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  And just like that, David finds himself back in the empty hallway. The children have all rushed into their respective classrooms and his footsteps echo lonesomely. He hasn’t been away from his son in six months, and that tear in his heart is nothing compared to his apprehension at what Jake’s schoolday might have in store. Walking to his car, alone, feels like an eternity. By the time he sits behind the wheel, he’s in such a state that he bursts into tears.

  Chloe scrolls down pages upon pages of unfinished paragraphs, discarded introductions, moot points and confusing digressions. She has written a lot of nonsense overnight, awkward projections of her own insecurities; she feels she’s only skimming the surface, that she knows nothing of the experience she’s trying to write about.

  One after another, the rusty locks on the door open and Angelo walks in. Chloe is still sitting in the middle of her bed, bent over her tablet. She has surrounded herself with junk at arm’s length: empty cookie packets, a bottle of rum, an overflowing ashtray. The room reeks of cold cigarette smoke. She turns to Angelo with a tired smile, as he takes his jacket off and bends over to kiss her.

  “So get this,” he starts, unceremoniously. “A guy almost died on the job tonight.” He walks to the fridge and grabs a can of beer which he opens and drinks a sip from.

  Chloe takes a second to register the information. “Damn!” she exclaims.

  Angelo makes a face. “Honest to God,” he says, “I thought he was dead. Then he gets up. Not a scratch.”

  They both laugh at the odds. Angelo drinks another sip of beer before going back to his story: “That’s when the cops arrive.”

  The leap sounds like a consequence, as intended. Chloe is having a hard time following. “Whaaat…?” she frowns.

  “Yeah, I thought someone called them,” Angelo goes on, “but that made no sense. And there’s like LOADS of cars.” He spreads his hands to gesture his own surprise

  Still expressing her puzzlement, Chloe finishes her sentence in a whisper: “…the fuck?”

  Angelo is just started with his story. “They park all over the site,” he continues, “have construction halt for, like, three hours. And they start interrogating everyone. Turns out: those two forklifts you filmed last night? Guess where they come from.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for Chloe’s reaction.

  “Oh shit!” she bursts, hearing the implication.

  “Exactly! They got stolen in the afternoon, when the shifts changed.” Angelo lets that point sink in. “You gotta tell your journalist friends,” he adds.

  Stunned and still hungover, Chloe slowly absorbs the information. “Yeah!” she pauses, adding: “Thanks!” her thoughts twirling in confusion. “I mean, that sucks, did they get you in trouble?”

  While he answers she starts writing an e-mail on her tablet. “Well not at first,” he says, “but after they were done questioning everyone, they kept me for a while.” He lets her focus on her writing, speaking at a slower pace, still unsure what to make of all this. “Then comes this guy, obviously not a cop, starts asking me questions about my time in the army.”

  Chloe sends her e-mail and looks up to him; her eyes engraved by exhaustion now bear an added layer of worry. Content with his effect, Angelo drinks from his beer while waiting for her reaction. She shakes her hand with impatience. Her boyfriend reprises his story: “He keeps asking and asking, until it feels like a job interview. Then he says they’re setting up a task force, and that given my background, I’d be a suitable candidate. I ask ‘for what exactly?’, but he wouldn’t say much. I reckon they want me to oversee field ops or some shit.”

  The words hit her like a ton of bricks. “Shut the fuck uuuuuuup,” Chloe exhales, her general resentment against police forces exacerbated by her last encounter and by half a liter of rum. She turns pale, an unreasonable feeling of persecution moving over her.

  Angelo however is giggling with excitement. “I know, right?” he boasts. This evening is an unexpected break for him, it pulls him out of a routine which he was beginning to think would be his life’s work, but now exciting horizons beckon. “The dude’s been tagging along with the police, doing recruitment work,” he adds, guessing Chloe’s next question.

  “But…” She shakes her head, trying to make sense of that event, “for what? Did he give you anything… what’s his name?”

  “I don’t know!” Angelo laughs, throwing his arms up like a little boy during a treasure hunt. “He wouldn’t tell me the name of the unit either. He didn’t want me to spill the beans so he gave me very little. All I got is this card, take a look.”

  Chloe grabs the business card Angelo’s pulled from his pocket. It’s a blank plastic card with only a phone number. “He wanted an answer right then and there,” he adds, “but I told him I wanted to discuss it with you, so he gave me this.”

  Chloe puts her tablet away and gets up from the bed, folding the cover over her electronic devices. She walks to Angelo in order to whisper to his ear. “This,” she says, slapping the business card on the kitchen work plan, “this is – by far – the shadiest thing I’ve ever heard. Mark my words. They’re probably listening in on us right now.”

  She speaks with the conviction of someone well-informed, Angelo thinks, but she sounds paranoid, and she stinks of rum. He tries to laugh it out but she’s not having it. “How do you know it’s not a covert kill squad you’re getting yourself into?” she asks, point blank. “Please tell me you’re not considering this…”

  Their relationship hasn’t always been easy. When they met a year prior, Chloe burst out in a rant when she learned about his past. Now that both feel he’s put it behind him, the officer’s arrival feels like the hand of fate. “Oh, come on!” Angelo tries to defuse the coming argument. “Look, I know a little: he says they’ll be working urban pacification.”

  “Ah, alright,” the young woman consents, sarcastic. “So not the absolute worst: just plain worst.”

  “Baby…” he tries to ease up.

  “Don’t ‘baby’ me!” she yells, her eyes wet.

  “OK, chill!” He immediately regrets raising his voice to her level and tries to play it down: “Listen, I know you hate the cops we have, but that shouldn’t mean you hate all cops. Perhaps we need better ones.”

  “With exosuits?” she rebuffs, her mind set on the question.

  They’ve agreed to disagree a thousand times on the methods through which order can or should be maintained. Angelo’s recognized the deadlock too many times before, always letting Chloe get the upper hand so long as he didn’t want any part in law enforcement; but today’s opportunity feels like a turning point. He insists: “Well, yeah! I mean, you’ve seen the chaos firsthand, someone needs to do something!”

  The lid on Chloe’s anger blows off. “Have you looked around, recently?” she bursts. “Everyone’s corrupt in this town! Now, they’re coming for you, and your first instinct is to bend over like a fucking ostrich? Give me a break!”

  Angelo sighs in disappointment. In a half-hearted tone, he answers to himself: “Actually, dude’s not from here. His corporation either.”

  “Oh because of course, he’s corporate!” Chloe slaps her thighs with a sarcastic sneer. She doesn’t need to expand on the notion: he knows that her resentment toward police forces is rivaled only by shareholders’ greed.

  “Yeah it’s a PMC,” Angelo replies, defensive. “So what? It’s not like governments have a better rep. These guys, they field test equipment. They’re trying to help the city!”

  Chloe is speechless. Either Angelo’s drunk the Kool-Aid, or he’s been keeping his feelings from her. Either way, she hates the man standing in front of her at this very moment. “That’s gotta be a scoop, right?” he insists, maybe trying to leverage her career with his.

  “Yeah…” she absorbs all the unspoken truth that has just arisen. “I can already see the headlines: ‘dog-pile of festering warmongers… brings the show downtown’. Don’t get me a ticket.” Her tone is sour and disillusioned; she
grabs his can of beer and starts drinking from it, a bitter gulp.

  He puts his hands on her shoulders and talks softly to her: “I know you hate to look at it, Chloe, but this is gonna happen, with or without me, and I’d rather be at the helm than having some guy I don’t know do a job like that. Because you’re right: it does smell fishy. And the only way to make sure it’s not, is if I call this number.”

  He points to the business card on the kitchen work plan. His voice is calm and resolute, and perhaps for that reason, or because she’s had enough shock for one night, Chloe doesn’t feel like fighting this one fight. “This is bullshit,” she declares, dismissively. “You miss playing soldier boy.”

  “That’s not true,” Angelo retorts. “I love the guys at the site, but girl, you know it, I know it: the pay is shit, and it’s dangerous. This guy promised me four times as much, rent free.”

  A hint of despair in her voice, Chloe follows up: “Now you’re insisting… You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

  The pain he’s causing her now obvious, Angelo sets aside his own excitement. “No,” he falters. “Look, it’s been a long night, and there’s no hurry. I’m trying to piece out shades of grey, and now’s not the best time.”

  She recognizes his apology for what it is: an unwelcome attempt at reconciliation. The taste of tear-gas reminiscing, Chloe fights her nausea by unleashing her anger once more: “Grey my ass!” she barks. “I feel like I’m gonna puke… You know what you should do? Call this fucking guy and don’t be surprised when you get blood on your hands!”

  She grabs the business card on the kitchen plan, crumpling it into a ball that she throws at him. As it bounces off his chest, he grabs it and slides it in his pocket. She looks at him do so with contempt.

  “Chloe…” he tries to insist.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” she yells in disdain. “Go home.”

  When she gets like that there is no discussion to be had anymore, and Angelo knows it. “I’m sorry,” he says, truly sad.

  “GO HOME!” she shouts, pointing at the door.

  A wave of disappointment flows over the young man. He grabs his jacket and leaves. Before heading out, he turns to Chloe, awaiting confirmation.

  “Leave your keys here,” she says, coldly.

  Angelo is hurt, but he knows better than to insist anymore. He leaves his set of keys by the door and shuts it up without saying goodbye. Chloe drinks from the beer, but the sour taste makes her gag. She tosses the can in the trash-bin when her phone starts ringing. The light-pitched sound gives her a jump scare.

  Easing down, she lifts the cover and picks up her phone, the call coming from an unregistered number. With a sudden suspicion, she moves to the door to pull up the chain and look in the peephole, but no one’s waiting. She moves away and picks up the call, without saying a word, all sorts of fears rushing through her intoxicated brain.

  “Hello?” The voice is warm and familiar, but Chloe’s in no state to put a face on it just yet.

  “Yes?” she replies.

  “Chloe, it’s David. Is this a bad time?”

  It’s only been a little over twelve hours since she gave him her card, and Chloe never thought he would call her so soon. “David? What’s going on?” she asks, the strain of a restless night taking its toll on her.

  “I’m sorry to call…” The family man speaks with unease. “Malcolm isn’t picking up…”

  “It’s alright, I’m…” she interrupts. “This isn’t a bad time. How’s Jake?”

  “Well…” David gathers himself. “That’s why I called…”

  Vehicles stumble sluggishly in the busy traffic. It’s noon already, and the blazing sun is warming up the downtown platform like a hot plate. Chloe crosses the street through rickshaws and honking smart-cars. She enters David’s building, where the strong air-conditioning makes her sneeze, and checks herself in the mirrors of the elevator, arranging her fake prosthesis like she’s done a thousand times. When finally he reaches David’s front door, the brand new decorum makes her feel ill-fitting. She pushes the doorbell; David comes to open and welcomes her with embarrassment.

  “Sorry for the delay,” she pants, “the bus got into a jam, I finished on foot.”

  “Don’t!” He looks grateful for her presence. “It’s so nice of you to come. You look like you could use a glass of water.”

  Chloe smiles from ear to ear. Her throat is on fire. “I could!” she agrees.

  David goes into the kitchen and grabs a cold bottle of mineral water from the fridge, filling a tall glass. Meanwhile, in the living room, Chloe looks around the clean apartment full of new furniture. On a window ledge, one of those tacky slideshow frames displays pictures of Jake and his mother from before their accident.

  David walks back to Chloe and hands her the glass of water. “Thanks,” she says softly.

  He grabs the frame and looks at it with melancholy. “It was his first day at school today. His friends wouldn’t recognize him…” he says, looking at the pictures.

  Chloe drinks half the glass in a single gulp, thirsty from a night of boozing and smoking. The water feels superbly cold and she catches her breath. “He’s in his room?” she asks.

  “Yeah, I went and picked him up at lunch, told my boss it was an emergency… which it is, I guess…”

  “How is he?”

  “I’m at a complete loss here, Chloe. I understand how he feels. I just can’t help it.”

  David is visibly shaken. Chloe empties her glass and fiddles with it. “Can I go talk to him?” she asks.

  He locks eyes with her, his shoulders lowered as a sign of need. “Please, do,” he invites.

  Chloe hands David her glass, making him put the frame back on the ledge without even thinking. She gathers her thoughts for a second before looking away, and walks rather valiantly into the corridor leading to the bedrooms. The door to Jake’s room is ajar, and she can see him sitting on the bed, his back to the door. His room is rather tidy for a ten years old boy’s, but Chloe understand that all this apparel is newly acquired through insurance money. There’s a laptop on a desk, a plastic football in the corner, clothes on the floor… A screwdriver is lying next to Jake.

  She lets herself in. “Hi Jake, it’s Chloe,” she greets softly.

  As she moves to his side, she discovers that the boy has used the screwdriver to pry off his own face. In his hands lies the mask of soft polyamide, a centimeter thick. Where it would normally fit, small motors made apparent are still expressing whatever signals the boy sends, on the outlines of his eyebrows, lips and cheeks. Chloe considers the vision without a flutter, and kneels down next to him. “Your dad told me you had a tough morning,” she says, compassionate.

  Jake looks down at the mask, the color of old computers. “The other kids said I was a robot,” he says, returning to silence.

  Chloe considers the phrasing, before remarking: “That’s pretty mean. You’re way cooler than a robot. These kids don’t know the difference.”

  Jake looks at her, his skinless face multiplying his expression of sadness. Waving the soft mask with contempt, he asks in reply: “What is it?”

  Chloe’s smile fades when she answers, with an unexpected solemnity that would have any other boy shiver. “A robot only ever does what it’s told,” she declares, “like a little soldier. And it doesn’t know right from wrong.”

  Her seriousness acting as a distraction, Jake feels his spirit lifted. Still, this doesn’t have much to do with his more immediate concern. “I messed up,” he says, looking down at the mask. “I just wanted to see under it, but I can’t put it back.”

  Chloe shakes her hand: “That’s not a problem,” she replies with a smile, “my buddies and I, we fix that stuff all the time!”

  Jake turns to her, his eyebrows expressing relief and surprise. “You do?” he asks, suddenly hopeful.

  The young woman shrugs. “Of course! It’s very easy, and a lot of fun. I’ll show you how.”

&nbs
p; Chloe walks out of Jake’s bedroom with a victorious smile on her face. Staring out the window, David turns around when he hears her footsteps.

  “Your son is fine, David,” she says, a lighthearted tone accompanying the good news.

  “Oh, thank God,” the father sighs in relief.

  “We fixed his face with a little duct tape,” Chloe adds, “it’ll hold for a while.”

  That’s not exactly the news he was hoping for, but David’s still grateful. “OK, and, err…” he mutters, trying to allude to Jake’s state of mind, “other than that?”

  “Oh, he’s got a good outlook, I think,” Chloe replies straightaway. Trying to find something encouraging and yet true, she adds: “He seems very bright.”

  “Thank you,” David blushes, amazed himself at his son’s prowess, “he is… Oh, Chloe, you’re very kind. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “It’s alright,” she assures. After her last twelve hours, Chloe’s happy she came here. She enjoys the quiet lull that follows, slightly annoyed by her own understanding of the stakes. “Look,” she adds finally, “you probably don’t want to bother with this right now, but…”

  “What is it?” David interrupts, his worry showing.

  Chloe takes a deep breath to explain the situation concisely. “When Jake clipped his face off,” she starts, “he broke the seal. The warranty, on his body? It’s void now.”

  David shakes his head in disbelief at the seemingly absurd statement. “Hem… I’m sorry,” he begs. “What?”

  “His body,” Chloe insists, “I assume you got it with a warranty?”

  She can read his confusion plain as a layman’s. “Err… I guess,” he answers, full of doubt.

  Wanting to minimize the gravity of the situation, Chloe attempts a metaphor: “Well, just like your computer, once you fiddle with it, the manufacturer won’t take it back if it fries…”

  She regrets her choice of words as soon as they exit her mouth. David’s dazed expression speaks volumes. “My son’s gonna fry?” he asks in terror.