The October Amaryllis

Chapter 5 - May 18th, 2220 - 10:42 A.M.

The first thought that I had when I woke up was that I had forgotten to set an alarm; I constantly forget to set one. Good luck trying to wake me without one; I'm practically in a coma when I sleep. My parents once had to check up on me as a child to make sure that I hadn't died in my sleep because I slept for sixteen hours straight. It's a Thanksgiving tradition for me to eat more than enough and then sleep for the rest of time. I want to stop overeating, but that gravy is just too dang good. I'm a glutton, but I have a speedy metabolism, so it all balances out in a way.

The second thought that I had after that was to get some decent food. I'm not a picky eater in the least, thankfully; I'll eat pretty much anything provided it doesn't poison me. I remember once hearing my doctor describe me as a "supertaster," which means that I experience tastes far more strongly than most people. That might be why I'm sometimes prone to crying when having delicious meals. On the other hand, it's the reason why I've only ever had one Warhead in my life; I don't know if I'd have survived taking the second one. My tongue was practically bleeding by the time I was done with it and hurt like mad for a solid week. There's a bunch of idiots on YouTube who try to see who can eat the most; it invariably results in agony. People will do anything for those fifteen minutes of fame. I'd hate to be famous; you say goodbye to all privacy, and everyone acts as your friend. Like Jesus once said, "I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity."

I got dressed, brushed my teeth, or rather had a machine for it for me, threw away the plaster, and went down to the front desk, curious if they had anything to eat at the hotel. Guess who I saw there again? That's right. He seemingly hadn't moved a single inch since I saw him. Catatonic schizophrenia or just plain laziness? You tell me.

"Do you ever sleep?" I asked, surprised as I saw him reading some sort of holographic book where the words and letters popped out of the page like a pop-up book. His legs were up on the desk, and he didn't seem to give his work a shred of attention.

"I do not need to; my body constantly generates artificial ATP. I haven't slept in about five years. Say... what's a kid like you doing in Arcadia?" he asked, squinting his eyes in suspicion.

Oh no, I have to say something. But what can I say?

"That's a marvelous book you're reading there; what is it called?" I asked, trying to distract him from the conversation. That's a tactic I often use; I distract my opponents until they forget their questions.

"It's called The Evolution of Warfare by Woodrow Skelton. He goes over how weapons developed from the Stone Age to the Cyber Age. Oh, and your attempts to distract me won't work. I have an IQ of 167. Do you think I'm that stupid?" he asked with a smirk.

"Well..." I replied in a mocking tone, shrugging my shoulders.

"Let's try this again," he said, pulling out a Bowie knife and putting it right next to my throat. The cold steel sent shivers down my spine. With one flick of his wrist, he could have ended my life. I prayed that God would not forsake me; He was all I had at that moment. If God couldn't save me, frankly, nobody could.

Talk about being psycho...

"What are you doing in Arcadia?" he nearly hissed, still pressing the blade to my throat.

"I-I t-t-test the Androids for potential errors," I nervously stuttered like an idiot. Just try speaking confidently with a knife right next to your throat.

"What kind of errors, kiddo? There are only about six hundred of them," he asked mockingly.

"Well... some Androids end up feeling emotions they're not exactly supposed to," I said anxiously, with my heart nearly jumping out of my chest. I half-worried he was going to get bored and slit my throat.

"Okay, fair, but why show up in Arcadia when you could just work at Byzantium?" he asked, smiling mockingly and tilting his head to the side.

"Why would I do that?" I asked, confused.

"That place is Android heaven, 95% of the population is Androids. Wouldn't it make more sense to go there?" he sneered.

"What is this, the police? Just tell me where I can get some food, and I'll be on my merry way," I said, flaring my nostrils.

"One floor down," he sighed as if I had just asked him the dumbest question of his life.

"But we're on the ground floor...?" I asked, confused.

"We're actually on the second floor," he replied in an incredibly bored tone of voice before pressing something on his left wrist, which opened up a staircase to the room below us. He also removed the blade at long last; I was beyond thankful that he didn't kill me.

Holy shit, they build underground now?!

"You know, you're not exactly the easiest person to get along with. You're the textbook definition of a pissant," I said irritatedly.

"You're just an idiot, that's all. Say... where are you from, anyway?" he asked with his eyes glowing brighter at that moment. It was as if he suddenly became a nuclear reactor.

Might as well just make something up so he'll finally leave me the hell alone.

"Canada," I lied, hoping that it still existed two hundred years later.

"What the hell is a Canada?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Exactly, it's a dump!" I said, faking a disillusioned tone of voice.

"I can tell. Now go eat," he sighed before getting back to his holographic book.

Don't mind if I do, you freak...