“Oh fuck it,” said The Reporter, straightening her hair the best she could.

  She looked like she had just escaped a masked assailant.

  “And we’re live with one of our reporters on the scene at the moment.”

  As The Anchor spoke, all The Reporter could think was, “Say my fucking name.”

  “First of all,” said The Anchor. “Can you tell us where you are right now? Who are you following? Can you confirm if the robot is in the car or not? And please, we’re all on edge here in the studio, are you ok? You look terrible.”

  Those words echoed in her head like her mother’s patronizing, “That’s nice, dear.”

  “Brock, we’ve been hot on the tail of the robot in question, what has been dubbed, The Singularity, as it makes its escape through the city. God only knows what this robot intends on doing. We’ve been driving for hours now and we’ve only now been able to pick up their track again.”

  “Scary stuff indeed,” said The Anchor. “Now I believe you’ve seen this Singularity. What can you tell us? What does it look like? How does it move? Can it go invisible?”

  The Reporter looked stunned.

  “You know what I mean,” said The Anchor turning to The Host. “The ship on Star Trek could do it.”

  “Like a shield?” said The Host, though she’d never seen an episode.

  “Not a shield, no. It’s an invisibility thing; a coat or a cloak or… That’s it, a cloaking device.”

  He sounded rapturous, deserving applause.

  “Does it have a cloaking device?”

  The truth was, The Reporter hadn’t seen the robot, but how the hell would they know?

  “Yes,” she said.

  She sounded proud as punch.

  “How did you see it? How did you know?”

  “It tried to cloak past me,” she said. She had no idea if that was it was supposed to be said. She didn’t skip a beat, though. “But I saw it’s footsteps in the puddles on the ground, so I followed it and I waited and I watched. And when it uncloaked, I….”

  The studio was dead quiet. The whole city was, maybe even the whole world, hanging on the end of The Reporter’s last words, desperate for more.

  “Did it have fangs or lasers?” asked The Anchor. “Can you confirm it’s not a vampire or a zombie robot of any kind?”

  He was deadly serious.

  “Did you see its face at least,” he said.

  If she said no right now, her career was as good as over.

  “I did,” said The Reporter, conscious of every nervous muscle in her face.

  “For the love of all things cute and furry, tell me it didn’t have fangs.”

  It felt like someone had set fire to her stomach and filled it full of marching ants. She had already said it; she couldn’t go back on her word. She was committed now; she had to follow through. So why did she feel like she had eaten something spoiled?

  “Well?” said The Anchor.

  He was rubbing his hands together like some fat child in a queue for chocolate pudding. Each question was like a thick slab of sugary gluttony. The longer she took to respond, he could only assume, meant that the sweeter and stickier would be her response.

  She could be honest and say she had no idea or she could lie for the sake of her career.

  “It was unlike anything I have ever seen before,” she said.

  The Anchor was beside himself; he almost fell backward off his chair.

  “I guess there’s one pressing question we all have here in the studio and at home. We’ve asked a dozen scientists and not one could conclude, but you’re there, you’re in the thick of it; is this the apocalypse?”

  Who was she to say whether it was or wasn’t?

  “What I saw…”

  The spaces between her words were filled with fear and disbelief.

  “What I saw,” she said again as if the weight of her words was too much to carry. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

  There was an eerie stillness on the stage. The Anchor looked at The Host. Both of them were smiling but neither of them was happy inside.

  “Well, I am on one hand amazed,” said The Anchor.

  He mentioned nothing of his other hand.

  “This really is an example of fine and courageous journalism,” he said. “And from none other than…”

  “Say my name,” she thought. “Say my mother-fucking-name.”

  “Eagle-Eye,” he said, as he winked and clicked his fingers. “First with the news and only the truth.”

  The Reporter continued to hold a wide and bright smile; though she was dead inside.

  “On the other hand,” said The Anchor, using the same discerning tone of voice that he had whenever he ordered prostitutes or explained a worrying mole to his doctor over the phone.

  “I don’t mean to cut you off,” said The Host, doing just that. “But can is I say how truly scared I am for you right now. And I would know. This is coming from someone who has won awards for this very thing. And not to get bogged down in my achievements but I know just how dangerous this can be. My life hasn’t been easy,” she said.

  As she did, the studio lights dimmed and some gentle piano played in the background.

  “I’m just like you,” she said. “And you are like who I used to be. So I know how you feel. I know what you’re going through.”

  And naturally, the segment had segued to being about her.

  “I was once the victim of a robot,” she said.

  The studio audience all gasped.

  It was maybe two or three minutes before The Anchor could rein her in.

  “Now you be safe,” he said, winking at the camera. “And let the army and police do their thing. For the love of God, don’t get hurt.”

  “Say my name. Say my name. Say my fucking name.”

  “Get us that good shot though, ok, Darling?”

  How far would she have to go to be recognised?

  “I will,” she said.

  “We’re all so very excited here in the studio and back at home. Right folks?”

  Canned laughter and cheer filled the studio.

  “Can’t wait to see that robot.”

  “I’ll be…”

  “That’s just great,” said The Host cutting her off. “And we’ll be right back after this quick break with computer scientist and physics professor, Dr. Alexander White, as he helps us to understand more about the coming apocalypse and what that means to you and your online streaming. Hope he doesn’t say anything too complicated,” she said, laughing as the camera panned away.

  Back in the van, The Reporter screamed blue murder. She kicked and punched the dashboard, and made an even bigger mess of her hair than it already was.

  “Where the hell are we going?” she said, her eyes latched onto the bumper of The Hyenas in front of them.

  In another twenty minutes, it became abundantly clear and both hers and The Cameraman’s hearts sank into the very bottom of their stomachs. The neon lights were unmistakable; as was the architecture stabbing upwards into the sky. Along the sides of the road were pickets of protest and dissent, and the closer they got, the louder the shouting and screaming became.

  “This ain't good,” said The Cameraman. “We should go back. I’m getting paid for this shit.”

  “I’ll pay you myself,” said The Reporter, “Just drive.”

  It was clear that one day the world would know her name.

  “Oh yep, we’re screwed.”

  “What is it?” she asked.

  She was busy cleaning lipstick off her cheek and so couldn’t see for herself.

  “The University,” said The Cameraman.

  He might as well have said some Syrian ruin or a Carioca slum.

  “Jesus Christ,” said The Reporter.

  All of a sudden it became clear how much trouble they were in.

  “What do we do?” asked The Cameraman.

  He wasn’t sad anymore, he was scared to death. And so was she.

  “It’s too late to turn back,” she said.

  24.

  The University had once been a place of virtue and prestige. It had once been a fountain from which young minds drank of the knowledge and wisdom from a lineage of scholars that had come before them. It had once been a place of diligent study and profound discovery. But that was then and this is now.

  “Tell me you have a gun,” asked The Reporter.

  Her words sounded like a dozen sticks hitting the bottom of a dry, empty well.

  The Cameraman slammed on the breaks. He turned swift and violent as if he were twisting the cap off a cold beer or a bottle of bleach.

  “What, you think because I’m black I’m supposed to have a gun?”

  He looked like he might twist her head off at any moment; or at the very least, break her neck and leave her limp by the roadside. His eyes were like sirens and his ire stare, deafening. The Reporter’s every instinct was to find a bunker or a desk to climb under and cover the back of her head.

  “Oh shit,” she said. “It’s already happening.”

  And it was. They had barely been here a minute before already their minds were being bombarded with opinions as sharp as pinheads and a new heightened sensitivity – almost an allergy – to humour and figurative expression.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “You don’t feel it? The indignation? The acute victimisation? The longer we stay here,” she said, “the worse this is bound to become.”

  The Cameraman stared long into the rearview mirror. On the outside, nothing had changed. He still looked as roguishly handsome as ever, or at least that was how his therapist had convinced him to think of himself.

  He wondered, as he did quite often, how much of what she had said to him all those years had been total bullshit; normalising all of his insecurities and unpopular traits so that he would thank her profusely as she milked his bank account to blood and bone.

  And he looked no different than he ever had. Whatever transformation was taking place, it was inside him; and after all these years he had learned: you cannot tame what you cannot see.

  The other vehicles all continued down the cobbled road towards The University gates; eventually disappearing inside those hallowed grounds. Theirs, though, was parked beneath a low hanging tree and was blocked by thick scrub and the blanket of night.

  “We walk from here,” said The Reporter.

  She spoke in a strained manner as if her thoughts were being bombarded by wave after wave of foul rhetoric; hinting at things that she disliked about herself and her unfulfilled sexuality. She walked in a strained manner too, as if she were fighting some cyclonic gale that threatened to pull the ground right from under her feet.

  “Don’t worry,” she shouted. “Ignore it. It’s all in your head.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” replied The Cameraman, following suit.

  And it wasn’t just them either; The Man and Mr. Robot could feel it too. It was like they were wading through a river of offense and disagreement. Just the thought alone of what was beneath the water was enough to rile the pair with feelings of displeasure and disgust.

  “I can’t do this,” said The Man.

  He sounded weaker and more ineffectual than he ever had before; even his walk was difficult to watch. And the closer they got to the rectory, the worse his condition became.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked The Leader.

  She sounded frightened as if this were something that she might catch herself. Were they out at sea and with no-one looking, there was no doubt that she throw him overboard.

  “This is no place for men,” said The Driver, undeterred.

  Her rousing sexual drive, it seemed, was impervious to critical thought or introspection. The hornier she was, the stronger she became. God help any man or woman that found themselves clasped between her thighs.

  “Keep your wits about you, and don’t believe a single thought that enters your mind.”

  The Assistant, on the other hand, thrived in this environment. Offense and disagreement were like bedfellows; whereas displeasure and disgust were the intimate garments that barely covered her softer, more vulnerable side.

  “I want them dead; all of them.”

  By the time they parked, The Singularity and its band of villains were long gone. The air was boisterous and full of deafening protest, but there was no sign of the robot. If ever it felt like the end was nigh, this was surely it.

  Being a Social Justice Hero was all she ever knew; outside of vitriolic debate, she didn’t really have any particular skills; none that gave her the same sense of size and worth as debasing and demoralising men and young boys.

  It had never been equality that she was looking for; it was always just war.

  As they stormed through the campus, Hyenas from all divisions floated around her like a cloud of electrons. And that cloud got bigger as she too made her way to the rectory; scared to death of losing everything. Desperation tickled the ends of her fingertips.

  25.

  Disorganised was one way to describe it; a war zone was another. There were people running this way and that; all of them armed to the teeth. Some carried placards and waved them like burning torches. Others shouted, in hoarse voices, the most repugnant and provocative rhymes. From above, it looked like a hundred thousand grains of sand being blown about by a sudden gust of wind. Down below – in the midst of it – it felt like drowning, but without all the water.

  The Assistant hated failing; but only because she wasn’t very good at it. She cursed and abused anyone who came near her. It was almost like she knew that the same fate awaited her in The Doctor’s suite.

  “What are you going to do?” asked The Woman, watching as helicopters circled in the sky.

  The Doctor didn’t worry about helicopters or armoured tanks. The University was, aside from being hallowed and sacred, sovereign land; and any unwarranted visit was akin to an invasion.

  The army and police could only come so far, and The Woman marvelled at much they looked like fireflies with their tiny little lights buzzing about so very far away.

  Behind her, The Doctor dampened an old handkerchief in some foul smelling concoction from a dirty old beaker.

  “I’m going to save the world,” he said. “No matter what the cost.”

  “Did it need saving? I mean really… How is this any better?”

  She could see the whole campus from where she stood. It was like looking out over a traffic accident.

  “This is the new world,” said The Doctor. “Look at all that I have created. And before you judge me, look at yourself,” said The Doctor, “and ask yourself, why you are here?”

  The Woman trembled in front of the glass. She could see The Doctor’s outline behind her, but she couldn’t see the truncheon he had hidden behind his back. She hadn’t the courage to argue, make a sound, or even take a breath. All she could think was, “What the fuck have I done?”

  “What have you done?” said The Doctor, “…for the world; for yourself; for me?”

  And there was her trigger.

  “I left my husband for you; you stupid ass.”

  She turned, enraged.

  “I broke apart my world so I could be a piece of yours. I took all the risk. I did, not you.”

  “Is it really brave jumping from one bed to another? Tell me; honestly, what’s the longest you’ve ever spent alone? I’ve never met someone who requires as much validation as you. You know what the main difference between us, my dear? It’s that I don’t need a woman; I want one; whereas you cannot survive without a man. You’re a miserable cunt, that’s all there is to say.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “It’s always you, you, you. You are perpetually the hero and victim in your own story; either looking for praise and applause or a hug and a god damn apology. This was never about you. You were just a tiny worm.”

  “I wanna see my daughter.”

  She had no idea. She thought her daughter was safe, just like she had left her.

  “At the end of this, I will be remembered for an eternity.”

  He stood behind her with the metal truncheon by his side.

  “I did love you,” he said, “If it’s any consolation.”

  26.

  There had never been such noise as there was that night. It seemed that the whole world had converged on The University, but not a soul had the courage to cross those picketed lines, except for our heroes; and they were either mad or stupid.

  “Act like you belong here,” said The Driver.

  She walked as if she were late to punch somebody in the face. She looked like a wall of water parting a city of sticks and feathers. No-one would hold her back or even reckon to stand in her way. And though underneath she was petrified, on the outside, where it mattered, she looked inexhaustible. She walked as if her sex was a weakness but one that propelled her with unparalleled force. She walked as if no man could stop her; though many had tried. She walked as if the end of the world was nigh, and only she could do something about it.

  “You all need a disability,” she said. “It’s the only way we can fool them. The only crux of their defence is their naivety. You,” she said, pointing to The Leader. “You’ve been slut-shamed for most of your life. It started in kindergarten when you were told you couldn’t wear lipstick at school, and it carried through your whole life until now. You are a victim of man’s sexual repression. Your womanhood has been shamed and picked on for as long as you can remember. You used to cut yourself but it brought the wrong kind of attention; now you just hold your breath whenever you feel sad and worthless. You hope one day to have the courage enough to kill yourself. And that’s why you dress the way you do; for someone to notice; for someone to reach down into the abyss and to pull you out. You’ve made it this far in life but you know the path is only so long.”

  The Leader was already in tears. Was it so blatantly obvious?

  “And you,” she said, pointing at The White Knight. “You’re a queer.”

  The White Knight started sniffling. His feelings had obviously been hurt. On one hand, he was as mad as a cut snake, and on the other, he felt weak and emasculated. He wanted to scream and curse and spit in The Driver’s face, and he wanted to run to his mother’s arms and to hear her say once more that it didn’t matter what the big kids said.