Click here to read Part One of our tale.
Click here to read Part Two!
PART THREE
Michael
stepped aside as Rip entered his apartment.
Rip
whistled, looking around. “This is it?”
Michael
took a moment to consider his sparse living quarters. Like his cubicle,
everything was white or soft grey, with no sharp edges or textured surfaces. The
robots didn’t allow for personal effects: pictures, mementos, posters. A drone like
Michael had to be ready to leave one apartment for an identical one halfway
across the continent without hesitation or time spent gathering unnecessary
items.
“This
is home,” Michael shrugged, not finding the place all that bad. He hurried into
the adjoining kitchenette. “Can I get you a drink?”
“You
got beer?”
Michael
blinked. “Is that alcohol? Alcohol is—”
“Prohibited,”
Rip grumbled, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” Spotting Michael’s small couch, Rip
flopped down on it, dust pluming off his filthy clothes, and propped muddy
boots on the nearby coffee table.
Michael
gasped.
Rip
saw him. “Let me guess. No feet on the furniture?”
“You’re
leaving a mess.”
Rip
chuckled. “That’s me. Leaving a mess wherever I go.”
Michael
poured himself a drink of purified water, rich in nutrients, and gaped at his
strange visitor. He was about to ask something—though
he had no clue where to begin—when Rip said, “Let me ask you a question, Mike.
You like living here?”
Michael
shrugged. “Where else would I live?”
“Damn, man,” he huffed, and Michael’s
heart hitched at the curse word. “This whole planet sucks. And trust me, I’ve
been to some crappers before, but this ranks right up there on the scale of
dimensions that are better off getting blacked out. I’ve only been here a
couple hours, and this place is already about to drive me nuts.”
Michael
furrowed his brow. “A couple hours?”
Rip
stood, stretching his arms with a crack. “Looking for you, dude!” He clapped his calloused hands, then stretched his arms
over his head. “But now I’ve found ya. So let’s get out of here, huh? This
place gives me the creeps.”
Michael
set his drink down on the counter as Rip gestured for the door. “I’d say pack
your stuff,” the old man said with a snort, “But I guess you ain’t got none to
pack.”
“Wait,
what? Where are we going?”
Rip
narrowed his eyes. “You mean, you don’t know? Not a clue?”
Michael
balked. “I…”
“You
been getting the dreams, right? The one with all the colors, man.”
Michael
stiffened, his mind snapping back to a thousand dreams of rainbow-colored lights,
calling to him, urging him to follow. “The dreams… The light!”
“Yep.
That’s the one. Well, let’s just say I’m here to make your dreams come true. There
are more worlds than these, little brother. It’s my job to take you to them.”
Michael
stepped closer, breathing harder. “Why me?”
“Who’s
to say? Just the way the Boss wants it.”
“Who’s
your Boss?”
Rip
snarled and waved his hand. “Look, we’ll talk more about that later. Right now,
all you gotta know is that you ain’t meant for this place, brother.” The shaggy
man stood and observed the tidy apartment with obvious disdain, sticking a
tongue to a canine. “This place is like a cage. You’re a tiger, Mike. A killer
tiger, and it’s high time you got out and stretched your legs.” A mad glint
crossed his beady eyes. “It’s time you hunt.”
Michael
shook his head, shrinking back into his kitchenette. “I don’t know what… That’s
not me.” He gestured to the four walls that hemmed him in place. “This is my
home. It’s all I’ve got. It’s all…” He slumped. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
Rip
took two wide steps forward, invading Michael’s personal space. A rage flashed
across the old man’s bearded face, and Michael feared an attack. Instead, the
wiry man railed, “Ain’t you sick of this place? Come on, dude, you gotta feel
it, all bottled up inside! You got a dark thing
inside you, Mike. Those blasted machines—they’ve taken that away from you, but
you gotta get it back!”
Michael
shook his head, more furiously. “No. This is—”
Rip
sent a backhand whizzing through the air, catching Michael hard on the chin.
Dazed, for he’d never been hit before, Michael staggered back, his senses
tingling. And something else tingled, too. A fury churned in his gut and his
hands trembled.
Rip
barked, “Did you like that? Lets you know you’re really alive. Felt good,
didn’t it?”
Michael
reached to his lip, touched, and pulled back a spot of red. He looked down to
his chest, where another drop dotted his white shirt—the only spot of color on
him, in his clothes, his room, his world.
Beautiful
red, just like Sara’s hair.
He
grinned. “Yeah. Yeah, it kinda did.”
Rip
reached out and Michael raised his hands in defense, but the wild man just
wrapped tightly coiled arms around him and gave him a squeeze. “Ha, ha! Welcome
to the fold, little brother!”
Rip
parted and gave Michael’s arms a strong pat. Michael beamed with pride.
* * *
Michael’s
smile didn’t leave him, but remained fixed to his face the next day. Rip had
stayed a while longer, talking at length about cryptic things like far off
adventures and worlds to explore. Whenever Michael asked him directly about his
origins and purpose, Rip dodged his questions. The best Michael could guess was
that Rip was from the Wilds, and had
every intention of taking Michael with him when he returned.
They
talked well into the night—well past curfew—until Michael had finally fallen
asleep. He’d dreamt that night of other worlds, other cities, where the robots
didn’t rule, where men and women walked freely at all hours of day and night.
Where
men and women met and fell in love.
Everywhere
in those dreams, the rainbow trailed like a ribbon, worming its way through
every world, whispering promises to him of self-discovery and release. When
Michael woke that morning, Rip was long gone. He instantly missed the old man,
but didn’t fear.
He
knew Rip would be back.
Michael
caught a little more sleep during the ride to the tower, but still felt the
effects of his long night. His co-workers remained stiff and attentive, but he
slouched through the day, his writing sluggish, his mind distracted.
His
eye continued to drift toward his window and the city outside—and beyond that,
the Wilds. His home, where he belonged.
The
grin broadened and he felt tears moisten the corners of his eyes.
Whirring
motors, a clank of mechanized feet stopping. A female voice asked, “Scribbler
Morrison, Michael A. Detected increase in heartbeat, rise in adrenaline levels,
and slight endorphin boost. Do you require assistance?”
He
faced the large photoreceptor on the robot, holding its cold gaze. “No, ma’am.
I’m doing just fine. How are you
today?”
Every
pencil squeaked to a halt. The oxygen left the room and Michael realized that
everyone within hearing distance had stopped to stare at him, mouths hanging
open in shock and alarm.
Michael
smirked, looking to the robot monitor again, waiting for an answer.
The
robot stood frozen, no doubt processing the question. After a moment, the
pleasant female voice replied, “Invalid request. Please rephrase.”
Michael
set down his pencil and stood, straightening. It was then he realized how much
taller he was than these androids. A few gasps accompanied his rise to his
feet. He felt his co-workers’ eyes on him, sensed their fear. He was breaking
the rules, changing the routine.
It
felt great.
Resisting
a laugh, he propped his hands on his waist, sucking in a deep breath. “Too
tough? Howabout this one, then? Howabout you get off my back?”
One
woman nearby yelped and clamped a hand over her open mouth.
Michael
sneered, stepping closer to the robot, towering over it now. “I’m tired of you
looking over my shoulder every minute of every day. You regulate what I eat,
and when I eat it, when I sleep, when I wake up, who I can and cannot be friends with—and I’m damn tired of it!”
More
cries from the crowd of spectators, a crowd that continued to grow as others
across the room caught onto the scene.
The
robot merely leaned back, its single lens expanding and contracting with a
comical buzzing noise as its processing unit worked to keep up with the
confrontation. “Vulgar vernacular is not tolerated, Scribbler Morrison, Michael
A. This is your first warning. After your second warning, you face a
reprimand.”
Michael
laughed in the robot’s lens, exhilarated.
Then
he glimpsed three more monitors making a beeline his way. He blanched, his throat
suddenly parched. Swallowing hard, he felt beads of sweat emerging on his
forehead.
His
co-workers leaned over into other cubicles, whispering about him, murmuring
about what had caused him to snap. Fear gripped him, strangling his throat, and
Michael thought to apologize. To return to his numbers. To blend in.
But
he was done with that.
Michael
let loose a roar and lunged, shoving the robot into the others as they
approached. Someone screamed at his outburst, and he raced for the door,
yanking papers off desks and hurling them in the air. “Yaaah!” he exclaimed
like an idiot, flinging pencils and garbage bins every which way, trashing the
place as he made his dramatic exit.
Behind
him, the four robots worked to untangle their gangly limbs and give pursuit. He
exited the room, looking either side in the hallway, trying to plot his next
move. A chime sounded overhead and he anticipated a tower-wide announcement
that they had a drone on the loose. Much to his amusement, though, he realized
it was the lunch chime. Doors opened all along the hall as the conveyors
started up. Drones exited in tidy rows, as usual, suddenly gawking at Michael
as he stood still, sweating and out of breath.
“Cease
and desist all efforts to escape,” the monotone female voice commanded. He
whipped his head about, spotting the droids shuffling out of the office, trying
to navigate through the lunch lines to get to him.
He
grinned savagely. “Bring it on! Come and get me!”
He
let loose a throaty laugh, but gulped when he heard his name called. He turned
and saw Sara amidst the countless drones, her bright red tresses separating her
from the sea of white.
“Sara!”
She
gaped at him, just as stunned as the others, but the hint of a smile upturned
the corners of her lips. “What are you doing?”
Michael
shoved his way toward her and grabbed her hand, pulling her out of line. “Come
on! We’re getting out of here!”
She
caught her breath, looking at him with wide fearful eyes. Fearful, but excited.
“But-but where would we go?”
“To
the Wilds!” He laughed.
Sara
anxiously looked to either side as her co-workers paused to watch her reaction,
frowning in disapproval. From behind, Michael heard the robots gaining ground.
He took Sara’s other hand, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Sara,” he spoke
softly. “Don’t you want to see what’s out there?”
She
lowered her head. The robots’ warnings grew louder. Closer. Michael knew he
needed to run, but he couldn’t—not without her. At last she held his gaze, a
devilish smile coming to life on her porcelain face. “I do,” she said, then
giggled.
He giggled, too, like
a fool, and wrapped his arms around her, leading her away. “Come on!”
Copyright 2015 Greg Mitchell
Tune in Thursday, March 12 for the next installment!
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