In Case of Rejection

CHAPTER THREE

Matthew followed suit, finding the apartment pleasantly quiet: vacant in his mother's absence, as it always was that time of day. She wouldn't be home until around six o'clock, and by then she would be weary and eventually take shelter on the couch in front of the television. She'd have a familiar, glassy look over her eyes from staring too long at small stitching and bright fabrics under the harsh light lamps at the shop. And he would make sure not to bother her.

Matthew liked it when the apartment was empty, something about it feeling almost normal that way. It reminded Matthew of when he was home alone as a child. Back then, the door would open and it could be any number of visitors. His mother, his father, or even Luke, if the situation presented itself. Now, he waited on his mother everyday in silence. No surprises.

He walked to the big windows that made up the wall opposite the door -- they were mostly frosted, except for the one long panel in the middle, to see through. Stepping forward, the city came into view. He couldn't see much from the fifth floor, but he could look down B Block and see the thousands of heads bobbing like a restless ocean. If he craned his neck and looked far to the left, he could see where B Block became Main Street, and the way the restless ocean became a terrifying whirlpool.

The noise was always a problem at this time of day, a grating chorus of voices, music, air horns, firecrackers. It sounded something like a festival, or some kind of celebration, but in a sense, angrier.

His eyes glanced upward again, where the crowd had directed him before. From this angle, he couldn't see any aircraft or any other commotion for that matter. It was too tall for him to see, so he crouched down a bit, searching the grayness for anything. Nothing, and he was redirected back to the crowd below. Matthew got lost for a moment, looking at the faces, few familiar, most not. It was a few seconds before he remembered what he was doing.

The letter was still poised in his left hand. He held it up to his face, under the pale afternoon light coming through the window and examined it carefully. It was in the standard, long envelopes he always sent his letters in. It smelled the same too, that harsh, perfumey sort of way. Like it had freshly been printed, mixed with the metallic grime of Stone's lockers. He wondered what kind of effort it took to have these letters sent. To be so covert about it, when they were monitoring his every move.

Matthew went straight to tearing at the edges, carefully, so as to retain some of its sanctity but allowing himself the thrill of ripping it open. From the envelope, he removed two long pages, yellowed and torn from a notebook in contrast to their perfect outer layer. He scanned the papers over, recognizing his handwriting.

Everything was in check.

Dear Matthew, he started. Matthew took a deep breath inward, and tried to quell his excitement enough to focus on the words.

I am writing to you in haste -- I don't have much time to explain everything in full. I want you to know that this letter will be my last.

Matthew's heart stopped in his chest, and his blood ran cold for a moment. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, hard. He kept painfully still as he read on.

I don't want you to worry. I especially don't want you to tell your mother. She has enough on her plate already without worrying about me.

I have important things to tell you, please keep this letter somewhere safe where you have access to it. Sector 3 has been engineering new tech for months now. The launch on the general public is coming next week, probably by the time you receive this letter. I am warning you that it is not all that it seems. Be wary of your surroundings, and don't give in to any of their tricks. I'm sorry that I am part of it all.

Matthew's mind swam with ideas, abstract thoughts trying hard to connect to anything of any real, tangible value... The ambiguity of this warning made his stomach turn over.

I do not want you to panic. The few trials conducted have been nearly successful here at the main lab, but I can see there is a fault to the technology being used and plenty of room for error. Of course, no one listens to me anymore, and there is nothing I can do about it. Still, there is something you can do.

Matthew's grip grew firmer on the letter, his brow furrowed with his concentration.

If you are ever in trouble, I want you to go into my office and into the locked drawer on the right side of my desk. The key is taped to the underside of my chair. Inside are plans, information you can use. It is up to you to take care of your mother.

Matthew was confused by all of this urgency, all of the things his father was saying that he couldn't make sense of. He knew he wouldn't send anything like this if he didn't mean it. For a moment, he questioned the credibility of this letter. If someone had hijacked their secret correspondence route. He only imagined what kind of trouble his father would be in, if their letters had been found out and his chest started to tighten with fear...

I wish I could explain it all to you, but I'm afraid it only wastes time. You will learn soon enough. With your smarts and your kindness, I know you will do what's right, when the time comes.

"When the time comes?" Matthew echoed, out into the emptiness of the apartment.

Take care of yourselves. I love you both, always. Goodbye, Dad

And just like that, it ended. Matthew was shredded with confusion and had developed the vaguest pain in the back of his head. Before he could collect himself, amongst the clamor of the street below, the world broke out into screams.

Matthew's eyes flew back to the window, to the mass that had gathered directly in front of his apartment. The people, at least four of which Matthew could discern, had broken into some kind of fight. Someone shoved someone else, someone was insulted, Matthew ran through the options. And within seconds, like he knew they would, Bots overtook the scene.

Bots could make their way through the crowds no problem. They were strong, fast, precise, and more than anything, people made way for them. They were deceivingly human in their make, familiar in size and general anatomy -- as Matthew's father had once told him, it had to be a design the people could relate with. Otherwise, they were destined for automatic categorization as Other.

Matthew understood the point, but Bots were still shockingly robotic in their ways. They took strange, calculated strides, and could lift a grown man off the ground. Even a man like Stone would have to put up a fight against one. They were tyrannical and beastly, under a sleek white frame. They were even able to swim, though there wasn't any water in the lower sectors to test the theory. The commercials five years ago, when Bot technology was first being forced on the world, showed Bots at the bottom of a swimming pool as part of a demonstration. Somehow, Matthew couldn't believe it to be true. How could they create something so indestructible?
They weren't clunky, in fact they were perfectly smooth, hard to grasp, even. They had blank, expressionless faces, and spoke like humans but with excessive rigidity. Their mouths didn't move, and their voices came within from speakers, somewhere in their chests.

Now, they were springing to action, using their long limbs to pull the people apart, who stumbled back with alarm, just to get away from their cold touch. No one wanted an altercation with them. The Bots below were blinking from the little blue lights dotted across their mechanical foreheads. Matthew's dad had told him something about specific light patterns holding specific meanings, but Matthew didn't know them. He could deduce that the slow blinking meant they were coming to some sort of resolution, lowering their power. He had noticed that when Bots took notice of something, their lights glowed brighter, increasing their intensity almost. Like they were gearing up to take action. Noticing. Feeling.

The people below had separated now and the Bots lingered in front of the apartment building, haunting the ground like ghosts. They stood with straight backs, heads carefully swiveling to scan the crowds.

Matthew stepped back into the room and sat down on the couch in the center. This was the main room, the one with the TV, alongside the kitchen near the door. To the left was a little corridor, leading to Matthew's bedroom, next door, the bathroom. Behind him, two doors: Mom's room and Dad's old office. And while the thought of getting to his bed was tempting, right now, Matthew couldn't seem to move. He folded the papers back up.

I am warning you that it is not all that it seems, the words came to Matthew in a haunting rhythm.