My blood was soaked in adrenaline, yelling at my muscles to put its guard up through a shielder. The bullets ricocheted off the cerulean field of energy and smashed against the walls, machinery and computer systems. We collided with a couple of the men and tumbled along with them, serving a conundrum to their allies on whether to shoot or not.

I rolled out of the way as we came to a halt from our disastrous acrobatics to get behind my TS, then slipped off one of my shielders and flung it behind me at mom, “Hold the button!” I yelled. Within seconds, my TS was embroidered with holes and I put my remaining shielder up before I too met a similar fate. Three, I counted the remaining men. Their fire ceased when they realised my shielder’s energy field made their guns obsolete.

What now? I thought, my heart growing weaker with every passing second. The longer I took to deploy some sort of action, the calmer they would become–that’d be a dangerous scenario. My serpentine arm snaked into the side of my backpack and I activated a sleep grenade, then another three seconds later. The slow, suspicious movements I made had them on edge, but ultimately, I had the upper-hand since they could only react, not predict. I threw the first grenade and only deactivated the shielder for a split second. It exploded, spraying upwards at them and forcing them to decamp their immediate area to seek the safe solitude in a farther corner of the lab. The minute my eyes took notice of where they sought to go, I threw the other grenade there, somewhat cornering them. They were shocked, and a little confused by what exactly the grenade was supposed to do and that panic of theirs gave me just enough time to aim the Z-21. It was capable of shooting a bolt of energy, almost like a railgun shooting forth a laser. Certainly, a well-aimed shot would kill anything it came into contact with. I had it cocked and ready to fire at the closest man, but I just couldn’t do it. How could I? Repeating such a foolish mistake was not an option, despite wanting to protect the hostages–the greater good of the situation. In fact, just being in the mess meant I was arrogantly overstepping my boundaries.

But was this really the time to quiver in my pants? Failing here wouldn’t just mean the possible death of those behind me, but the death of me, which I detested so, when the barrel of that gun simpered at me. I knew this, and as these thoughts burdened my mind, the aerosol-like white of the sleep grenade began fading, giving them ample vision of me. Their silhouettes were easy to make out because of the outside light, so I had a clear shot. I aimed the sword at one and charged the UGO energy shot for a measly couple of seconds before an ear-rattling gunshot sounded from outside. One of the men fell forward. Two more shots were heard, and subsequently, the other two hired guns fell to their impending deaths.

Cennet strolled in, calm as ever, with a silver pistol swinging in his hand, “What a useless bunch,” he commented, dragging something behind him, something heavy. I rose from my crouched position to see over the desk that blocked my line of sight. “How long has it been?” his pistol-wielding hand forsook its job and rested the weapon on a nearby table, “Seven? Eight years? You’re thirteen, right?” he asked, releasing the grip on Anna’s hair–her head thud on the ground. She was passed out, and he had her hostage.

He was way too close to both Anna and that gun for comfort. Moving suddenly could be the death of her. How erratic he must’ve been to go through with all of this, yet contrary to that, the sheer amount of planning and calculation needed paid heed to how calm his state of mind was.

“Jon would’ve been thirteen too,” he said, throwing his lab coat to the side, picking up his gun and casually sitting atop the table next to him, legs crossed. That name, my heart dropped. I knew it would’ve probably been about Jonathon, but to hear those words escape his mouth in reality shook me in a way I couldn’t handle. This very situation were my demons coming back to set things straight, in their own malefic way. To think he’d just blurt out nonchalantly, something I’d buried deep inside for so many years was, crippling. It felt like dark hands wrapping around my heart, not to kill, but to maim. “So, how did it feel?” he asked me, motioning me to sit on a chair a bit at my right–not exactly the best position to mount into action. I backed up, slowly, giving a man with a hostage the respect he deserved.

“Come now, don’t stay silent. I’m being open here,” he urged me, with his usual pleasant smile. I knew exactly what he was asking me, but what in blazes had he expected of me? What was I supposed to say? It felt good? It felt bad? No description here would soothe his heart and give me the chance to escape a situation like this. Talking about how it felt to kill someone with their father was madness incarnate and would only feel like salt in the wound. The atmosphere was biting, the stares of those behind me shot arrows through me.

Without even looking, he pointed his gun at Anna and pulled the trigger, jumping everyone. Whether he missed on purpose, or for the dramatic effect of being totally random, I didn’t know, but it worked. “Wait! Wait,” I put my palm up, pleading, “don’t hurt her.”

“Then tell me how it felt, Jared,” he repeated, his calmness escalating the totally opposite effect in me. What an unreasonable question!

“I-it was…”

“Don’t play games with me, boy,” the metallic gun pointed at Anna again. I curled my fists and gritted my teeth, knowing my back was against the wall here. He wanted me to admit in front of everyone what I’d done. He stood up and pulled the hammer back, “Answer me!” he shouted, incredibly loud.

My pores raised, my heart exploded with each beat, a wave of unexpected choler washed over, “It felt good! It felt great goddammit! Jon wasn’t exactly innocent either!”

He smiled, gently put the hammer back into place and sat down again, “I know. I spoiled him rotten and didn’t have the time to correct his ways. He was no saint. But I still loved him. Does that sound familiar? She shows no love, no smiles, no care. She ignores you. But she still loves you.”

What is he talki–

“I believe in balance, Jared.” His eyes, those dead orbs that seemed to only live for living’s sake peered right at mom, then back to me, “How do you think it would feel for her if you died right here?”

Just as my mouth was about to open, mom beat me to it, “Jared, what is this about? What’s going on?”

Cennet didn’t take his glaring eyes off of me, only shifted his head to mom and back, gesturing me to answer her. At this point, there was no running, no escape. Chagrin engrained into me, digging my nails into the chair arm. Relax, I told myself, just, say it.

“I-I killed his son.”

Her lips quivered, she wanted to say something but the words drowned themselves in befuddlement. For someone so unnervingly apathetic, her eyes’ reaction was one of severe affliction. Surely, she didn’t expect me to be a murderer. No one expected that. Yet, after overlooking me for so many years, how dare she even act surprised?

“Don’t…” I muttered, “You, don’t have the right. Don’t pretend you care now,” I warned her for I was unsure of what impetuous action might spring forth from my body if she poured herself into this situation.

“Huh? Don’t pretend I care?! I’m your mother!” she yelled angrily across the room. My nerves screamed at me with their everything, to the point where my legs vaulted up. I stood up and faced her.

“You’re not my mother! You never were! Theresa was! And you let her die because you didn’t treat her at UGO! You think I don’t know you didn’t want to cover her costs?!” I screamed back, the well of shame and rage spilling over in my eyes, “You’re nothing more than a stranger with a title!” I didn’t know where these words for coming from, and even if I did, I doubt I’d have been able to recognise the festering mess that was the origin of my bittersweet resentment for her. The five-year-old me who hoped and begged for his mother’s love and affection after he’d murdered someone without a second thought was slipping farther and deeper into an inescapable oblivion.

So blinded I was by this built-up wrath, the rise of the rogue androids flew right over my head.

“Well, my job is done, for now. Diana Ugo. Jared ‘Ban’ Ugo. It’s been a pleasure, really. Until next time,” he waved his hand and left through the helipad a couple floors up. Even if I wanted to give chase, there was no way I could after that maelstrom of dismal truths emptied itself out into the open so brazenly.

Even with all the hardship I knew awaited me in the near future, one thing still bugged me. Who killed Theresa? That’s all I cared about, yet, asking the question completely slipped my mind. Well, it wasn’t like I needed to ask who did, but there was some much-needed closure that slipped right through my fingers. How insufferable.

What now? I looked at the dead mercenaries and the shaken hostages near mom. Police, I guess. No, wait, the details are still blurry. I was only five. It didn’t take long for me to realise that I could never be prosecuted like an adult–or prosecuted at all for that matter. At the time of my sin, I was just about to leave kindergarten. Young, brash, impetuous and ignorant. I didn’t know any better. They won’t do me a thing. Even though I realised this, regret’s claws had long since sunken into my flesh, like a garrotte. Thinking about it objectively, I knew I suffered a lot for it. I knew it wasn’t totally my fault, but it felt that way and I couldn’t just shake that feeling. Why the hell did I do that? A pencil to the neck would kill anyone. Even at five, I knew that much! Then, why? Why, Jared? Was I really afraid of being caught? Or afraid of seeing myself with blood on my hands again? I often thought of the me that killed Jonathan Cennet as a totally different person as a way to distance myself from the truth­–from me. The maiming recollection of that loathsome smile I donned after sticking him with the pencil, after seeing him choke and grip onto my arm in total shock actually made me happy. I felt free of his curse, but not so much the next day. Relief turned into remorse in the blink of an eye. “He deserved it. He deserved what he got.” I kept thinking to myself for weeks–months after the boy died. Eventually I couldn’t persuade myself that my action was justified, and my heart crawled in fruitless search for the attention of my mother. Mother. What a sacred thing a mother is. I wanted, so badly, so horribly and desperately to confide in her, to spill everything. To tell, the truth. But I knew she wouldn’t care, because she never did. What kind of single-mother only sees her only child a few times a year? Mine. My mother, one who would sacrifice her life for the corporate UGO, but never her son. Now, with some kid’s death she didn’t even know, she suddenly cared? Bullshit!

The murmurs kept getting louder as Cennet left and the workers eventually began getting up, out of the corner. Gently, I slapped Anna to wake her, and made sure she was alright. After that, I walked over to my still stunned mother and took my shielder from her. Then I left, without another word. The sun was scalding that day, scraping the skin off me as I sat mindlessly in the park. There were no thoughts, only white noise. There were no feelings, just existence. There was no past or future, just the present. A present of nothingness. Expectantly, it didn’t take long before I was found. Just a normal police officer, probably still a newbie, approached me with one palm facing me, in attempts to calm­. But, the other hand rested firmly on his firearm. He said he was just here to help, that I could believe in him. What a joke, I thought, noticing the arrival of tactical police not long after the officer’s slow and steady approach. What exactly was the description they used for me that earned the attention of these riot officers had me intrigued for a couple seconds.

Slowly, I dropped to my knees from the bench, then laid flat on the ground, placing my arms behind my back without them saying a word. The sub-machine guns they had pointed at me painted a clear picture in my head that this was an apprehension and not a rescue. Z-21 and my shielders, along with my pouch of grenades were confiscated. They handcuffed me, placed me in the rookie’s vehicle and escorted me to the station. The questioning went on for about an hour, with different interrogators taking the chance, but my lips refused to cooperate with them. I was burnt-out. Never would I imagine I’d survive a car crash, two android attacks, and a hitman that was only out to make me suffer. And now there was this situation, a brash decision to attempt a hostage rescue, which somehow worked out, for both me and Cennet. His plan was to get me to admit my wrongdoing in the first place. It was something I should’ve seen coming. It was something more agonising than everything I managed to pull through before; something I didn’t want to relive.

Not long after, they released me and returned the Z-21 and my shielder, since they couldn’t understand what they were in the first place. The grenades however, was another story, but mom seemed to take care of them. Money talks, after all. The grenades were returned a while after.

Mom and I were escorted home, and security was ramped up to near military standards. She apologised incessantly, and emphasised vividly, that she would act the way I wanted her to, all these years. She took leave from work even, just to prove this. I didn’t know why she did those things. Could it be because the shrink she had me see recommended a lax suicide watch for me? Or could it be she actually wanted to change, and that unattainable love was actually in reach? Even if I wrung my heart out, trying to find some kind of reprieve in my heart, it wasn’t there. The forgiveness and acceptance she sought from me just was not there; it couldn’t even be faked. I was becoming a husk, a hollow cask of null and void. After confirming my will to live, it felt like there was nothing to care for anymore, a devastating combo of purposeless living.

The psychiatrist visits were futile. Her constant love and care, or perhaps her acting, didn’t help. The talk of new projects and new technology was a squandered effort to relight the fire of creation I usually exhibited. The coats tried too, especially Anna, despite my unresponsiveness to every failure of stimuli they tried tempting me with.

I woke up, did the required things like eat and shower. Most of my days in the coming weeks were just staring out my bedroom window, looking for something; mayhap, not looking at all. Early at night, I would go to bed, as I was not stricken by insomnia as heavily. This cycle repeated over and over, until mom could no longer stand it. I knew it brought tears to her eyes, but I couldn’t react to them. It’s like I was dead inside, or a part of my brain responsible for the interpersonal and intrapersonal facets of my life had gotten swept away by Styx.

She took me out for a drive, a stupidly long one at that, consuming near half the day. We arrived at a rural town, worlds away from the estate as it was getting dark. She held my hand and brought me to a house, its aquamarine door standing out from the rest of houses. With a hesitant look in her eyes, she knocked a few times, her grip slightly tightening with each passing second, with each footstep the person on the other side of the door made. His white t-shirt was black with engine grease. His hair was low and his frame short and stocky, yet somehow compact.

“Diana,” he said, his tone quoting a contemptuous line from whatever old hatred he seemed to have. “What do you want?” he asked, wiping the dirt off his hand with a towel and tossing it inside somewhere.

Mom let my hand go and moved behind me to rest her palms on narrow shoulders, “Help,” she said, a faint whimper of desperation in her voice. At that point, I knew he looked at me, almost like he wanted to pierce through my skull with his eyes, but my head almost always hung low, so he hunched over a bit to get a better look at me.

His eyelids shot open, “Is, this…”

“I thought money could fix everything. I thought it was all we would ever need, so I-I,” she paused, “was wrong.” Her sentence seemed to switch ending. “I messed up, really bad. You were right. I know all the begging in the world won’t change your view on me, but at least, find it in your heart, please… to love him like you always wanted to.” There she went again, seeming to change what she was originally going to say.

“After all those years, you suddenly decide I’m good enough?”

“Please, I’m desperate! You don’t have to forgive me, but please, don’t hate your son for the choices I made!”

He exhaled wearily, “How could I?”