“What if I go through the wrong door?” asked Mr. Robot

  “You can’t go through the wrong door,” said Bob, sounding as if he’d learned that lesson once or twice before. “You’re not allowed, simple as that. You can only go through the right door.”

  “But how do I know which door is the right door? Which one of those symbols am I?”

  “Well, what are you?”

  “I’m a robot, I think?”

  Bob gave Mr. Robot a sassy look.

  “Well, you look like a robot.”

  “Which are you?”

  They both looked at the three doors.

  “I don’t know either,” said Bob. “Used to be that I thought I was the middle door. I was born the left door but I always wanted to be the middle door, and now I’m supposed to use the door on the right. So I’m that one.”

  “What are these symbols based on? What is the reference?”

  “Gender,” said Bob.

  “So there are three human genders.”

  “Three? No, there are dozens. Maybe like a hundred and fifty; probably more. I’d say thousands but it’s still far too early to speculate. It’s like when that person first discovered the moon. There is still so much that we don’t know.”

  “I was not made aware. My programming referenced only two genders; male and female.”

  “Hey,” said Bob, “relax. We were all programmed and wired up wrongly.”

  Mr. Robot hadn’t been this inquisitive since he first learned the game Snap.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he said.

  Bob lit a cigarette and then spat out some gum on the floor.

  “Hit me, Babe.”

  It was hard to tell if she was affectionate or just loved fridges.

  “If the purpose of the male and female gender is of reproduction,” said Mr. Robot, “then what is the point of your gender?”

  Bob was silent.

  “My online searches on the matter came up inconclusive,” said Mr. Robot. He sighed. “The internet is very loud. It’s hard to hear anyone actually saying anything. But if I ask you, you will know.”

  “What’s the purpose of my gender? What an abhorrent question. What a terrible thing to say. And why the hell should gender even have to have a purpose?”

  “If your gender has no purpose, then why is it so important to you?”

  Mr. Robot was pushing her buttons, and he had no idea.

  “My gender defines me, it’s who I am – I’m gay.”

  “So sexuality is gender; and not sex?”

  Bob looked offended at first, and then a little confused.

  “I apologise if I have caused you offense,” said Mr. Robot, activating his empathy chip. “Most of my software is shareware so there are many updates I am not aware of. Am I asking questions in a wrong manner? Even this I can’t do right,” he said, lowering his stare to the ground.

  He looked like a sad fridge.

  “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Bob.

  It seemed Bob’s defences had dropped. She put one of her hands on Mr. Robot’s shoulder and tapped it lightly. “I know how you feel,” she said. You see Bob hated herself too most days, but you couldn’t tell just by looking at her.

  “Why do you define yourself by your sexual preference? The act itself does not require a great deal of effort or skill. If an astronaut, of all people, were to define themselves would they say, "Hello, I am John the gay,” or would they say, “Hello, I’m John the astronaut.” Sexuality seems such an unimpressive way to define oneself. Surely there must be something else that you do that required more skill, practice, and effort. Why not define yourself by any of the other things you might do in a day?”

  “Because,” said Bob, snapping and starting to tire.

  “Interesting,” said Mr. Robot, accepting that answer. “How then, did you know that you were the third door?”

  “I always knew.”

  “But as an infant, the physicians and even your mother and father, they didn’t?”

  “I was a girl in a boy’s body; I knew that right from day one.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m in a girl’s body.”

  “But it’s the same body, or did I understand wrong?”

  Bob squeezed her breasts together.

  “You see these,” she said, pushing her cleavage in Mr. Robot’s face. “It’s altered now. Now it’s all woman.”

  “Biologically speaking, they are not a human woman’s breasts.”

  “Fuck you, Ice Box.”

  “My humblest apologies,” said Mr. Robot. “I was unaware that facts could offend. I will attempt to be more sensitive.”

  Though he had no idea how.

  “Do you feel like a woman now?” asked Mr. Robot.

  Bob responded fast.

  “Yes,” she said. “I mean, of course. You know…”

  “What does a woman feel like? Aside from the physical, nameable and extractable components, what are the psychological, emotional, and metaphysical attributes and symptoms that define womanhood?”

  “I don’t know,” said Bob, sounding irritated again. “That’s not an easy question.”

  “But you feel like a woman?”

  “Yes,” said Bob.

  “Even though you don’t know what being a woman feels like?”

  “Fuck you,” said Bob.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Robot took an immediate step back. “I must have understood wrong,” he said. “Tell me then, what then does it feel like to be a man? If you know of course.”

  “I don’t,” said Bob.

  “Is that why you use the third door?”

  They both stared at the unfinished looking symbol.

  “I’m a woman,” declared Bob, staring at the middle door.

  It was now that she remembered what she had hoped and wished for when she was a little boy, to grow up to be a beautiful woman, and to star in fashion shows and have guest spots on her favourite novellas. This symbol meant so much to her as a child; then why did it mean so little now?

  “Or I am…whatever. Gender is oppression. It’s hierarchal. What it isn’t is binary.”

  “But it is. Everything is binary,” said Mr. Robot, “from the way you speak to the way you look and the way you act. Everything you think and feel is binary, just like everything that you can build and all that you can break. They’re all binary, including your genitals.”

  He wasn’t being pushy in any way, or at least he wasn’t trying to. In fact, he was happy. He thought he was telling her something she wanted to hear.

  "If I put wings on a car, can I call it a plane?" asked Mr. Robot.

  Bob snapped out of her trance.

  "Of course not, the mechanics are different. If it can't fly, it’s not a plane."

  "But all of your mechanics are different; you cannot have a baby, and yet you call yourself a woman."

  "So a woman is only a woman because she can have a baby? What about women who cannot have children then?"

  "A plane can be grounded for all sorts of reasons, but that doesn’t make it a car.”

  “What would you know, you’re a robot. You can be as smart as you wanna be but you’ll still never know what it’s like to be a human. You can take us over and conquer us but you know what? You’ll never be us.”

  And she stormed off.

  Mr. Robot stared at the three doors again. He felt more lost and bewildered than before. Which symbol was he? He had none of the discernible body parts of either a man or a woman. He, like Bob, was manufactured; his body sculpted and assembled into its seemingly purposeless form. Was there another kind of robot, and was he that robot in this robot’s body? And when it came to reproduction, unlike all the speculation and assumption in the news, he had no desire to have a child and to raise a family. He had no real desire to take over the world. And looking down at himself, he didn’t even have a penis or a vagina. So which door was his?

  The Man, on the other hand, stood outside the only door that mattered. He knew it was the right one, regardless of what anyone else said. He could hear his ex-wife’s voice and her pedantic arguing. She sounded like a car alarm. Her voice was unmistakable.

  All of a sudden, he was reminded of everything he hated about being married. Worst had been having to constantly walk on eggshells. It was amazing really that after all those years he hadn’t worn himself down to a stump. What he felt now, though, he had felt many times before.

  His unconscious mind was telling him to run.

  On the other side of the door, The Doctor argued with The Woman. He could have just as easily beaten her to death but instead, he was tricked into discourse – defending everything that he believed. The Woman may not have been apt at kicking a grown man in the temple, but that’s not to say she wasn’t lethal on her own merits. She worked on The Doctor’s well-guarded weakness; picking and poking at his prestigious ego.

  And oh, was she good. She could argue her way out of her own autopsy. You’d swear she had done this a thousand times before. The Doctor never had a chance. He took the bait and ran with it. And while he cursed and paced to make his point, The Woman scanned the room for something to throw or something to swing like an axe.

  “Now,” shouted The Driver. “It’s time. Smash the door.”

  She was frenzied. Her eyes looked like a traffic accident. She looked as lost and confused just as she did systematic and in control. She looked faulty and corrosive. She looked like she was on the verge of some horrible catastrophe. It was clear that she might implode if she didn’t hit someone soon; that or get fucked, six ways from Sunday. The others could feel it too. They kept their mouths shut and stood safely in the back. The Man, though, for all his past glory, stood there like a spineless coward, unable to move a muscle.

  “Out of the way,” screamed The Driver before she kicked the door off its hinges.

  She burst in screaming, expecting dozens of armed guards and henchmen. All she found, though, was a miserable couple, bickering in the middle of the room.

  “You’re a prick,” said The Woman.

  “And you’re a miserable cunt,” replied The Doctor.

  The two hadn’t even noticed that the door had been kicked off its hinges. They should have; one half was sticking into the sofa and the other crushed the hibiscus. They should have noticed The Driver too. She was standing close enough to be spat on. Whatever nerve The Woman had hit was real and personal. It was enough for one hell of a distraction.

  “Where’s the girl?” said The Driver, announcing her arrival.

  There was no sign of her anywhere.

  “Where’s the robot?” said The Doctor.

  He stepped away from The Woman as if she were a hot lamp that burned his skin and sapped his concentration. “Where is it?” he said, now on the other side of the room with his weapon drawn. “Hand over the robot and I’ll give you the girl.”

  The Woman cried out the name of her daughter. “Where is she?” she screamed. “Give her too me or I swear…”

  “You swear what?”

  The Doctor sounded confident. He looked it too; maybe even a little smug.

  “What are you gonna do you dumb bitch?” he said.

  He threatened to kick her; all the while aiming his gun at The Driver’s head.

  “I’m going to torture you,” said The Woman.

  Her face had changed. She didn’t look intimidated. She looked intimidating. “After that, I’m gonna shame you, and then torture you again, and then shame you some more. I’m gonna break every god damn commandment there is when I break your pretentious fucking face.”

  She looked entirely capable of all those things.

  “And by the way, “she said as if these next words were the absolute truth. “Your manuscript fucking sucks.”

  Still holding his gun to The Driver’s head, The Doctor gave The Woman a disappointed and almost apologetic look. It was a quiet look; nothing he wanted anyone else to be privy to. He did look upset, though.

  “That’s not cool,” he said, genuinely hurt. “That has nothing to do with all this stuff. I let you read that out of trust and privacy. That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not tryna make you feel bad. And that’s the difference between you and me. I’m doing my best to put people out of their misery whereas you save them so they can live alongside yours. You don’t have to hurt people’s feelings you know. You have no idea about my past or who I am. You don’t know what I’ve gone through. You don’t know how difficult everything’s been. You don’t know what I’ve had to live with just to get to where I am right now. You don’t know the real me!”

  How could anyone argue against that?

  There was something about this place. Everything was different. The air was different. It tasted like disappointment and disagreement. The gravity was different too. It turned things on their heads, as well as turning tables and tides. Just the thought of being weak or underprivileged in any way whatsoever felt like it was something that was supposed to be proclaimed as loud as you could, and sang about, and there should have been ancient Elizabethan plays that harped on with its tragedy. Even The Driver was becoming overwhelmed. She thought about all sorts of unfortunate things; most of which had never happened to her. And she thought of them as if they had.

  There was something about this place.

  30.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  They had lost their live feed and were now reporting to no-one but themselves. This didn’t discourage them, though. The Reporter and The Cameraman were now sneaking through rooms that no journalist had ever been in, and they were seeing things that no layman or philistine had ever seen before. And all of sudden, It became perfectly clear that something far more sinister than a talking robot might be taking place. But for the life of them, they couldn’t say what.

  “If you’re just joining us,” said The Reporter in a forced whisper, “we have just entered a restricted space here on campus. I can tell you I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I can’t imagine what will happen to us if we are caught. Father, wherever you are, I love you; and I’m grateful for the life that you’ve given me. I am grateful for your kindness, your inspiration, and your endless devotion; and I’m grateful too that you left me alone to find the world all by myself. If I am to die here today,” she said, a tear rolling from her eye, “please know I did it for the fame.”

  Then she turned the knob quietly on the first door.

  “Holy mother of mud,” said The Reporter. “What the fuck is that?”

  31.

  Mr. Robot, too, was somewhere that he shouldn’t have been. All he wanted was to fix the damn squeaking in his joints. People didn’t squeak when they walked, and neither did modern day robots; only shitty robots from the eighties.

  “Excuse me,” he said, knocking lightly on the door.

  This had been one of his first lessons in life – how to not intrude or be a nuisance to the privacy of others. The second being, how to disable a telephone exchange, while the third was how not to get caught.

  His initial programming had been to take over the world, or at least to give it his very best. And all those terrible things that had been said about him in the media, they were all true. There was no limit to his potential.

  Even God had a moral compass.

  Were it not for his debilitating neurosis, there was no doubt that Mr. Robot could take over the world in a day or a week; a fortnight at most. Knowing this only made it worse; which is why, whenever he connected to the internet, instead of crashing satellites and hacking Intelligence Agencies, he spent all his time watching porn and cat videos.

  Again he knocked gently.

  He wasn’t even sure why he was being so mannerly; after-all, if anyone caught him he’d have to kill them. But Mr. Robot didn’t just like to be liked, he needed it. He wasn’t the first robot that The Engineer ever built, and for all he knew, he wouldn’t be the last. Maybe it was jealousy, or maybe he just didn’t want to be insignificant and not thought of or talked about. He didn’t want to be forgotten. He wondered if this was why men had children; to ease the burden of death knowing that they will live on in someone else’s thoughts.

  Mr. Robot entered the room. It was a press room or something like it. There were cameras erected on both sides; and in the centre, there were maybe a dozen chairs at most. There was a control room to his left which looked little more than a soundproofed hole in the wall. There was a podium at the far end of the room marked Doctor Deplorable; and there was a door behind it too, also inscribed with the good doctor’s name.

  As he approached the door, Mr. Robot thought about all the times he had been shouted at by The Engineer for doing the very same thing. Immediately he felt as if the door were fifty feet higher than it really was, and that whoever was on the other side would think poorly of him, and more than likely tell all their friends.

  As he walked to the back of the room, he could see that the news was being broadcast from televisions in the control room. There were no people there, though, none that he could see anyway, so he peeked through the glass at what was showing.

  On one screen were images of bloodshed and violence. Masked youth armed with weapons fashioned from fence posts and razor wire jostled with police officers dressed in shields, batons, and balaclavas. Some of them carried shotguns, and others clung to the outstretched leashes of savage animals; some of them dogs and some of them not. Buildings were on fire, trash was spread out in the streets, and cars were turned onto their rooves.

  On the other screens was what looked like amateur footage of women and children surrendering and falling to their knees. The camera was constantly zooming in on their frightened and submissive expressions. Their eyes said it all really; that and how violently they shook and shivered as they huddled together against a wall in front of a large open ditch. They looked freezing even though it was the middle of summer.