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6 | The Reunion

His house looked just exactly like how he left it. The painted walls, the grand gates that were enforced with the utmost security and protection. Almost everything seemed the same, if not for the scattered papers that littered around the garden, the paper starting to decay into the grass.

The garden's flowers and grass were overgrown, weeds infesting every inch of creviced brick. Moss grew alongside the beginnings of the walls, indicating that no one had been tending to these greens for some time now.

Six months, Ali thought. He could barely believe that this was his home. His father was always a tidy person, and would often hire gardeners to fix up their lawn and trim the grass. He wasn't aware of what truly happened in his period of time that he left, but he assumed that it wasn't good.

Inhaling a deep breath, Ali opened the doors, its hinges creaking loudly, rust overtaking the luminous metal.

As soon as he entered the living room, passing by his father's car in the front of the house, a putrid, rotting stench hit him. Instantly he knew something was definitely wrong, his hands moving to his pocket in instinct.

Quietly, he lowered his stance in case of a battle, maneuvering himself in his old home, random items spilled out on the floor, the tiles stained with unknown substances.

Did someone come in? How long has it been? Judging by the stains and dust, it couldn't have been recent. What use was it now, especially after so long? His father could be dead. Comot could be dead. They could be gone for months and he wouldn't even know.

It's only been six months. Comot was clever, and his father wasn't dumb enough to let an intruder in.

A weak hiss caught his attention, which he quickly shot his head towards. It was the kitchen, though the messy interior proved to be a challenge when he's trying not to make any trace of his entrance.

Stepping past spilled, rotting food and fallen furniture, he managed to make it to the kitchen, of which the table broken and cupboards opened, the contents within spilled and rotted.

"Hello?" he whispered in a low tone, eyes squinting as he moved in the darkness. His ears picked up another low hiss, of which alarmed him. He felt his hand grab for his weapon—

Comot craned her head weakly towards him, her multichromatic eyes dull and foggy. Meow, she purred hoarsely, hiding behind the cupboards.

Ali paused, haven't expecting this. "Comot?" he demanded, pushing the metallic chip back into his pocket. "Is that you?"

It had to be her. No other cat had those eyes. But why was Comot here? Why now?

"It's me, Ali," he continued, kneeling down. "I didn't die. Do you remember me?"

The cat hissed scratchily, as if she didn't believe his statement. His scent changed, and along with his appearance. He couldn't blame her for being so defensive.

Ali pushed his hair from his forehead and fixed it behind his head with a clip that he would always carry around. "See? It's me. Just grown up a little." He held his hands outwards, waiting for Comot to believe him.

She didn't believe him. With one look, her face contorted into one of disgust and distrust, and dove behind the shelves as if he wasn't worth her time.

"Comot!" he said a little too urgently. "Come on, it's really me," he added, walking after her. He peeked into the shelves, where only a dead end remained for the cat to run. "I just left for six months, alright? I didn't—"

She hissed and scratched his face instead, cutting him off.

Shocked, Ali looked down to the blood seeping down his cheek, dripping down to the dusty tiles. Comot never attacked him, or anyone that didn't pose a threat to her.

"Comot—"

She turned around, her tail sticking up in defense. He tried to grab at her, but before he did, he saw machine parts lurking under bits of fur, which surprised him.

"Comot!" he called, taking his hand back. "What is up with you?"

She hissed at him again, baring her fangs at him. But unlike the Comot he knew before, her teeth were made of metal, and her insides were equally the same metallic sheen.

This is not Comot. Shaken, Ali left the impostor alone, and began to leave. He still had to find his dad, unless...

His hand moved to activate his whip just before the metal pipe struck his head. The red, crackling energy-synced whip lassoed around the pipe from the man's hands, which allowed him to snatch it before anyone was harmed.

"Who are you!" The man pointed a finger at him. "What are you doing at my house?"

My house. Ali looked up, surprised as his weapon retreated back into its original form: a pendrive. The man was skinny to the bone, his facial hairs overly grown with no patch of skin left. His clothes were far too large to fit around his scrawny physique, though the dull, bland design was what allowed Ali to piece together the puzzle.

"Dad?" Ali demanded, stepping backwards from him. He was conflicted on whether to pull up his whip or hug him, but he would rather settle on C: run and never return.

The man's eyes glossed over, repeating Ali's words: "... dad?" His posture slackened, dull eyes fixated on the boy. "A... Ali?"

Ali swallowed. "Yeah! It's me, Ali," he stammered, clenching the pendrive tighter. "I... left for a couple of months... but I'm back now!"

For a moment, both of them stood in awkward silence. Their backs were hunched over whether in confusion, desperation or relief, their figures strangely resembling one another.

"I—" his father started, voice laced with tiredness and relief. He staggered over to Ali, his feet kicking away shards of porcelain and splinters, and wrapped his bony arms around Ali, resting his chin on his shoulder. His beard itched Ali's skin, but it surprised Ali to how oily and unkempt it was. "That's good. That's good..."

His body slumped forward, as if he no longer had to energy to keep going. Ali tensed at first, trying to help him up, hands holding over his chest to get him on his feet. But then he realized that how faint his heart's pulse was, and that alarmed him. He'd learned many things over the course of half a year, and knowing when a comrade was going to die was one of them.

"No," Ali muttered frantically, laying his father's unconscious body onto a wall as gentle as he could at the chaotic moment. "No, no no no no—" He ran out into the living room and dug for the house phone, which was buried under a pile of rotting pillows and expired ice-cream packets, never opened.

A few minutes later, the paramedics rushed to the scene. All they found was the former city founder's body propped against the wall, and a robot that looked just like a cat.