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Chapter VII: Cement stone

Harper ran and ran. Ran until lungs were burning and muscles were complaining about the effort they were being subjected to without having rested properly all night. Ran until the panic had burnt and the reason to ran had been forgotten. Only then did Harper stop and looked around. It had felt like a short run to a known place, but these were unfamiliar surroundings, so it must have not been that short. The city in which Harper had grown had disappeared beneath metallic monsters that hoarded the skies with their imposing heights. Harper was certain that that street had once been an artery to the city, but now it was dead. The neglected, broken façades of a despised past remained, sheltering those homeless at night, under the lintels of stone and old cardboards.

Harper started to walk aimlessly, trying not to look directly into anyone's eyes in fear of a direct confrontation —being still flesh and bone— or, maybe, the revelation that actually that was the underworld Harper belonged to. There were shopping carts on the street and homeless people discussing to whom they belonged to, tents made with blankets, barrels full of fire... Everything to be seen on an American film brought into reality. A lady passed by with a curious look and a bar of moldy chocolate on her hand.

Harper had never seen moldy chocolate before.

A retching fit came strongly, and to repress it Harper chose to walk down the street. At the end there could be seen a river and a bridge, which after crossed, still offered no way out or a glimpse of civilization.

What was there was very different.

As Harper entered what yore had been the Old Town, it became apparent that the buildings, if old, were cleaner than centuries ago. They were also very damaged. Those homeless from before weren't so much now. They slept in debris, which they tried to care for, and had created their own orchards and shops to subsist as a micro-city. Harper spent several hours walking by the river, anxious to explore in some way and lacking the courage to enter the bystreets, yet absorbing in the environment. Wherever one looked, the same scene played out seamless to the next, even if the intensity varied.

Harper deduced that they all must have been organics, since optimal people didn't need to eat so often. There were no signs of improvements, in fact, and in many cases neither jobs or healthcare. It was to be suspected, not without uneasiness at the thought, that society had assumed that they had chosen to live like that, having had the option of improving themselves and reach optimacy.

It was then than Harper realized this was home, even if every fiber in the body resisted to accept it.

Harper went back the path exploring had taken, back to the bridge and the great theater beside it, a small architectonic wonder that had always been there. Harper looked at it for quite a while, hoping to understand how the stone dinosaur could still stand when everything else had changed.

"It's a fake," said a man that had stopped nearby to look at it. "They moved it to the new Old Town and left us with a carved cement copy."

"But... Why?"

"What do I know?" He snorted, disgusted. "Maybe they wanted improved theaters while they pretend to be still humans, I don't know."

Harper felt some relief seeing that someone else shared that opinion, and turned to look at him. And recognized him. He had been carving a wood stick back at the river docks, next to a heap of nets. A fisher, yet what quality fish could live in those waters? He was a mid-aged man, slightly older than Harper, how much one couldn't tell. He had a lost smile and tired eyes, marked by the grooves of time and a likely bad life. The relief that Harper felt was stained under that resigned look.

"I've read some plays go on for whole days now." Harper commented hoping that the sour sensation would fade away with a conversation.

"They make theater-series, even." The homeless shook his head, disappointed.

"And here? What do they do here?"

"At this fake copy? Nothing, it's abandoned. Barely decor."

Harper sighed. Too much time had gone by to tell with the naked eye if it was a copy, as much as one nailed their eyes to the façade trying to find something that would betray its usurpation. After a minute, Harper gave up and waved goodbye to the homeless man, turning to leave.

"Well... officially, at least."

"What?" Harper stopped.

The man laughed at the face of confusion, then shook his head again.

"Always the same," he sighed. "What I mean is that inside there the Organists clandestinely meet."

The Organists... Harper had heard about them. They were a rebel group, whom true to the futurist stories before Harper decided to get freezed, was born to fight against a society corrupt in its very essence. The name seemed to have caused quite a few troubles to the associations and courses that taught how to play the organ. For the Optimals they were nothing but a small group of people who had decided to be unhappy just because. They weren't even dangerous. Bombs were of no use anymore nor were violent protests; what were they going to do, a few organic beings, against a lot of robots? All their strategy, so the news said, was to complain. But, for some reason... Well, Harper also had the feeling that the authorities were a bit too worried about this organization. As if they were... dangerous, somehow. It felt like a too big a secret.

"And you just said that, just 'cause? Not knowing me at all?"

The man rolled his eyes, a sarcastic laugh escaping as garnish.

"Sure, whatever you say."

He scratched his jaw and slowly walked away. Harper called him, and got no answer, so the conversation was finished. Sighing, turning back to the theater, Harper weighted entering having ran away from a world were comfort was absolute and guaranteed. Here, they were poor. Some people were dirtier than others, and not all of them were homeless —some buildings were in good condition with people living in them—, but the life quality was less than the one Harper had already become accustomed to. Going back and live in resignation, hiding forever the deep hatred was also an option. Maybe to find someone who shared it, to have children educated with the same ideology. To die of age while the world went on as if years hadn't gone by, but always under the oppresion and repression for not being enough. For not being better.

Or staying. Joining them. Something in Harper's mind remembered that finding out what was it all about, deciding after if that was something to get involved with, was also on the table. Listening was not a blood oath.. was it? But, what if they were dangerous? What if they killed anyone leaving in case they were a spy?

Harper closed the eyes, felt the breeze. Heard the city, the poor people and those not so poor. Thought of Amanda, of that horrible thing she had to do to herself. Of the ducks. Of the harbored doubts, the intimate hatred Harper felt to the neighbor tincans. Not even like that, trying to reach a conviction, Harper managed to decide. There was still time. Some savings. Could walk away, start anew at another school, resume life, even hating it so much.

But was it worth it to live a hated life?

The tower clock sang to the morning that it was time to become the afternoon. Not much later, Harper's guts roared. Do it now or never. Theaters sometimes have cafeterias. That was a good alibi.

Harper walked determinedly, displaying a courage that was really never there. Crossed the road and went down the stairs to the big yard sitting afront the fake building.

And reaching the front door, Harper didn't know whether to laugh or cry, as a small poster read: "We open from 3-19.00 to 3-21.00″.