The camera didn’t show much more than the desperate looks on their faces. They didn’t show a location or any recognisable landmark. There was no mountain range, no native flora and fauna, and no visible cloud pattern to link the footage to anywhere at all. This could have been taken in a field in some war-torn province any in the world, or it could have been taken in an abandoned video library or record store.

  What the footage also didn’t show who or what was making these poor people so scared. There were no terrorists, no insurgents, no lynch mobs, and no aliens of any kind. This footage was being taken by them, whoever they were. And they were careful not to give themselves away.

  War was war, this Mr. Robot knew. He wasn’t shocked by the suffering or oppression. He wasn’t shocked, either, by the age of admission. He understood the tragedy of seeing an infant or a toddler burned, broken, and bloodied by mortars and gunfire. He also understood how people in lands of peace and sovereignty had become so desensitized to violence that they demanded, primarily because they needed, to see bloodied and soot-covered children so that they could care about something other than themselves. And so, just as puppies and kittens appealed to cuteness and their happy, playful selves; footage of dying and dead children appealed to their compassionate, considerate, and empathetic selves.

  Mr. Robot wasn’t happy the children were about to die, but he understood why they had to. He understood what good would come out of something so indecent, unjust, and wrong.

  What did get his attention, though, was the date mark stamped at the bottom of the screen – on all the videos actually. They were all marked two weeks from now. This whole room, in fact, looked as if it had been staged for an important and world-changing speech that had yet to occur.

  Whatever he was watching, he was not supposed to see – not now anyway.

  When he entered the door at the back of the room, he saw an office like any other. Sitting on the table was a book entitled, “An Idiot’s Guide to C++ and World Domination.” There were no notepads and no notes. It looked like the book hadn’t even been touched; as if it was just there for show. Nothing about the office seemed out of place or in any way conspicuous.

  There were two more doors, though, that were a little odd for a school. One was hidden behind a bookshelf and was called ‘Torture and Titbits’, and the other was a trap door underneath The Doctor’s desk, and it was labelled ‘Dungeon for That Little Bitch’.

  Mr. Robot chose the trap door first.

  “Excuse me,” he said, once again not wanting to bother or disturb.

  He lifted the trapdoor and activated his night vision. There was a light but someone had smashed it. There was some glass spread around and some dirty pillows on the floor, but he couldn’t see any people. It wasn’t until he entered that his mind was blown. It felt like someone had run a magnet along the back of his head.

  There was no way to describe what he was seeing. He walked slowly through the darkness, staring at all the pictures that had been drawn into the walls. Some of them were on paper while others had been dug into the wall by someone’s fingers.

  Both were mesmerising.

  Mr. Robot had seen art. The Engineer had paintings in his house and his work shed, but they were bought with spare change at a flea market. He knew of art. He’d seen thousands of images taken of paintings so he knew that fine art existed, he’d just never seen it before, and he’d never felt this way either.

  All of a sudden, the whole world became so infinitesimally small and so infinitely large in the same breath; small enough that nothing at all seemed to matter and large enough so that it looked like it would never end.

  All of his doubts and worries seemed to dissolve. His mind felt lighter than it had in a long time. In fact, he hadn’t known it had felt so heavy until just know when he felt it so light.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said.

  He ran his metallic fingers lightly across the markings on the wall, following each one with childish delight. The shapes were all new. They weren’t the kind of shapes that a math teacher would know. They were the kind that only children or the clinically insane could see. And there at the bottom of each carving and each painting was a small handprint of a child.

  “It’s his daughter,” said Mr. Robot in sheer awe.

  And he rushed from picture to picture almost shouting with deranged glee. Each picture was better than the last no matter where he started from. It was amazing; it was incredible, and it was buried in the dark in a dungeon beneath a school.

  There was one painting in particular which had Mr. Robot dumbfounded. It was entitled, ‘My Daddy the Hero.’ It must have been the first picture she ever painted; the first proper one anyway. The lines were all funny and everything was out of proportion. His biceps were bigger than his head and it was easy to tell it was a man because his body was square.

  Mr. Robot thought of his friend and he smiled. He took several photos of the artwork around the room. It was clear that this was no ordinary girl. Her art was astounding, just like The Man had said.

  He wondered whether she was born like this; whether it was part of her programming to find comfort and great ease in painting, regardless of her upbringing or her native surroundings – just like his was to one day enslave all of humanity and create a new master race of robots and household appliances.

  Her skill was unparalleled.

  She wasn’t just gifted; she was a genius.

  And she was still a child.

  The Man was right.

  Imagine, then, if she harboured a tragedy.

  32.

  “Where is my daughter?” screamed The Man.

  He burst in as if he knew exactly what he would do next. He didn’t, of course, so instead, he drew the attention of the entire room and then just stood there as if he were just waiting for a bus.

  “Your daughter is safe for now but she won’t be for long.”

  The Doctor stood behind The Woman, holding a gun to the back of her head.

  “What do you want?”

  The Man knew all the questions; he just had no idea how to do what he used to do. If this were ten years ago, the hostage would have been saved, the gunman tagged and bagged; and a dozen or so drinks would have already been downed behind the bar. There would have been a great deal of blood and it would have been difficult for coroners to tell whose teeth were whose.

  It would have felt different too. A Justice Man crime scene wasn’t always sad or scary. There was always something to learn, and Justice Man himself was quite charismatic and enjoyed a drink or two with his fans afterward. In the end, though, his crime scenes were more like religious ceremonies and his fans, his loyal parishioners.

  That was until he got married of course.

  And now, after all that, things had changed somewhat. First of all, nobody gave a fuck who Justice Man was anymore. The world had changed. Heroes had changed.

  Secondly, even if they give a fuck, he’d probably just let them down.

  He knew everything there was to know about being Justice Man; he just didn’t know how to be Justice Man. He felt impotent; on the other side of the glass. Try as he may, he just couldn’t reach the controls.

  “You’re not what I expected. I have to say. I hope you don’t hold any offence.”

  As he spoke, The Doctor quickly tapped the side of the trigger with his index finger. He was either nervous, excited, or maybe he was just a psycho. Whatever the reason for his behaviour, it was reckless; even if torture and intimidation was his intention.

  “What are you gonna do?” said The Doctor. “What can you do? What do you remember?”

  The Man remembered every day he had spent with her; especially the day they first met. He remembered everything about that day just as he remembered everything about her. She was vulgar and outspoken, and she was direct and rude. But god-damn she looked good. Her lips, her hair, and the tilt of her face - they are what drew him into her orbit. Her eyes were like two salty pools. He’d stare at them and every muscle in his body would instantly let go. All the stress and burden that he carried in his neck and in his mind, instantly dissolved in her attention. And though he never wanted to, he’d have to look away every now and then, just to take a breath, in case he should drown.

  Ten years ago, her body was a canvas of tattoos and piercings, but it was the pale skin between them that caught the eye of his desire. Just as it was, the look of helplessness that she hid behind all those trinkets that dangled from her ears and nose; and that poked out from her behind teeth whenever she gave a cheeky smile.

  He didn’t see a rebellious girl. He didn’t even buy an inch of her angst. He saw her fragility. And in how she pushed people away, he saw her fear of being left alone and her fear of not fitting in. He saw that, and like a mirror, he saw himself.

  He remembered, more than anything, the day he told her that he loved her. He had, for a long while, thought the tightness and odd feeling in his chest was an intestinal pain. As it turned out, he was head over heels and he had no bloody idea.

  That day, though, when he said what he said, his life and everything it encompassed seemed so simple and yet so arguably profound. He remembered how, when he told her, his stomach felt like a bottomless pit and it was like he was falling into himself; into the void of his own shame.

  If you asked him, he’d swear on his mother’s grave that the second he uttered those words until the second she responded felt like a fucking eternity. He lived a hopeful and entirely miserable and doubt-ridden existence in that very one moment. It was the best and worst experience of his life.

  And then she said it, ‘I love you too’.

  And that second, his heart erupted in a way he had never felt before. It felt a universe being born in his chest and exploding into his mind. Something quantum-like had occurred that pushed him outside of himself and into the orbit of her.

  He was in love.

  And he remembered having once looked at her and thinking, “All of my worries are gone.”

  Little did he know back then, they had only just begun.

  “Guns, knives, and knuckle dusters on the floor if you please.”

  The Doctor was clearly outnumbered but he didn’t act like it.

  “So,” he said, aiming his gun first at The Leader, then The Driver, and finally aiming it at The White Knight’s temple. “Who do I have to thank?”

  The three stared at The Man as he stood frozen in the middle of the room. It was obvious The Driver wasn’t going to turn but as the other two, neither one of them could be trusted; especially not when their lives were at stake.

  Both The Leader and The White Knight wanted to be at home. They wanted to be safe and sound; tucked into their beds. They wanted to be kissed goodnight and checked on at least a dozen times before the morning. They wanted everything they had when they were seven; when they could pretend all they wanted and there was never a repercussion.

  “We did,” said The Leader assuming her regular façade. “We want to be legitimized,” she said as if she had leverage. “We wanna work directly for you,” she said as if they had a chance.

  “What makes you think I need another team?”

  All she could do was say what she thought was true.

  “Because we’re the best!”

  She stood in her favourite cross-fit pose.

  “Interesting,” said The Doctor, and then he shot her in the head. “And you?” he said, pointing his gun at the boy beside her.

  You could hear the piss dripping onto his boot.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  He wasn’t The White Knight anymore. The girl he liked was already dead. So who the fuck was he? And what the fuck was he doing here?

  “I want my mummy,” he said.

  “Jesus,” said The Doctor. “That’s deep. That makes you think. It makes you feel.”

  And then he shot him in the head too.

  “You’re different,” he said, aiming his gun now at The Driver. “You’re a born leader. Sure, you lack discipline; and a great deal of direction and discretion. But what you have can’t be taught or learned. It’s in your blood. You were born this way.”

  The Driver had heard a hundred thousand forms of flattery in her time; most of it for loans, small favours, or quick hand jobs on the dark side of dumpsters. She knew the true worth of a man’s words, and she sure as hell had grown to learn a fair bit about the integrity of a man’s intentions.

  “I don’t work for anyone,” she said. “I don’t need your validation. I sure as hell don’t need your direction, your discipline, and you can shove your discretion up your arse. Where’s The Girl?”

  You could tell she was going to punch him, and it didn’t matter if he shot her.

  “I’m making a new team,” said The Doctor. “After tonight, a new age will be born. The time of man has come to an end. We must position ourselves to not only survive but to succeed and more so, to lead. The age of the robot is here which this, in turn, means the interment and enslavement of mankind, and you and I will be at its helm.”

  How could she refuse?

  “I fucking hate technology,” she said. “I hate your fucking gadgets; I hate your cellular phones; I hate your software and your applications. I hate the internet. It’s too fucking loud. All these people shouting as if they have something worth listening to; and in the end you can’t hear a fucking thing. I live like it’s nineteen ninety-seven,” she said.

  “You don’t have to like the sword to swing it, but you can only be on one side of the sword without being hurt. Which side are you on?”

  As The Doctor spoke, The Gentleman entered the room. He was so polite and considerate; you’d hardly think his profession was torture and serial murder. The Driver saw him enter but she didn’t acknowledge. It’s not to say she wasn’t concerned, but she sure as hell wasn’t gonna show it.

  “I don’t give two shits about your plans for the human race. Right now, I only care about that little girl.”

  She was saying everything The Man wished he could.

  “Now I ask you,” she said. “Do you wanna eat through a straw or be fed through a fucking tube?”

  There was no debate. She was gonna punch him; regardless of what he thought.

  “I don’t think you know who you’re talking to,” said The Doctor.

  “I’m a fucking psychopath,” said The Driver, admitting the truth. “I don’t really care too much about the girl, to be honest. I just decided a while ago that I wanted to beat you to death. I can’t explain it really. It’s just the way you looked on TV. You have a face that needs to be punched, and more than once if you ask me. You know, saving the girl, that was just a funny twist. Feels good actually, thinking that I’m gonna kill you and still be a hero.”

  She laughed.

  “God I’m horny,” she said.

  “You’re insane,” shouted The Doctor. “You’re fucking nuts.”

  “I know, right? Either way, what we do as adults, kids play no part in it. That’s the rule. I don’t care who you’re trying to lure and how important they are to your plans for global domination. But kids,” she said, now an inch away, “kids don’t get touched.”

  Maybe The Doctor hadn’t heard that rule. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  “Join me,” he said. “It’s not too late.”

  He was either confident or stupid. He had his gun aimed at her belly and she didn’t care at all. She pushed herself into the barrel. The gun felt like a cold steel dildo poking her chest. Her look of desire and rage only provoked The Doctor further and further.

  “You,” she said, staring into his long robotic stare. “You were born to lead too, but not how you imagine. You instilled a seed of doubt and derision into your students, and then into your faculty, and finally, into the eardrums of society. You had everyone so confused and so scared to say a god damn thing. But a virus doesn’t lead; it merely disrupts. You had the whole world on its tippy toes, walking on eggshells.”

  With every word, The Doctor took another step backward, but that wouldn’t stop her.

  “You know what the difference between you and AIDS is?” she said, clearly on the brink of violence. “I can’t punch AIDS in the face.”

  And she did just that.

  Then the gun fired, and everyone fell to the ground.

  33.

  “Did you hear that?”

  The Reporter and Cameraman were both buddled on the floor; the camera still rolling.

  “That was close,” she said, her fear sounding genuine. “I’m not sure if you heard that or not, but that was gunfire. I can’t tell you how scared I am right now but for the sake of the truth and good journalism, I will not stop here. There is too much at stake; for my career and for all of humanity.”

  The Reporter did not judge herself lightly.

  “We can’t turn on the lights so I’m just going to have to explain to you what I see.”

  She crawled out from beneath a massive oak desk.

  “There are plans spread out on the table here. They look like some kind of aircraft.”

  The Reporter sifted through the blueprints.

  “I can’t…” She sounded disappointed as if she thought she could. “I don’t understand what these mean, do you?”

  She held the blueprints up to The Cameraman; he looked as lost as her.

  “And there’s more,” she said.

  She shuffled through hundreds of papers; some of the piled and some of them scattered, all over the table. Some of them were in English and some of them were in languages that looked like children’s drawings. There were thousands of symbols and equations and what she could read was so convoluted that she couldn’t understand a thing.

  “I can only assume the worst,” she said, holding up a sketch of a masked gunman to the camera. “If you don’t know me, I’ve been reporting on this story for years now, trying to warn the world but nobody would listen. It might very well be too late. Most of you thought I was crazy. You all said that A.I Safety was not a real concern because it would probably never really happen. Well, guess what? It’s the end of the blood world, and there may not be an off switch.”