Programmed Emotions

Programmed Emotions Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"This is your keycard. No matter what----don't lose it. If you misplace it call me ASAP. Dad would kill me if one of these went missing. You have to promise me."

"Sounds serious, you want a blood sample too."

"My dad will spill a little more than a sample of it went missing."

"Uh..."

"I'm joking. Come here. This is your desk----what do you think?" Coyote asks.

It's my first day at the work study that Coyote hooked me up with at the Masterson Research facility. I wasn't 100 percent sure what they researched here but hell, did it matter? Any sort of job experience at this point would be good.

The place was quiet. Big walls and dark hallways. No windows that I can see. It seemed as though someone forgot to illuminate this place properly. Everything was so...gloomy.

"It's fine."

"You OK?" he asks, "You been ignoring me."

I keep thinking about what I saw two weeks before with Bronx Barnes. I wished I could say that the midnight meetings stopped, but they hadn't. So I spend time trying not to go to sleep and that's causing me to get more and  more antsier. I always end up falling asleep before 3:33 am and always feel like something is wrong.

"Sorry. Just got a lot on my mind. I like the office. It's just kinda..."

"Odd? Yeah, I know. You'll get used to it."

Not too far from the desk, Coyote set me up at was another area. I get up and move over towards that. A woman is standing as still as a statue by the door. Now I could hear machinery, a soft, rhythmic clattering. I came to a glass panel set in the wall and looked through it into a darkened room where a second woman sat in front of a bizarre, complicated machine that seemed to be sorting hundreds of test tubes, rotating them, counting them, labeling them, and finally delivering them into her hands.

"My mother does some consulting work for you guys. She's so secretive about it all the time. I always wondered ----what exactly do they do here?" I ask.

"Manufacture technology," he states.

"Real descriptive, Coyote," I sigh.

"Why do you care?"

"If I'm going to be working here it'd be nice to at least know what I'm doing."

"Working? More like—You're going to be sitting around and looking cute. Get on Facebook for all I care," He explains to me, "That's the benefit of having a boyfriend who owns a billion dollar company."

Actually, his father owned it but I don't think there was much of a difference. Once his dad died, it was going to pass on to Coyote and Stella. It's kind of eerie looking at the woman through the glass and seeing the systematic way that she moved. No expression was behind her gaze. It was all just kind of odd.

But as I'm focused on her I realize something that Coyote just said that snaps me completely out of it.

"Did you just call me your boyfriend?" I ask.

"I-----oh shit," he grunts, "Yeah I did."

He seems nervous all of a sudden as though not sure what to do with his little slip. I like the slip though. I like it so much that I rush forward and press myself into him. I kiss him. Hard. Real hard. I make sure to grab his dick. He likes it. His looks of confusion turn to one of satisfaction. I could get used to these kinds of slip-ups and if I reward him in the right way maybe they'll happen more often.

He was trying...in his own way, I guess. Him getting me this work study was huge. My school was hard enough to get into let alone working at the Masterson Research facility.

"Damn I might have to call you boyfriend more often if you act like this..." he states, "Slide up on the desk..."

"Not here babe..." I state.

He slides his hands up into my pants, past my underwear. His fingers desperately reaching into deep places and flicking onto the crack of my ass. His tongue is deep down my throat. He's hardening while he's doing it. Turning both of us on intentionally perhaps excited somehow at the thought of this power dynamic he had going on.

"This is My company..." he whispers.

"Actually it's mine."

The voice interrupts us. Sweat rolls in my pits from the anxiety of being caught in a compromising situation. A man is standing there at the end of the hall. He has on a black suit that's pressed to the point of cardboard. The only thing more strict than his suit is his expression. It's cold and tempered. He's standing there and I recognize his face almost immediately: Rod Masterson.

"Dad I can explain----"

"Oh, it's alright. Boys will be boys."

There is nothing more creepy to me than a person whose expression doesn't match his emotions or the situation at hand. They looked angry when they are telling you that everything is OK. They consistently look happy when others are in pain. They are unable to truly look sad when others have a trauma to relate. Children can sometimes be this way, but in an adult, it's just plain creepy. This man just found out his son was kissing another boy and this was his response? Rod Masterson was always strange.

I'd like an excuse to leave. Any excuse.

"I should probably go turn in my HR documents."

"Actually Coyote, you should be doing that. You wanted an assistant and Cassius is your responsibility," Dr. Masterson states, adding with a high level of authority a strict hand.

Coyote gives me a look. One of those looks that tells me he wouldn't want to leave me with his father but he is completely and utterly powerless in this situation. He leaves at that moment.

When he leaves it just Mr. Masterson and myself. He walks up to me. His eyes studying me in a way that I didn't quite get.

"You look JUST like your father," Mr. Masterson states.

"I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Masterson."

"You should," is his response with a face full of malice, "He was a good man. The day he got into the accident he called me. My company came and got him. We did everything we could to save him."

A part of me thinks about that day. Dad calling his old friend to help him. I wonder if it would have turned out differently if we had gone to a hospital.

"I am forever grateful."

"I promised him I'd keep an eye on you. If you were half the man he was, believe it or not I think you'll be good for my son. For now. No accidental pregnancies of college girls trying to steal our legacy."

There it was again. Something nice that also seemed to be tinged with a sense of darkness. If he had said it as a joke perhaps it would have landed better. But he wasn't laughing and not joking.

He walks closer again. Too close this time. This time pressing his hands up against my face. Studying me as though I was some sort of project. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up straight. He is staring at my mouth with his eyes. I'm leaning back until I hit the computer cord. He's not stopping. He's pressing up against me just as much as his son was. This wasn't right. This wasn't...

Crying.

"What was that?"

All of a sudden, he seems very aware. Sure enough, there was crying. A screaming baby's wail. I was so confused? Was there someone watching television? If not, why was there a baby in a lab?

"I should go see," he states.

"It sounded like a baby."

I don't know why I start following him but he corrects me and does so assertively putting his hand on my chest to block me from following him.

"Cassius you should stay here. Get on facebook...or something," he states with the same dismissive Masterson tone that his son had given me not too long ago, "You don't need to worry about these sorts of things. You're a work study."

"Oh."

That's when he touches my chin again, "Play your cards right and do good in school...and I may end up hiring you on full time. Wouldn't you like that? To work right here like your mother?"

"Yes. Yes, I would."

"Good. I'll see you later."

There was something odd about the way he talks to me. As though I was that baby crying and he was saying whatever it took to make sure I knew everything was OK.

~

I'm staring at the back of his head. He's not sitting next to Stella again. Bronx Barnes is sitting alone. He's fingering through a cellphone. I know I wasn't imagining it. Dree had seen exactly what I'd seen.

"You should say something to him."

"How does that conversation start?" I ask, "I notice we're friends while I'm sleepwalking."

"Maybe he's sleepwalking too. Maybe you can just be like: hey...we should go to sleep together. It'll save him traveling time for your late night talks."

"This isn't funny, Dree..."

"I know it's weird as fuck but I'm hoping me not freaking out about your weird life will cause you not to freak out too."

I don't respond to my friend. Really in my head, I'm thinking: Too late.

It's the end of class and I am walking up to him. I don't know what I'm going to say but I had to say something. Anything. I just had to break the ice. I am walking up to him and I feel so intimidated that I'm sweating under my armpits. What's worse is that as I approach his eyes lock on mine as though knowing I was about to brave this terrain and speak to him first.

And just when I open my mouth ready to embarrass myself, someone beats me to the punch.

"Hey you," the person says.

It's Stella.

"Hello."

"I was wondering what you were up to," she states, "Figured you might want to take me out for a date."

Because that was his goal in life. To take her out for a date. I start backing off though almost sure that anyone would be an idiot to turn down Stella Masterson for anything. I was almost sure it was an impossibility. But just as I am walking away I hear his voice.

"I'm not interested in you in an intimate way, Ms. Masterson. Just to be quite clear."

Damn. I turn around see Stella's face get as white as a ghost. She is wondering if anyone heard her get shut down in that way. Her eyes settle on me. Somehow, I am the victim caught in her crosshairs.

"Why the hell are you staring at me?" she has a diva moment directed at ME clearly to distract from the fact that the sexiest boy in the school and possibly the world felt like he just wasn't interested in her.
Her response: wreck chaos. Storm past me pushing my books out of my hand to make her feel better about herself. The books land in a loud thud on the ground.

I kneel over to pick them up and realize a unique hand is next to mine. I look up and see him. Bronx Barnes. He's helping me pick up my books.

"Thanks," I state.

He smells like earthy sandalwood musk. The smell is rich, sexy and sensual driving me immediately wild. Everything about him was masculine even though his pants were on the lighter side and his sense of fashion was badass.

"No, I should be apologizing," he states, "I believe I led her on a bit. I have the tendency to do that even when I'm not interested in someone."

I could believe it. The way he is looking at me now would make anyone fall in love. He has this intense stare. The kind of stare that makes you feel like you're the only one in the room. Perhaps the only one left in the universe.

Just as he hands me my last book, our hands collide. It happens unusually. A soft lingering touch is all it is. It shouldn't mean anything, but it does. It feels like a jolt of electricity.

"Whoa...did you feel that?"

"I believe the term is sparks fly," he laughs.

"That sounds...uh...interesting?"

He laughs, "Really? I have always understood this to take its meaning from "sparks flying" off of finished metals that may violently bang into another metal."

"Glad we aren't finished metals then."

"Aren't we?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I once argued the same point to a friend. The machine is human. The engine is the heart. The fuel is the blood. The malfunction..."

"Is feelings," I state.

He doesn't grin. Not when I finish his line. I'm not sure exactly how I knew about that. Someone told me the same thing at one point, but I don't remember who. I'm trying to search my brain to figure it out. Where had I heard the saying before? I remember it being said to me over and over. Almost sung to me. But I just can't remember where it came from.

"Guess we have a friend in common," is his response, "Have a good day Mr. Masterson."

"WAIT!"

"Yes?"

I look at this man trying to figure out how I can ask him about the dream. He's staring at me with a blank face, open to anything that I have to say. I hate how he makes me tripped up like this. I hate how this stranger is the only one in my life that can get me so tongue-tied.

"Nothing."

He walks away and like some sort of pervert I'm looking at his butt. He is so fucking attractive. Literally from head to toe.

"No go?" a voice states.

I'm not surprised Dree has been watching my interaction with him.

I shuffle a little and make the only excuse I can find, "He was really busy. Besides I have to go to my work study..."

I dig in my pockets and notice something. Fuck.

"What's wrong?"

It was gone. Had he taken it by accident? I mutter a quick "I'll be back," to Dree and run after Bronx. I'm running as fast as I can. He was fast. Extremely fast. How the hell did he get away so quickly?

I find him in one of the prayer rooms. They are just around the corner from the class that I left. My school set them up specifically for students who needed a quiet place to pray between classes. The lights are dim in here and as I am about to approach until I notice that Bronx isn't alone. He's with someone. A girl with a mohawk. A girl specifically with colorful dreadhawk. One of the same girls that I'd seen in the video when I was sleepwalking.

"What Intel do you have?" she asks, "The revolution is struggling."

Revolution. I remember the day my father died there was talk about a revolution. Was it the same? What revolution. The president was elected. We lived in a democracy. There was no king to revolt against. This wasn't 1776 for god sakes.

"I think I turned off the Masterson girl..." he states.

They are whispering. The room surprisingly has a lot of echoes in it. I'm clearly spying. Anyone else would have thought it was morally wrong but I was so fucking curious. Heard of Curious George? I made that monkey look like an amateur. Maybe that's why I'm crouched down in the corner behind a desk like some sort of pervert listening to the whole conversation.

The girl with the mohawk sighs deeply, "We needed her. Why didn't you just sleep with her?"

"You do realize I'm not a prostitute, right?"

"You know what's at stake."

"More than anything," he responds, "I've already lost so much. But we don't need Stella. At least not yet. Cassius Rice is another hopeful—-"

Hopeful what?

"He is hopeless. No way he'll come online..."

"His father did."

"His fathers dead, isn't he?"

"Well, Cassius Rice is proving a lot more useful than I assumed."

"Oh, I see. Useful, huh? Guess it is true what they say. You prefer men. Prefer this guy over Stella. The idiot who is obsessed with you?"

What the fuck? I wasn't sure whether to be more shocked that Bronx preferred men or that this random mystery girl is trashing me and I'd never even met her.

"He's not obsessed with me," Bronx states.

I realize he didn't correct her about calling me an idiot.

The girl with the mohawk just sighs, "Whatever. So I guess that means you aren't going to sleep with him either to get more intel?"

"I don't need to. I already got this off of him just by talking."

I lean over. Slowly. He shows her something. My key card. He stole it! Bronx fucking stole my keycard off of me. All of a sudden I feel mad. I feel so fucking mad. I'm so angry.

"Did you feel that! I felt a glitch just now...something's wrong..." she warns.

"I felt it too," he responds, "Someone just came online for a second but logged right back off."

What were they talking about? The way she is looking around at that moment was almost like she was in touch with something and seeing something that I wasn't. I'm beyond confused.

"That's impossible. The Masterson girl?"

"Perhaps. No...no, it's not her. It's Cassius----- I can tell his energy anywhere."

"You're that in tune with him already? Usually, you aren't in tune with people until the two of you---"

"We haven't done that. I know why I'm in tune with him and it's not what you think."

"Then what is it?"

"It's...complicated."

"Secretive as always Bronx. Whatever. Cassius and Bronx sitting in a tree. K.I.S.S.I.N---"

"Before you finish that letter of the alphabet you should know I have a loaded gun hidden in my hip and a tendency towards for homicide."

I wonder if he's joking about the gun that he has. I don't know. It's hard to really read any of this. Maybe because the girl has her back turned to me and Bronx's face is so cool and collected.

"What if he comes online again?" she asks out of nowhere.

"He won't. But if we noticed him online then they noticed him as well. He'll probably be erased before dinner. Maybe he'll stand a chance if we can clear some history. We need to get to the lab. Are you in?"

Me? Did they mean that I would be erased?

"This plan of yours is going to get us killed," she states adding almost giddily, "Of course I'm in."

"Good. We should get out of here before the firewalls react to Mr. Rice's glitch," he states, "Meet tonight at the side door of Masterson Lab. 3:33 am."

"You think we're ready..."

"We may not have another option. We need to get in before he realizes his entry card is gone. We need to get in before they deactivate it."
~

My mind is running from thought to thought after overhearing Bronx talking to that weird girl. The fact that he stole my ID card and was sneaking into the Research facility was one thing, but what confused me more was the verbiage they were using. Glitch. Online. Firewall. It was almost as though I was in an Apple Genius store waiting for my I-Phone to get fixed. What was happening here?

Normally I would have called Dree, hoping she'd talk me out of my worst instincts but today was different. Today my curiosity had hit a whole new limit and was still going.

And so here I am, outside the research facility. This time I don't go to sleep. I'm wired on more coffee than possibly ever.

It was 3:32 am. No one was here. Weird.

There were multiple side entrances but most of them didn't take my level entry card. The building was very heavy on security and I had the lowest. This was the only one that would be able to open it. What confused me is that there was nothing in the part of the lab I had access to. Nothing but papers and locked computers.
I'm almost rethinking this whole thing when I see something. Dark shadows crossing the parking lot. They are all dressed in dark colors with a pop of color here and there. I think I can spot Bronx almost immediately but I'm not sure. They all had on cotton mask comfortably covers about 2/3 of your face leaving only your eyes exposed. I am staring at them and if I wasn't interested in following them before I definitely was now.

They just looked interesting!

They all had on these clothes I'd seen before but not with so many people wearing them. Clothes with a shit load of pockets, zippers to buttons, heavy duty snaps too. Hoodies galore and some even had bookbags.

I know at that moment there is no turning back.

~

"This is the first and last time I've given you permission to punch through walls," the voice of Bronx states.

A muscular man steps forward and clears the wall. I don't see it directly from where I am. A part of me wonders if he really punched through the wall and how it was fuckin possible. My heart is racing by now and I'm just assuming this is all explainable somehow. Maybe "punch" was some sort of frame of reference. Maybe he had little explosives with him. Who knows?

All I know one moment there was a wall---now there isn't one.

The group goes into a room blocked off from the others. I'm surprised there are no alarms but by the look of things, they have somehow been disabled. I'm wondering if it was one of them responsible for the alarms going off somehow. Were they that smart? Did they have those kinds of resources?

I had so many fucking questions!

And that's why I keep going. When they go in the room I'm following, eager to understand what is happening here. My mind swimming in curiosity. I peak in and notice a room with a bunch of computers. It's large and the group has broken up almost immediately seeming to start some computers.

They are looking for something...

"I have to take credit for this," one of them states, "I was the one who located the Rice kid..."

The voice is coming from a guy. He's a little shorter than Bronx. I can't really see anything about him in the room that they are in except for his eyes due to their masks. He's a black man with a skin tone similar to mine He also seemed to be messing around with this gadget in his hand that I'd never seen before. Next to him is another guy. Taller and more muscular than anyone else in the room.

"You mean blame?" the muscular one says, "This is a dead end. We've been looking for 15 minutes."

"It's in here somewhere," the boy states, "Bronx, any luck on your end?"

Bronx isn't answering.

One of the hoods come down and I see the girl with the mohawk, recognizing her almost immediately, "Ignoring everyone in the room is Bronx's favorite part of this tradition."

What were they looking for?

That's when I see something. On the other end of the room. I don't know why it looks familiar to me. Something from my childhood. I'm drawn to it. Drawn to the fact that somehow I'm walking over to it. I'd seen it before with my dad...when I was just a kid. I'm walking over to it almost as though I have no way to control myself. I'm not hiding the fact that I walk into the room in front of these people. They notice me halfway through.

"What the----"

"Mr. Rice?" the voice of Bronx states, "What the hell are you doing here?"

"He's glitching. He's glitching hard," one of his friends says.

"Don't stop him," Bronx states, "He recognizes the room. His father must have programmed a bug in the system. That must be why we are here. That must be what the SOS was. We are here to help Cassius get online..."

His face is lit up and I'm not sure why. The others seem just as confused as me. Well, that was overstating it. I had no idea what was going on. A bug? Programmed? There goes the tech terminology again.

I can't stop myself. I find a machine. I find myself knowing how to start the machine. 8 digits. It's my birthday.

Whatever was happening was because of my father.

I push a button and I black out...

~
When I come to myself I am still standing there. I'm still pushing the button.

"5'9". 160 Pounds. African American. Small but sturdy build," I hear one of the guys state.

Four people are surrounding me. One guy is the one who seems to be describing me. Then there is the ridiculously muscular guy. There is Bronx. And finally the girl with the mohawk. They are staring at me push the button like I'm some sort of art exhibit.

"What the hell is happening here?"

"Sorry, when I get nervous I spout random facts," one of the guy's states.

I look over, "What's happening?"

"You're pushing a button," the girl states.

"Why?" I ask.

She looks at me, "I don't fucking know. You pushed it! Jesus Christ, where did you all find this kid? Bronx is it OK that he pushed the button."

"Yes—-"

I sigh a sense of relief as I let go of the button.

"—-It's letting go of the button that's a problem," he finishes.

Too late. My body feels weird. Different. An alarm breaks out as though reacting to a change in my body.

And I turn. For some reason, I am getting more attention than the alarm.

"He brought himself online. No one has ever brought themselves online before..." the girl states.

For some reason, it's a big deal.

"One person has...his father..."

"Guys I would love to spy on your conversations and understand what is happening here but that alarm that's going off—-yeah that one—-that doesn't sound good..." I respond.

It seems like all of a sudden they are aware we need to get the fuck out of here.

Bronx reaches out his hand for me, "If you want to live, take my fucking hand. Mr. Rice, I mean it. Take my fucking hand. CASSIUS!"

I snap into action grabbing Bronx by his hand.

~

Gunshots. I don't remember where they were coming from. I don't get the chance. I'm being dragged, by the heavy hand of Bronx pivoting my body through the air like a rag doll. No shit there are points my feet are off the ground. He's focused, no sweat, no shaking. I have all of the signs of stress above. The others are able to keep up somehow as we cross the parking lot. More gunfire.

"AH—-sheeeeeyt!" My Body screams.

I think I'm hit but I realize that I've just fallen to the ground. I've gashed my leg. I'm bleeding. Somehow my hand slipped out of Bronx's hand. Perhaps my sweat. He stops running. More gunshots. I turn back and see something in the darkness. Sets of eyes. Multiple sets of eyes. In the darkness, I don't see the bodies attached to them. The only reason I can tell they are eyes is that well...

They were glowing red.

It sounded crazy. Maybe I was crazy. Who knew?

I think it's over for me until I turn back and see Bronx. He's standing a few yards away. There is a call from his muscular friend.

"LEAVE HIM!"

At first, I think he's going to do it. Probably he should. There is no reason he should come back for me. He didn't owe me anything. I'd followed them here. I'd blown their cover. I was the reason they were getting shot at right now.

But he doesn't.

He comes back for me. Bronx scoops me up. He's so strong.

"Hold on tight," he states.

I grab around his muscular body. I feel like a baby in his arms as he's hitting the concrete hard, clearing the entire parking lot in an inhuman amount of time.

We get to a car that is waiting for with the rest of his friends.

"He shouldn't be here. He can't come with us," the girl states, "These are YOUR rules Bronx. You said no one offline."

"He turned himself online," Bronx states.

"That's not possible," the muscular one argues.

"That button made it possible. He knew right where to go. It seemed like someone designed it just for him. Just so that he could turn himself online."

There is a pause. The girl has taken her mask off. I get the closest look at her that I've gotten thus far. She was brown, perhaps of mixed race. Her skin was lighter than mine probably around the same complexion as Bronx. She wasn't the prettiest girl but it was of no fault of herself. There was this harsh gash across her face. It seemed to completely scar her.

"They saw his face. It won't matter if he's online. That's just an excuse for them to erase him. They know who he is. He's as good as dead," she states.

"She has a point," the boy behind the wheel says, "His chances of being erased are almost at 94 percent. He didn't have a mask on. And they know he's online now."

"We do what Bronx says," the muscular man says, "He's in charge."

"Fuck..." I find myself muttering.

Bronx looks over at me. He puts his hand right into my blood as if it's the most normal thing ever.

"You'll survive."

I'm not sure if he's talking about the cut or the threat of being "erased".

"We won't," the guy behind the wheel says, "They're after us."

"Move," Bronx says, "I'm driving."

The distance was all that mattered. Bronx wasn't stopping for anything and he sure as hell wasn't taking his foot off the gas for a little rain. My eyes stayed glued to the GPS display tracking their position while the world passed in a blur of red and white lights. The hiss of the tires over the smooth tarmac was lost under the pounding bass of their preferred get-away music. I notice the muscular guy who was in the back seat with me pounding his head back and forth. The girl seemed to be looking out the window more interested in if they were being followed or not.

"We're not going to make it," the girl states.

Bronx leaned over to turn up the music and block her out. He has a focused look in his face. She was right though. We weren't going to make it. The gunshots had hit the wheel of the car we were in!

In that instant, he lost the opportunity to evade a broken-down car with its lights off. The tires were done. Even if he'd been paying attention he would have been hard-pressed to make the maneuver. As it was I barely had time to scream before the airbags knocked them back and sideways. The car tumbled over and over into the central barrier before coming to an absolute stop.

Silence. It scared me more than the pain.

Shouldn't the others be moaning or calling out? I tried to move but I was pinned by the collapsing roof and the steering column. My neck was too fragile to move...

"Dammit..." a voice states, "He's stuck."

I notice the person is Bronx. They'd made it out of the car somehow. Barely with any scratches.

I wasn't so lucky.

"He's not going to make it."

"He's online. He's one of us now," Bronx is arguing, "He's a part of the Revolution now. We can't just leave him."

"We have to."

That's when Bronx sighs and shakes his head. I scream out for him but all I get in return is a low soft, "Sorry." And that's when he leaves me. He and his fucking friends leave me there in that fucking car!

I feel empty. I feel confused. What had they meant that I was online?

I'm alone now.

That's when I look down. I'd been cut before. I'd felt a gash before. But something as different now. I could see something clearly now that I was online that I couldn't see before. As I look down at to see the deep cut my entire reality is blown.

Something sparkling under there. And a cruel realization what going "online" meant. It meant I was going crazy.

Clearly, I was crazy. Otherwise, it would mean I wasn't human.

Why else would their wires underneath my skin?

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