“I’m not gay,” he thought, over and over again.

  Eventually, he couldn’t contain himself anymore and he just started crying.

  “That’s perfect, keep doing that,” said The Driver. “You look like a total fag now.”

  Mr. Robot stood waiting for his turn. He was beside himself to tell you the truth. This was the first real game he had ever played in which the rules were not defined on the back of the box. That sense of not knowing, though, was half the fun.

  “You’re a non-binary robot forced to conform to a cisgender world.”

  He had never thought of it before but Mr. Robot looked down. He looked past his red button for the first time and stared at his square, empty crotch. It had never been a thing; not until now. It became clear then; so terribly clear. Though he thought and felt like a man, he could never be one for he had not the parts; and even if he did, it was clear from how strange all of those pornographic movies were, he had not the know-how.

  All of a sudden, a thousand questions flood his mind; none of them, he thought, could be answered by anyone in this group, regardless of their dispositions or sexual delights.

  “There is something I have to do,” he said. “It’s important. Go on, I’ll find you.”

  And before anyone could say anything, Mr. Robot had already marched off towards the social sciences building, listening intently to the jeers and taunts that were echoing through the campus; honing in on those in particular, which were neither man nor woman, but an indefinite mix of the two.

  “Can I not be gay?” asked The White Knight.

  His feelings had been genuinely hurt.

  “Stop acting like such a pussy then,” said The Driver.

  The others laughed.

  “Can’t I be something else, though? Can I have been molested once?”

  He said it with such honesty that he probably had.

  “No, it won’t work; nobody gives a shit about molested kids. Look at the church. You can be a woman, gay, black, a slut, a tranny, Muslim, or fat. I didn’t make the rules. Now do you wanna live?”

  The answer was yes.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Then think about dicks.”

  27.

  There was a great deal of sneaking about going on, but none more so than that of The Reporter and her trusted colleague. The University was no place for strangers, and it was even less wholesome to anyone with an objective viewpoint such as a camera or a Dictaphone. And for the life of her, The Reporter had never felt so excited.

  “Are we live?” she asked.

  The Cameraman waved his fingers, counting her in.

  “I hope you can hear me and see me,” she said.

  She had herself crouched and squashed into a tight ball, wedged into a flowerbed.

  “I’m scared to death of being seen,” she said, though this was all show.

  She knew that one story would break her career; she hoped that this was it.

  “We’re coming live from The University. We are inside the main walls at the moment; about a stone’s throw from the campus itself. We believe that this is where the robot is being taken but we’re not sure why. What we do know is that The Singularity has left a trail of violence and bloodshed leading to this point. If there ever is to be an apocalypse, it’s happening here, tonight, in the halls of the social sciences.”

  The picture was terrible. Only The Reporter’s crooked silhouette was visible.

  “You can hear behind me what sounds like chants and jeers of which I can only assume that some kind of rapturous event has just unfolded; it could be good, it could be terrible, it’s too soon to tell.”

  “Hi Sunshine, it’s Tony in the studio. Say, you look great. That shade is really good on you. Have to say I knew we’d get you into a university one of these days.”

  The Reporter looked confused while the audience broke into laughter.

  “Seriously though there, Darlin’, what can you tell us?”

  She wanted to talk, she did, but instead, she just stayed there, crouched against a thick shrub and staring cold faced into the camera. It was as if, like flying, speaking were something that she simply could not do; and so she didn’t even try.

  “Hunny Buns?” said The Anchor, tapping his own in-ear monitor. “My apologies from us in the studio here we seem to be having some technical difficulties with the audio link here and…”

  The Reporter continued her expressionless stare.

  “Buttercup, can you hear us? Am I coming through?”

  She always thought that when she finally lost her mind, the experience would be loud and turbulent; like a fox being skinned or a plane smashing into a mountain. Never, for the life of her, had she imagined it would be as quiet as it was; much like a toddler at the bottom of a swimming pool.

  “Are you there, Sugar Tits?”

  And then, after all those years, it just felt right.

  “Fuck you, Tony,” she said, ignoring all the shouting and gunfire behind her. “You overweight, balding, half-inch, womanising prick. Fuck you and fuck your objectifying personification. Fuck the ideas in your head and fuck your opinions too. Fuck your demoralising, sexist innuendo; fuck your bitch tits and sweat stains, and fuck all the depravity which fascinates you. Fuck you, but more so, fuck your mother and father, they should have known better. Fuck this station, and all stations like it, for thinking the world still needs to be advised by men of deplorable physical and moral character; and fuck you to all the women at in your life for being so deaf, dumb, and so goddamn fucking complicit. And if you’re watching this and you’re offended, then fuck you too.”

  Were this any other story she would have been off the air by now. But this wasn’t any other story; a cornerstone of the existence of humanity was being paved in these hallowed grounds and without The Reporter, that story would go untold.

  “Our apologises once again,” said The Anchor, though careful not to point a finger. “I umm.”

  He was looking into the bright lights for a divine hand to reach down and pull him to safety. There was, however, his producer’s voice in his left ear screaming at him; as if this was his chance to be great.

  “I am deeply and regretfully…”

  It sounded like he was ordering pharmaceuticals in another language.

  “Sorry,” he said, abruptly. “If I in any way was presented as being…”

  The producer screamed in his ear once more.

  “If I presented myself,” he corrected, “in any unforgivable manner, I do apologise. Sometimes people misconstrue…”

  Again the producer screamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, abandoning his defensive posture. “I guess maybe I was wrong…”

  This time it was The Host’s judging glare.

  “I need help,” he admitted.

  And just like that, a roar of applause broke out in the studio, and as The Anchor wept in a weird and uncomfortable fashion, his host, his producer, and anyone within arm’s reach rushed to surround him and comfort him with hugs and kisses.

  “You’re a hero,” they all said, in his ear and to the cameras.

  “I’m so weak and so stupid,” wept The Anchor.

  “No,” said The Host adamant. “You’re brave and courageous. It takes a man of valour and true character to admit his faults. I am reminded once again why I am lucky to be working by your side; why we are all lucky.”

  The Reporter wanted to scream. She wanted to climb inside the camera and grab that fat piece of shit by the throat and claw at his eyes like a starved and impoverished buzzard.

  “That’s right we are,” said The Reporter, swallowing that jagged phlegm of hate.

  What could she do? He was a household name. His bigotry had become almost a catchphrase for people’s lives. He was loved and adored; even though most of the time what he had to say made those same amorous viewers shake their heads in fragrant disbelief. But who was she kidding? He’d never be fired or even shamed mind you, into any kind of heartfelt or honest apology.

  “If only he was a child molester,” she thought.

  And while in the studio, producers and directors hectically changed the set for an impromptu intervention, The Reporter prepared herself for the worst kind of fear imaginable. The Cameraman was steady with his hands but underneath, his situation was dire. Neither of them would survive this; that much was clear. There would be no nobler death, though, than for the pursuit of one’s passion and profession.

  “Behind me, a war is being waged; one much direr than gender pronouns. Though I may not return,” she said, “do not consider me lost.”

  Her words were beautiful. They were hollow yet they sank like stones.

  “Say your name,” she thought. “Just say it.”

  It took the same empty prayer to inspire even herself, and so The Reporter took one last breath and exhaled triumphantly, thinking to herself, “at least they will know my name.” And so in light of the screams and torment behind her – irrespective of the taunts and provocations – she stood up tall and proud, and she gripped the microphone in her hands as if it were some phallic instrument of death and torture, and she uttered words of profound courage.

  “Into the mouth of the abyss, we go; in the name of truth and honour. Father, though you once abandoned me, I love you,” she said, “I hope you’re proud of me.” And he would have been, undoubtedly, were he actually watching. “On behalf of Eagle-Eye News,” she said. She was nervous as hell. Finally, the world would know her name. “This is…”

  The Cameraman shook his head.

  “They cut the signal two minutes ago,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t want to spoil your thing.”

  “Motherfucker!”

  “They’re running with the intervention, sorry. If we get enough footage they said they’ll give us the eight-fifteen news flash; so it’s not all bad.”

  “It’s the end of the world and nobody gives a shit.”

  “In all honesty, if it really is the end, does it matter what kind of news anyone’s getting? If a plane is crashing, do you wanna see pictures of the broken tail section or re-runs of your favourite television show? I know which one I’d prefer.”

  “I’d want the truth; every last ugly detail.”

  And so even though nobody would ever know her name, The Reporter, inspired by a thought more profound, stepped out from her hiding place and ran towards the campus, screaming like a wild boar as she did.

  “What the hell is she thinking?” said The Cameraman.

  There was only one way to find out.

  28.

  Outside the walls of The University, a bastard load of armed forces stood with their weapons drawn. Most of them were young; barely out of school, and nervous as all hell. Above them, helicopters circled impatiently, unable to get close enough to have any use or any desired effect.

  The chatter amongst the soldiers was woeful at best. Each of them hoped they would make it home tonight but few of them actually believed they would. It was amazing how, behind all that armour and artillery, they all still looked so fragile and naïve, like scared children.

  “Prepare yourselves, men,” said The Captain.

  And though it was absurd, the first thought that entered The Captain’s mind was, “I should have used the word persons.” Objectionism, the state of being offended by everything, came on like a fever. It was swift and overpowering, yet at the same time, it was gradual and seamless so it almost impossible to see the change occurring second by second.

  That change was inevitable the closer one got to these wretched halls of academia. And just as one gets wet by standing in the rain, so too does one change – willingly or not - when close enough to The University; they become an entirely different person - physically, psychologically, and spiritually.

  “I’m scared, Sir,” said one of the soldiers.

  The Captain’s instinct was to slap the soldier; to mock, ridicule, and beat the weakness out of him like dust on an antique rug; to bring some colour back into his face and rid him of that cowardly expression. The Captain was changing, though; he could feel it in his skin and bones. And though his instinct and training were to prepare these young men as best he could for the untold misery of war, what he did next was not written in any textbook or manual.

  “Come to Papa,” he said, wrapping his arms around the frightened soldier.

  Seeing this affection immediately affected the rest of the squadron. What little ground they held in their weak and crumbling minds quickly eroded as each soldier was swallowed whole beneath a sea of fear and abandon.

  And soon, the entire armed forces were in tears.

  “Group hug,” shouted The Captain as if it was the only chance they had left.

  It’s safe to say then that it took a specific kind of person to not only survive on this campus, but like cancer in an infant’s bones, to thrive and to have one’s teeth sharpened sufficiently to almost instinctively, and without much effort, bite the hand that feeds.

  And just as one might wear a sweater in the cold, behind these walls, one must be dressed in provocative, hyperbolic vitriol. One must not be angry. One must be anger. One must be a part of a herd; never travel alone. And in this herd, one must graze in the most displeasing and offensive pastures for if one is not offended, then more than likely, one is doing the offending.

  On the way to The Rectory, there were maybe fifty groups alone. They cursed and spat at one another. Some of them hurled rocks and handfuls of dirt, while others swung their placards and naked breasts like sharpened axes. And though, like barking dogs, it was difficult to find any meaning, sense, or even difference in their arguments, between them, a war of words was well underway and all sides were entrenched in their hard-line positions.

  Theirs was a war of pronouns.

  Behind these walls too was a different kind of hero. Whereas once a man or woman might be redeemed for their strength, dexterity, intelligence, and wit, now the new kind of hero was hailed for their weaknesses and incapacities. And oh did they fight it out!

  “My father was black,” said one student. “You have no idea of the lineage of oppression I have endured from the memory of my father and his father before him.”

  But the microphone didn’t drop there.

  “That’s nothing,” said a student in an opposing herd. “My father was black and gay.”

  The whole crowd oohed and aahed.

  “He didn’t just sit at the back of the bus; he had to sit on the gay side.”

  At least half the crowd rubbed their watery eyes.

  “Mic drop,” said a third. “My father is gay and black, but he’s also my mother.”

  And that was it, next came a standing ovation.

  It didn’t last long, though. Pretty soon the rhetoric turned vile and abusive once more. In defence of bigotry, one must be a bigot; but not just any old type of bigot – a moral one. And so the shouting increased along with tempers and tantrums. Through the middle of it, without even a speck of doubt or fear, walked The Assistant.

  She, unlike the others, didn’t feed on weakness. She didn’t argue about who was more ineffectual. She didn’t claim to be worse off than anyone else. She was angry, yes, but hers was a different kind of anger. Hers would not wane in four years when she finally got a job and started paying her own rent and electricity. No, hers was the kind of anger that started wars but was in no way concerned about who won. It was the kind of anger that could thrive at the bottom of the deepest ocean trench and at the tip of the highest icy mountain. It was the kind of anger that could not only survive the vacuum of space but were it to get pulled into a black hole; it could quite easily find its way out again; even if that meant punching its way through a singularity and tearing a hole to the other side.

  And that was what she intended to do right now; destroy that robot.

  29.

  Walking through the halls of The Social Sciences, Mr. Robot couldn’t help but feel all of his weaknesses and insecurities rising to the surface. Instead of feeling ashamed by them, though, he had this itch – an insatiable craving - to climb onto the largest box or podium possible and shout at someone about anything at all until they conceded defeat. Yet at the same time, he felt that if he climbed onto a box, he would more than likely fall and end up looking like an idiot in front of the whole world; so he didn’t do it.

  He had seemed so adamant about leaving the group and coming here yet now that he was here, he had no idea what he was looking for. He merely wandered through the halls staring into classrooms wondering what was like to be taught, as opposed to being programmed; if at all they were different.

  As he walked, his hinges squeaked and squealed; he hated the sound. It made him feel old and obsolete. Rusted and worn hinges on a robot were no more flattering than a horse’s long tooth. He needed oil and he needed it now.

  When he finally reached the bathrooms he was more confused than ever.

  “Why are there three options?” he said.

  Up to this point, he had only ever used the bathroom in his own home; and there, gender had never been an issue. Now, though, he studied the symbols on the doors. One of a man, one of a woman, and one where it seemed the artist was undecided. The symbol itself looked unfinished. It had no symmetry whatsoever.

  “What gender am I?” he thought.

  All he wanted was a little bit of oil, but what he didn’t want was to make a mistake.

  “Is this the queue?”

  Mr. Robot was alarmed. Caught off-guard, he panicked for a second as he turned and saw a young man dressed in provocative women’s evening wear and broken stilettos.

  “I’m dying for a piss,” said Bob.

  At first, when he heard the curse word, Mr. Robot thought he was being insulted and so immediately, he was outraged and offended. It was less than a second later before he finally got the gist of what had just been said.