In Case of Rejection

CHAPTER ONE

It was ten till five o'clock.

Matthew was sprinting down Main Street like he never had before.

Barely a minute past five and Stone would shut him out, tell him he should've come by sooner. It happened only once before, but the thought of it was so agonizing that it propelled Matthew forward. He ran shoulders first, shoving through the hordes of people. He stumbled a bit.

It was tricky running through the afternoon crowds. This was prime time for the vendors and little shops that made up Main Street. Matthew was getting in the way of that, rushing through the bodies, limb by limb, pushing with as much strength as he could muster.

He cursed himself for letting it get to this point. He was always diligent about it -- overly diligent even. Most days, it seemed like the suspense that mounted up to every Tuesday at five o'clock was the only thing keeping him going until the next.

Further and further still -- Matthew tripped on the legs of a man who was sitting on the floor by his cart. He sputtered, going hands-first into the ground. A cloud of dust rose up around them from the collision between Matthew's body and the dirt-paved street, then the rush of concerned voices. The palms of his hands crashed against the floor, ripped with scrapes when Matthew was able to get a better look. The man reached for Matthew, shouting at him over the hundreds of other loud voices.

"Sorry! Sorry," Matthew told him, nodding in his direction and putting on his most apologetic face.

Matthew pushed himself upward, kicking off the dirt road with inspiring vigor. He was getting to the end of Main Street: the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight, and hope swelled in his chest alongside his racing heart. The hope overtook everything, and Matthew went faster. Up ahead, he could just see the familiar red and white awning of Mike's Repair, just a few yards away.

Matthew slowed as he came upon the place, brimming with customers at this hour. They spilled out the door onto the street, all harboring various kinds of electronics. He slid through them, edging his way around men and women and children. He knocked into a man holding a microwave in his hands. Matthew took in sharp, deep breaths in an effort to bring his heart rate down -- he walked slowly, hands on his hips to facilitate good breathing. His chest lurched with exhaustion, thankful for the coolness of the shop's interior.

The shop was small and smelled strongly of fry oil, courtesy of Ms. Margaret next door and her fast food. The fleeting memory of stopping there with Olive as kids stole his attention away. He walked forward anyways, his mind's eye swarmed with nostalgia. The crowd slowly lifted as he reached the back of the place. He scratched at the back of his neck, now hot and itchy, passing a man and a child when--

He hit it with a thud, like walking directly into a wall. The blue lights instantly ignited his fight or flight, and Matthew stepped back a bit, looking up into the face of his assailant.

The Bot stared back at him through pale, lifeless eyes -- this one had to be newer make, it was a painfully clean white and it's metal joints glimmered under the fluorescent lights. Not like the ones on the street, now years old, and some scuffed up on the edges. It looked comically out of place amongst the general grime of Mike's shop, and Matthew felt a laugh rise up in his chest. It titled it's head at him, a questioning sort of movement, and Matthew heard it beep from within. Twice, like a question.

The chaos in the room quietened in response, a few looking over their shoulders for a quick glance. Just enough to see, but not enough to get caught up in any trouble.

"Sorry," Matthew said, voice low. He heard a rumor that the lower you spoke, volume and tone-wise, the Bots' threat detection system was less likely to be triggered.