The Inscrutable Mr. Robot Read online

  But the world didn’t seem to care. They seemed unflattered by his effort as if his presence were more of a spectacle than it was spectacular. And it showed too, not only in how person after person barged past him but also in how empty the coloured hat was that lay upturned by his feet. There were a few copper coins, sure, but most of these had fallen out of the man’s own pockets. Regardless of their ill-attention, though, the man never broke his rhythm. He never once looked defeated or dismayed. He looked as unaffected by them as they were of him. Yet in his trance, he juggled as if the stick were an infant that he would nary let slip through his fingers.

  And when the morning rush finally passed, he packed up his belongings and left the station. The small coins he had gathered went back into his soiled pants with his bag full of sticks flung over his skeletal shoulders.

  And then all of a sudden it was quiet. The roar of engines had stopped. So too had the stampede of loafers and high heels; and Mr. Robot was, once again, entirely alone with his thoughts. On the outside, he looked no different to the vending machines on either side of his misshaped arms. On the inside, though, he was racked with doubt and anxiety.

  It was then, in the sheer quiet, that Mr. Robot’s attention got taken once more; and this time it would change his life forever. He heard a deep and worrying moan coming from a wall that overlooked the train tracks below. It sounded like a goat mourning its dead calf. Mr. Robot walked in the direction of the straining and heavy breathing with little reason why, and even lesser reason why not.

  There, passing time in a reckless and perilous manner was a dishevelled looking man, dangling over the edge with his fingers nervously clutched to the legs of his pants.

  “I love ya, darlin,” he mumbled. “I wish there was more to say, but that about sums it up. Be good to your mother.”

  And as he pushed away from the edge, Mr. Robot grabbed the man’s shoulders, pulling him back over the wall and onto the pavement below.

  “Goddamnit,” screamed The Man.

  “Are you ok, sir?”

  “What the hell did you do that for?”

  “You would have fallen if you continued moving as such.”

  “I jumped.”

  He sounded amazed or dismayed; there was a fine line between the two.

  “You could have quite easily been injured.”

  “I was trying to kill myself."

  The Man paced back and forth, peering over the wall a dozen times in disbelief.

  “Do you realise how hard that was to actually jump? Do you? I’ve been sitting on this wall every day for the last three days now just thinking about my miserable, shitty existence. And when I do get the balls to end it….”

  On one hand, he sounded bitter and bemused, but beneath it all, he looked kind of relieved. “I’m never gonna get that courage again,” he said, kicking Mr. Robot’s iron leg. “Fuck you.”

  They both hovered over the edge of the wall, peering down at the tracks below.

  "No trains pass here,” said Mr. Robot.

  The Man peered into the empty tunnel.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “The trains are on strike. It’s why there are so many buses this morning. I read it on the news.”

  Mr. Robot looked pleased with himself.

  “What?”

  “If you had jumped, I think at best you might have broken a bone or two, but nothing more severe than that."

  They both peered over the edge at the mound of rock and rubble below with long expressions as if somewhere in that dark abyss were the end of the race that neither of them was committed to run.

  “Why do you want to kill yourself?” asked Mr. Robot.

  He emphasized the word ‘you’ as if the act alone of killing oneself were arbitrary.

  “I felt like it, I suppose.”

  “What does it feel like; this urge?”

  Mr. Robot had an urge too but he didn’t know how to tell anyone about it.

  “It’s hard to explain; I just feel warm and disconnected, and all I wanna do is to jump in front of a train.”

  The Man didn’t sound sad, and he didn’t at all sound deranged or perturbed. He might as well have been describing his method for choosing socks in the morning.

  “Let’s say I feel cold; well then I’ll just put on a sweater. I know that when I feel that way, putting on a sweater will make the feeling stop, and so I do it. And If I’m hot and bothered, I’ll sit in front of a fan. If my stomach rumbles one way I’m hungry; if it’s another I’m sick. It’s not rocket science; I’ve been doing this for thirty-eight years. And, I don’t know, every once in a while I feel this warmth, like a blanket of disapproving fire; and when I feel it, I want to kill myself - the same way as when I feel the rumble in my stomach and I either want a sandwich, or I need a toilet.”

  “Is it something you learned, or is it something you just understood?”

  The way he asked, you’d think he hoped the answer was ‘yes’.

  The Man just shook his head. “I don’t really remember anyone dying of old age; nobody in my family anyway - nobody that would make a difference. Most died of some shitty disease, some stupid accident, and, just going on statistics, pretty much most of everyone I know killed themselves.”

  He was as serious as you would be, talking about death and suicide, but he wasn’t emotional. And he wasn’t dead inside either. He looked almost scholarly as if this moment were the antiquity of a lifetime of study and introspection.

  And so he continued. “You know those cornerstone memories,” he said, “you’re kind of tethered to them your whole life like a Promethean rock. Now, for me, when I look back, I don’t remember trophies, ribbons, or podiums. I can’t even recall finishing a single race. Not to say I never finished one, just, looking back, I have no proof. I remember all my friends who hanged themselves, and I know scores of others too. And I remember the guy who jumped in front of the train, and all the crazy shit he did leading up to that. I remember the guy who drove his car into a cinder block and I remember the sound of his mother’s waling at his funeral. I’d never heard a person cry like that before. And finally, I remember the guy who stepped in front of a truck one cold August morning. I wasn’t driving. I was trying to light a cigarette, and that’s when I saw him. I remember the sound of breaking glass, and I remember wishing I hadn't looked back. I’m not saying my life was miserable or that I had never been spoiled or fawned upon; or that I had never been part of a winning team. I had. I had a life no different to any other kid it’s just, these are the people and the moments I remember. Some of them, you know, were strangers; we'd only met that day. And some of them had been my best friends at one point or another."

  “Why a train?”

  “I’m scared of the pain,” said The Man. “Dying used to be easier in the past. You could stick your head in the oven and the gas would kill you. Now the gas is all clean. It’ll make you sick; maybe take off a few I.Q points, but nothing more severe than a headache. Used to be that you could gas yourself in your car. God damned emission standards mean that’s impossible too. Hanging is no good; and anyway, I’m shit with knots. The only way I can think that doesn’t involve choking to death for god knows how long is jumping in front of a train. At least it’s quick, and there’s no pain.”

  And though he sounded rational, as he spoke, Mr. Robot stared at the big red button on his chest. “Your understanding of this feeling that you cannot explain,” he said. “Is it innate? Is killing oneself a part of your human programming?”

  As they spoke, a bus pulled into the terminal. The Bus Driver was the first to alight. He was barely one foot out the door before the cigarette in his mouth was lit and being drawn upon like some medicated life preserver. After him was an obese old lady being shuffled in circles like a piece of obtuse furniture as her carers struggled to squeeze her past all the right angles and turnstiles without tripping or getting stuck. And behind her, in nearly a fit of anxiety, was a young man whose reddened face gave the impression that his heart might stop if he had to wait for a second longer. And behind him, two lovers held hands, but they did so obligingly as if, like wearing pants in public, they were merely adhering to some social convention. There was barely a current of affection running through their bodies, and their stares were listless and vacant; both looking dispassionately in opposite directions.

  Mr. Robot studied each one. He could see in each of them how they had already pressed their red buttons. Most had made a habit, if not a lifestyle, out of killing themselves in one way or another.

  “It is hard to gauge the utility of such an action.”

  “I have a daughter,” said The Man. “She’s only seven. I read that if a girl loses her father before the age of ten that there is a greater chance that she will grow up to be an artist. And if you kill yourself it’s almost certain.”

  “You wish for her to adopt an artistic perspective?”

  “It’s something no one take away from her. And it’s something I can give her; at least that I can.”

  “Amaurobius Ferox,” said Mr. Robot.

  “What’s that? You trying to be smart? You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “Quite the contrary, in fact. Amaurobius Ferox is a type of spider, wherein the mother sacrifices herself to her new borne as their first nutritious meal. It is quite a noble gesture, and more so, an apt utility, in regards to one’s inevitable death. Congratulations,” said Mr. Robot, shaking The Man’s hand. “That is quite impressive, for a human.”

  The Man blushed. He wasn’t accustomed to such affirming validation. All of a sudden he had a new perspective on his miserable existence; as if he were on the verge of some profound accomplishment. For the first time, he felt noticed, visible, and heard. The blood that coursed through his
veins felt magnetic; his whole body tingled in fact. He felt good and wholesome. He felt alive. This was hardly the time to jump in front of a train.

  “If you like,” said Mr. Robot, pulling The Man off the floor and walking him out of the station, “we can go to where there are trains.”

  The Man nodded, dusting himself off. “Ok,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Robot smiled. He had, it seemed, for the very first time, a function; and almost instantly he stopped thinking about his own abandon, and even went as far as forgetting about his red button.

  6.

  As man and machine made their way out of the station, heading north through the centre of the city, in the farthest corner of his workshop, The Engineer cowered beneath a blanket of choking, black smoke. The floor around him was littered with shards of broken glass and projectiles; some of them bricks and some of them large, jagged rocks. Most, if not all, were wrapped in handwritten notes; abusive tirades of one kind or another. The open windows, all of the smashed to pieces, did little to alleviate his suffering. Instead, the air rushing in invoked a raging fireball that swarmed like an orange storm cloud through every room in the house.

  “Burn it to the ground,” screamed the baying crowd. “Oppressor!”

  Struggling to breathe, The Engineer thought little about whether anyone would come to his aide. Instead, he clung to the small and delicate components of his latest contraption, keeping them tucked beneath his belly while his back bore the savagery of the flames above.

  Though he remained quiet, outside the mood was anything but. And as fire spewed into the sky, consuming the entire building, the baying crowd erupted in magmatic applause. They cheered loudly as if their favourite team had just scored a winning goal, and as parts of the roof began to cave in, they all chanted, one and all, like some well-rehearsed, rapturous choir, thrusting their clenched fists and flaming torches into the air as if to provoke some omnipotent God or intergalactic warmonger. As the flames crackled, so too did their voices; and the baying crowd sang in boisterous fashion - songs of peace, love, and sodality.

  “Burn for your sins,” they sang. “Father of death; bringer of doom.”

  It was loud; it was deafening.

  You could hear it over the flames.

  “I’d kill for my lover, my sisters, and brothers, in the name of my father and the way of my mother.”

  Some of them sang in such a way that their voices could comfort even the most terrified infant, while others sounded as if they, in fact, were the source of that terror.

  There were those whose faces were calm and almost cheerful; their voices were loud but they sounded soft; almost quiet. They were like a choir of rustling leaves.

  Then there were those whose faces were all twisted and contorted. Most of them looked mad and disappointed; at least twenty looked scared. They sounded like fear and anger. Most of them just screamed; words it seemed just would never suffice. Their voices sounded like screeching tires and breaking glass. If smiling warriors were the rustling leaves, then these Social Justice Heroes were the forest fire.

  Together, it was a hell of a thing.

  After a minute or two, the singing died down. From the middle of the crowd, several men, dressed in strange silver attire, suddenly appeared. Their faces were hidden behind black masks, and each man wore an emblem on his sleeve. They looked well educated. And they also looked capable of violent things.

  In their centre was The Doctor. He was empowering, irrespective of his stature.

  “I want him alive,” he said.

  The men all signalled. It was all very hushed and official.

  “I’ve been looking for this thing for so long.”

  The Doctor stared listlessly into the smoke and flames as he walked through the baying crowd. The whole while, he seemed totally at peace; as if he were heading home.

  “What if we don’t find the robot?”

  The Gentleman walked through the crowd by himself, but his voice could be heard.

  “What happens then?” he said.

  The Doctor didn’t have an answer; he couldn’t think of anything to say. The flames were so hot. They shot up high into the air. Who cared if they didn’t find the robot? At least for now; this was spectacular.

  The fire had taken over nearly everything now. Even if The Engineer was alive, he’d be wishing that he wasn’t. Outside on the grass, the men in silver suits made their way to the front porch of this shabby old cottage, and with barely a flinch in their step, they walked through the front door of the workshop, and into a great wall of fire.

  “The robot’s not here,” shouted one of the men. “Get the hell out. Get the hell out.”

  Before he could say another word, the fire consumed the room he was in.

  “Get me the old man. I want him alive.”

  The Doctor feared nothing and no-one. It wouldn’t matter if it were a dictator or a catastrophe, he wouldn’t fall; he wouldn’t step down. He may have looked like he wasn’t strong enough to push his own shadow up a hill, but The Doctor, he could move the world.

  “This world is mine,” he said.

  7.

  While the flames were being fought, The Reporter crept round the back of The Engineer’s cottage to a rickety old shed at the far end of his garden. Its door was padlocked but its hinges were as weak as a drunkard’s will and with little effort, both she and The Cameraman were inside.

  “What the hell is this?”

  It looked like a shrine of some sorts; a montage of obsessive devotion.

  “Shut up and start recording.”

  The Cameraman put aside his disgust and fear and counted her in.

  “We’re live from….”

  The Reporter’s words were cut short by her own stupid wonder. “What the hell is this place?” she thought as she spun in dizzying circles. The walls and the ceiling were covered entirely with photos and news clippings. Some of them were recent while others looked as old as the cottage itself.

  “It’s like the inside of someone’s head,” she said, still spinning in quaint little circles. “Like a serial killer or some scorned and vengeful lover. On one hand, I’m scared to look,” she said, “and on another, I don’t dare look away.”

  “It’s like swimming in the open sea,” said The Cameraman.

  He pointed his camera at the wooden slats below his feet.

  “What do you think’s down there?” he said.

  He sounded petrified and horrified as if he knew that beneath his feet were centipedes and zombies and alien flesh-eating bacteria; that, or at the very least, the bones and teeth of a dozen orphaned children.

  “These people aren’t dead,” said The Reporter.

  Her mood changed quickly. She went from article to article with curious wonder, but that curiosity teetered on the brink of the very worst kind of horror.

  “They’re all accolades of some sort.”

  She went one by one trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

  “It’s so random too. If this is a serial killer, I don’t see any pattern here. Look at this,” she said, pulling The Cameraman by his shirt.

  It was an article from a local paper of a town she had never heard of. A young child had come third in a spelling bee and looked primed for states and nationals. His teacher, smiling in the background, was circled in red pen.

  “And this one,” she said, pointing to an interview with an elderly couple who had found love in their nineties.

  And then another.

  “Look at this,” she said. “I know this person. Where do I know her from?”

  Her eyes were unmistakable. She had no idea who the woman was; her face was as strange as any other. Looking at her eyes, though, she felt nostalgic as if she had caught sight of a good friend or an old foe.

  “You’d better see this,” said The Cameraman.

  The Reporter could hardly pull away. There was something about those eyes.

  “I’m bloody serious,” said The Cameraman. “You have to see this.”

  “Just tell me what it is.”

  “You gotta see for yourself. Trust me.”

  “Who are you?” she mumbled; unwilling to blink, unable to look away.

  “It’s you,” said The Cameraman.