of conquest is that?”

  What a terrible thing to say, even if it was true.

  “Leave him alone.”

  The German pointed his gun around the room.

  “Who said that?”

  The Empath stood up. For whatever reason, she was on her feet and the whole room was looking right at her. In that moment, she looked wrought with fear. Were her heart not beating so rampant in her chest, she might have been excused for being a stone statue. A look of sheer dread was carved into her forehead and along her trembling lip.

  What the hell had she gotten herself into?

  “Are you insane or just stupid?” said The German, pointing the gun at her head.

  The Empath said something inaudible.

  “Yo, what the fuck you say, bitch?”

  The Empath continued; her voice sounding like small plastic bubbles being popped.

  “You better speak clear, bitch, to what I can hear, bitch.”

  Still, she continued. This time, though, she took a small metal tin from her bag and shook it lightly; its contents swishing about in a hypnotic manner.

  “Yo, you fucking whack, you better step back, or I’ll pop a cap in yo ass.”

  It seemed rhyming, like a jab or a flinch, was some instinctual reaction to fear.

  Again she spoke inaudibly, this time tapping the tin with her fingernails.

  Tap – tap – tap – tap – tap – tap – tap.

  And then she swished back and forth.

  Shh – shh – shh- shh- shh- shh- shh.

  “You get dat devil shit away from me.”

  But she didn’t stop. Sensing his diminishing aura, The Empath moved ever so slowly towards The German, her every step as quiet and minuscule as the size and shape of her words. She moved like a gentle stream; not rushing in any way but constantly pushing forwards. The light tapping on the metal tin, mixed with the swishing and swooshing of its contents inside had everyone in the room under some vice-like trance. Were she to strike at all, now would be the time.

  “Butter, butter, butter, butter, butter,” she said, her voice sounding like thoughts exploding. “Tepid, tepid, tepid, tepid, tepid, tepid.”

  Still, she continued, on and on and on; her quiet voice, the only sound in the room.

  “Banter, banter, banter, banter, banter,” she whispered; and as she did, she thought to herself, “Oh my God, I’m actually doing it. I’m saving the world. I’m a super...”

  “Yo fuck that bitch.”

  The first bullet hit her in the chest. It shattered her clavicle. Immediately The Empath dropped the tin can to the floor, making a god-awful racket. Her whispering stopped too; it turned into one shocked and desperate breath.

  The second, third and fourth shots were wild. They missed her entirely. One hit the ceiling above Mr. Robot’s head, while the other two went straight through the television tore apart the clock on the wall.

  The last bullet, though, struck her plum on the forehead.

  The White Knight screamed in sad and dire loss. He wept and wailed as he dragged The Empathy’s limp body onto his own, holding her chin so as to stop her head from constantly swinging to one side. He sounded like a whale mourning its dead calf, or a spoiled child, its fallen ice-cream.

  Immediately, The German dropped the gun.

  “She made me do it,” he said, backing up to the door.

  The White Knight turned, with blood covering his hands and face.

  “What have you done?” he said. “What the hell have you done?”

  “I had no choice.”

  The German’s hands were raised and his face, pale and apologetic.

  “She was doing voodoo on me; black magic.”

  “It was ASMR, you son of a bitch,” screamed The White Knight; his eyes, nose, and mouth all leaking with misery. “She was gonna give you tingles. What the fuck is wrong with you? Who doesn’t like tingles?”

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  He meant it too. He may have said that word a hundred thousand in his life to weasel his way out of a hundred thousand wrongs that he had made. This was the first time, though, that he had truly felt sorry. It was a shame that someone always had to die for such magnificent awakenings.

  “If I could take it back I would.”

  As much as he meant it, still his instinct was to run; run for his living daylights and never get caught. As he stepped through the door, The German caught sight of himself in the mirror and he saw, for the first time in a very long time, his honest and true self.

  All of a sudden, he had lost his borrowed persona; stripped of that metallic, imposing veneer. He looked, in that second, like a young child, desperate to be swept up to its mother’s breast, safe against her beating heart.

  “She’s dead,” cried The Leader. “Oh God, she’s dead. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead.”

  Even her death was hypnotic.

  “She is not dead.”

  Mr. Robot stepped towards the bloodied body.