Stewart receives a document entitled The Last Resort.

“This is highly confidential,” says Jin, gesturing to the papers. “Which means, you need to know that by heart. We need to open up a discussion with the Liberals by Friday.”

“This must be—”

“A little bit more than three hundred pages,” finishes Jin.

“Three hun—,” Steward scowls. “You son of a—”

“Our species depends on it.”

Stewart raises his eyebrows. 

“What’s at stake isn’t high enough for you?” asks Jin. “Weren’t you hungry for a greater challenge? This is the perfect opportunity for you. You can finally build what you’ve dreamed of and planned for your daughter Agnes: The Dykins’ Legacy!”

Stewart tries to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the weight of the task.

“This document must not leave the office under any circumstances,” adds Jin.

“Look at the size of this,” says Stewart, suddenly struggling to read the pages he is flipping. “It is impossible to read and memorize this in the next three days.” Bewildered, his doubts begin to constrict his mind like a vice. 

“You’ll have the document each time you come here,” continues Jin, waving off Stewart’s concern.

“But I—I need to be home for Anastasia. I cannot ask Agnes to take care of...”

Stewart rubs his eyes, hoping to see better.

“I understand, but this is the situation,” finishes Jin. “You have a good brain. The best one I know. If anyone can do the job, it's you, Stewy. You're a natural lobbyist!”

“A lobbyist?” wonders Stewart. This is not currently his job title. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re a Liberal politician with tight connections to Trudeau. Who else is better than your big, fat, and juicy brain to sell The Last Resort to him?”

The men cannot help but chuckle at ‘The Walking Dead’ reference.

“Hey walker, Rick Grimes will bust your head open with his revolver if you try to eat his brain,” replies Stewart, trying to dissimulate a smile.

“Aha, have you started the tenth season yet?”

“I have not even started the fourth season.” 

“You gotta catch up, Stewy.”

“You know how my work devours my time. And you know how things are at home. I have to be a father and—”

“A husband?” 

“L—Let’s start at the beginning, will you?” suggests Stewart as he thumbles through The Last Resort again in order to avoid the subject. “I understand that you will need me full time on this. So, tell me a bit m—more.”

“Calm down, Stewy. No need to be slightly Distorted here.”

Stewart takes a deep breath, knowing that stuttering is a symptom of generalized anxiety caused by Distortion.

“I know that I am too sensitive to any source of stress, especially the one regarding Anastasia,” says Stewart, slowing his breath to try and imitate the rhythmic, serene nature of a Johann Sebastian Bach piece; music his wife enjoys thoroughly. “Please Jin, tell me more about The Last Resort.”

“She will have only two goals. First—”

“Wait,” interrupts Stewart. “She?”

“Yes, she.”

“Who is that?”

“Baltazar.”

“B—Balthazar? That is a man’s name.”

“Baltazar without the h. It makes it more feminine.”

“Removing an h makes a name more feminine?” 

“Well, my artificial intelligence researchers don’t make much sense most of the time,” replies Jin, shaking his head and chuckling. “That’s why they are the best at reinventing the world.”

“Aha, yeah, I guess. Why that name?”

“Something to do about Babylonians, Sumerians, or some biblical stuff. You know how researchers are.”

“A woman’s name inspires and softens the hardest hearts,” Jin quotes.

“Inspires?”

“Listen, you should see how the name resonates; everyone here at Artify is mobilized and motivated. Even I read about artificial intelligence because I don’t know much about it. Can’t you tell how strong that name is?”

They both laugh.

“It does not make sense, but it is growing on me,” replies Stewart.

“No, Stewart. That, my friend, is your gonorrhea.”

They burst out laughing, pushing each other off.

“Man, you really know how to belittle an important meeting. You had gonorrhea, remember?” retorts Stewart.

“Yeah, I do. We even thought of calling the AI Gonorrhea in respect.”

“Aha. Okay, Jin! Stop it, will you? Be serious for once, Jesus.”

“Speaking of which, Jesus is mentioned in the document. Don’t ask me for details because I don’t know. Baltazar will be God, his father—I mean, her father, or whatever. ”

“Jesus? God? Did you guys copy-paste some Bible verses in that document?”

“You know how much of a believer I am, aha.”

“Okay, enough Saint Peter. Stop crucifying yourself and tell me more about her mission and what The Last Resort is about.”

“Alright, alright. So, first goal: she will continuously create deep learning machines to improve her understanding of what constitutes the human psyche. Second goal: she will cure mankind of Distortion without sacrificing any humans.”

“C—Cure? The Last Resort is a plan to make artificial intelligence save us? I suspected that you were working on Distortion. Our species depends on it. I should have known when you said that. That’s—”

“Over the top? You know me, I’m always looking ahead with only the utmost ambition,” says Jin, puffing out his chest like a rooster.

“S—So, let me know if I understand this properly because I—I—I have a h—hard time grasping the whole scheme here. In just a few days, I will have to read, understand, and remember all the details of a 300-page strategy document that aims to cure Distortion—a severe type of anxiety neurosis caused by multiple possible factors which affects everyone to some degree—with artificial intelligence so I can facilitate an agreement between Artify and the Government of Canada, thus making The Last Resort a success?”

“My brain. My lovely brain. You are my brain, Stewy!”

“Do you not understand how difficult that is?” 

“Yeah, of course I know, Stewy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be head of product and the CEO of Artify, the most appreciated and promising AI start-up on the planet. Thanks to venture capital for paying my yearly $250k salary.” 

“Okay, you are a big shot and a dominant male,” says Stewart, shaking his burdened head and trying to overcome a bout of Distortion. 

“I’m telling you, Stewy: this is enormous. I need you on this. That scourge can’t go on forever.”

“Have you heard the latest news?”

“I don’t watch or read the news, which you already know,” replies Jin, wondering why the change of subject. “I get utterly nervous when I do. I need to keep my mind focused and sane.”

“Special Law D21 got adopted today.”

Jin looks away, thinking about his son’s back bruises. 

“You and your son will be Okay.”

Jin remains quiet, and the silence becomes palpable, filling a growing gap between the two. The background noise of keyboard tapping and office chatter, usually ignorable, take charge to fill this gap in a loud, chaotic sort of way. 

“With Special Law D21, you cannot be arrested for what you did to Junji,” explains Stewart. “And you knew it was not your fault anyway, right? I mean, w—we all lose it at one point or another.”

Jin's hands shake under the desk, and under the weight of what happened a few days ago, when he raised his hands against his own toddler son. He was trying to concentrate on his work at home, when his son proudly walked into the office to show off his new Paw Patrol toy, a move that created some type of shock in Jin’s mind. In a spontaneous reaction, Jin slapped his son with enough strength that could have made an adult fall. The toddler spent twenty-four hours in hospital to monitor his condition.

“Yeah, that’s—that’s why The Last Resort is so important to m—me,” stammers Jin. “I don’t want to h—hurt Junji ever again. Kids should be able to play around their parents without danger.” The guilt keeps cropping up, with Jin unable to shake the images of Junji showing him the toy and Junji lying on the hospital bed. “I—I—I—”

“Y—Y—You c—c—can stutter too a—as I c—can hear,” says Stewart, pushing off Jin slightly with exaggerating imitation.

“Look who’s talking,” responds Jin, annoyed.

“It is hard to stay stable, I know. It has not been easy at h—home either,” says Stewart, looking in the direction of the exit. “Speaking of which, I should go see my wife.”

Stewart shakes Jin’s trembling hand and leaves. He passes through the open space office, keeping his head down to avoid eye contact and ignoring the usual din of the office. He heads straight for the garage and peels out of the parking lot in his black Mercedes. The radio plays, but Stewart’s clouded mind ignores it as if he had no ears to hear.

Journalist on radio

A spontaneous altercation took place yesterday at the College of West Island. Five students were involved in a violent fight. Three of them suffer from severe anxiety. None of them have been sent to the hospital. The Service de Police de la Ville de Montreal had to intervene once again. One of its officers was injured during the intervention. The woman is at the hospital being treated for injuries. Fortunately, these are not life-threatening, although she suffers from severe post-traumatic shock, official reports say.

    Instant bursts of violence, anxiety, and depression are on the rise in Canada. Compared to last year, similar events are on the rise by eleven percent and twenty-one percent for people under the age of forty. Trudeau’s Government struggles to find proper measures to reduce the acceleration of Distortion-related events. Canada and G7 countries are amongst the most affected locations around the globe, and they have yet to find any answer to fight the scourge.

    Doubtful solutions come faster than effective responses. It is the case of the controversial Special Law D21 adopted on Monday, December 2nd, which aims to reduce the amount of Distortion-related domestic arrests significantly. The Government of Canada has evaded all questions about the decision considered “rushed, unconstitutional, and irrational” by the opposition, which also attacks the Prime Minister for “violating basic human rights with a law that will harm more than help.” The minority Liberal Government defends itself, stipulating that “domestic violence cases are through the roof and can’t be fully handled by authorities and organizations of any sort.” The Prime Minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau, says, “It might look like a step back, but this will leave the police apparatus with more time to come up with a better alternative.”

“Oh man, not a—again,” shouts Stewart, dazzled by the bicolor lights of the police cars. “I am like twenty blocks away from home.”

Stewart rolls down his window and watches as the police officer walks towards his car.

“Sir, please stay inside your car,” says the officer.

“Another altercation?” asks Stewart. 

“Please sir, lower the volume of the radio.”

“How long is it going to take?” Stewart asks, complying.

“We don’t know. It may take a while. Please, turn off your engine and stay in your car.”

Stewart rolls up his window, silencing the outside noises.

“How convenient to have a 3.0L inline-6 turbo with an EQ Boost engine when you cannot even move,” he thinks. “When driving makes your trip longer than walking...” His eyes flick back and forth between his gold watch and his car’s LED clock accompanied by repetitive, growing sighs. 

“Anastasia...”

Feeling that he would be stuck there for a while, he mechanically turns the volume back up to its original level. His thoughts shift back to The Last Resort and the state of his wife.

Journalist on radio

As of today, the Public Health Agency of Canada has assessed the public health risk associated with Distortion as ‘medium’ for the general population in Canada, except for Montreal, Toronto, and Vancouver, which has been assessed as ‘high.’ Prime Minister Trudeau attempted to reassure the population, “Our message to Canadians is clear: to every worker and business, in every province and territory, we have your back and we will get through this together.”

    On January 30, 2018, the World Health Organization declared the outbreak of Distortion a public health event of ‘great international concern.’ Consequently, the impact on Canadian economic activity has increased significantly. Several months later, and we are still waiting for the Minister of Finance of Canada to present an effective plan to protect the Canadian economy from a potential economic depression.

⚮

Stewart drops his keys on the marble table by the entrance, making his daughter Agnes jump.

“Working late again, Dad?” asks Agnes, with the concerned tone a mother would have.

“The traffic was horrible again,” he replies. “What time is it?”

“Blaming traffic again?” she says, as her stomach agitates itself, pushing up the burning bile she despises so much. To ignore the taste of metal in the back of her throat, she pulls out her iPhone. She swipes and scrolls obsessively, absentmindedly. “It’s almost 9 pm.”

“Almost four h—hours to make five kilometres,” he retorts. But he knows that whatever he says will not matter, not when his daughter's face is tight with irritation.

“You should work from home, Dad.”

“Yeah, but I—I can’t—”

“How come?” she interrupts, frowning even more.

“I have to accept a new mandate which forces me to go to Jin's office early and leave late. I cannot bring work ho—”

“I see,” interrupts Agnes once again, snapping her head back down. Her digital device serves as an impassable barrier between them, the one that protects her from a father who tells her a little too much about what to do with her life to her disliking. A large snake flashes on the screen, forming into a circle. The video is Distorted Crows and the True Purification. 

The sight makes Stewart remember the discussion they had last night about a group of native protesters. 

He said, “The D—Distorted Crows are a bunch of Antifa lunatics. They are not honest activists.” To which she replied, “Their truthful beliefs of ancestral knowledge are better than the falsehood values of modern politics. You’re just part of a neo-Nazi, neo-liberal boys club that continues to lie and violate human rights. You feed the never-ending genocide against the first nations.”

He knew then that this kind of discussion should be avoided at all costs. Otherwise, she would never take over the political legacy he is planning for her, only giving her more reasons to go back to her teenage dream of becoming an activist—he could not risk it.

“Studying hard again as I—I see,” he says as he pretends not to notice the video displayed on the device. He despises the Distorted Crows because their snake crest has been seen more and more around what he considers minor criminal activities. He wishes for better influence for his 23-years-old daughter.

“Yeah, like you care,” whispers his daughter, reaching to the Political Science: A Global Perspective book on the fancy marble dining table to toss it over two other books (Women, Culture & Politics by Angela Davis, and The Chalice and the Blade by Riane Eisler).

 Stewart tells himself to ignore the books she covers as they trigger his appeal to conformism he was taught by his own strict father (who grew up in the fifties). He believes that saying anything about these books would only increase Agnes’s rebellious bitterness. Stewart pours himself a glass of water, loud enough to ignore his daughter's resentful whispers.

 “Do not go to bed too late,” he calls out to her. “You know how important having a good sleep is.”

“I know, Dad, but you know how things are today,” she says, fighting the impulse to browse political activist Angela Davis’s book. “Teachers drop like flies, and so do the students. Courses and exams are often postponed, some even cancelled, because of Distortion. I can’t take any chances. I’ll be studying global affairs for the next decade if I’m not careful. I’m trying to stay ahead.”

“You make me think of myself. C—Can’t wait for the Messiah to save the day, right?” says Stewart, tapping his daughter’s stiff and square shoulders with his delicate but warm hands. She feels the tension in her neck start to melt. 

“I am proud of you, Agnes. You understand the importance of doing what is necessary, even if you do not feel like it.”

The last few words prick at her ears, and she feels her body tensing up again.

“But you need to s—sleep if you want to protect yourself,” he presses, knowing he went a bit too far. “How good is it if your brain is already overworked?”

“Stop telling m—me what to do, Dad,” Agnes snaps. “You sound like a condescending—” Agnes stops, noticing that Distortion is growing within herself. She rolls her eyes and sighs loudly instead.

“OK, Agnes. I am s—sorry,” interrupts Stewart with the calmest tone he can manage to craft. He holds his hands up, surrendering. “I know I am trespassing.”

Stewart cannot help but notice the beads of sweat appearing on her forehead. Their breathing accelerates in sync, extremely vulnerable to the violence at which Distortion often takes over emotions. 

“L—Let’s c—calm down, Agnes.”

“I—I—”

“I know. It will be alright,” whispers the father, taking his daughter closer to him. “I am sorry.”

Agnes remains silent.

“I will make some tea.”

“Good idea.”

His inner tremor dissipates with the growing bubbling of water, and he lets himself go into the captivating phenomenon of boiling. His breathing slows down like a roller coaster arriving at the dock. He tosses some herbal tea into the cast iron teapot and brings it close to his nose. The sentiment encourages him to whip out a vinyl of Franz Schubert.

“How is Junji?” wonders Agnes, as the Minuet in A Major, D. 334 track dissipates the tension.

“I am not sure, Jin did not tell me. I think the incident troubled him considerably. He became restless after I asked.” Stewart believes that in the decades he has known him, Jin has never shown emotional weakness. 

“I—I—,”Agnes pauses for a moment, composing herself. She closes her irritated blue eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Why is everything getting so bad, Dad?”

“It got kind of hot in here.” Stewart removes his jacket and his t-shirt from his paunchy torso, revealing his skinny frame.

“But the device shows nineteen degrees only,” she says, slightly surprised by how Distortion can affect someone.

“It is a lot more difficult to calm down these days. Don’t you agree, Agnes?” asks Stewart, smiling.

Her lips borrow the same gesture. He pours some tea into dark, monochromatic and ornamented ceramic teacups. 

“I guess you’re right,” she says. “Oh by the way, I'm gonna start working out more. Like five times a week. I think it'll help me handle all the stress I feel with school work and everything that's happening. I’m also considering going out more often with some people from McGill College. I don’t like them much but it can’t be entirely bad, right?”

Stewart looks towards the second floor, absorbed in his thoughts, so much so he does not realize the tea he is drinking is actually burning his lips.

“It’s a good idea, right?” she insists, trying to attract her father’s attention. Even though he is sitting right beside her, they feel worlds apart. A vivid image comes to her mind, making her vulnerable smile dissipate. 

“Mom is fine,” she says, ashamed by this lie.

Stewart jumps at that word: Mom. It is the only word that could have snapped him out of his unconscious mind. He looks at his daughter, bringing the teacup back to the saucer.

“How is she?” he asks, rubbing his red, swollen lips.

“Same as usual... She’s drugged out and sleepy.”

“Did she eat today?”

Agnes rubs her diaphragm in an obsessive manner.

“Agnes, did she eat today?” he asks. His gaze stays fixated on the second floor.

“No, she didn’t. She—”

“I know she cannot swallow easily, but we need to force food into her mouth, Agnes.”

She stops rubbing her chest and grabs her t-shirt.

“Everything is going to be alright. I promise,” he says, refusing to look at her.

“The doc said she might have to take antidepressants for months. Is Mom really going to be alright? Tell me the truth.”

Stewart pours more hot tea into his fancy cup, despite the fact that it’s already full. Extra liquid spills out onto the wooden table, dripping onto his lap. 

“Careful, Dad!”

Confused by the flow of both the water and his thoughts, Stewart awkwardly wipes off the excess tea that is pooling on the table, ignoring that his lap is burned. He does not feel it.

“Is Mom gonna be alright?” demands Agnes.

“She went through a lot, Agnes. Her meltdown was odd and the doctor said that her nervous system reacted violently to the stories about our friend Carmen. Y—Your mother’s hallucinations and paranoia are pale in comparison to the teeth she lost because of Distortion. However, p—p—people come back from the worst nervous breakdowns. It is going to be fine.”

She knows that her Mom is not fine. She allowed herself to believe it when she said it, but hearing it from her father makes the lie unbearable. A chill reminds her how she despises deception. 

“It’s been a while since Mom talked. Last time, we couldn’t understand much of what she was saying with her half-naked gums. Carmen’s event really touched Mom, didn't it?”

“Yeah, it did. Carmen is a g—good friend of ours. Your mom could not handle the idea that someone as sweet as Carmen could ever hit her daughters violently, and repeatedly. Carmen used to be such a warm and tender mother.”

“So was Mom...”

“Because of Distortion,” says Stewart, ignoring Agnes’s comment, “we see more and more people doing awful things like C—Carmen did. I am sure your mom did not blame her or anything. Perhaps she could not handle reality anymore. The straw that broke the camel’s back, I suppose.”

Once again, he glances upstairs. 

“I still have a hard time explaining why Distortion hits someone so violently and spontaneously,” he continues. “Why did your mom react so violently? The story of Carmen is not an isolated tragedy. Such a story is common nowadays: non-predictive, irrational, and overwhelming bursts of emotions are frequent and lead to such regrettable events.” 

The two of them take a few noisy sips, submerged by hypotheses that are unable to satisfy their minds.

“The tea is good. Thanks, Dad.”

He nods softly, seeing that Distortion slowly gives up on them and leaves the room to the tightly-knitted relationship they always had before the scourge started to complicate it. A few minutes pass, allowing more time for them to calm down. Their breathing returns back to normal, which reduces the level of angst within them. Their minds untangle at the same pace. 

“Tell me, why does this new mandate given by Jin necessitate that you work only at Artify?”

“I have to work around a massive and confidential project,” he sighs, turning toward Agnes. “I am not allowed to bring anything home from the office.” 

“You’ll be working with artificial intelligence, I presume.” 

“Correct.”

“Another secret project?”

“You know politics, Agnes. There are things I know that should not fall into the wrong hands.” He knows he has already said too much.

“Yeah, right,” she says, doing everything not to roll her eyes. “You’ll have to sell the project to Trudeau?”

“I cannot tell you anything, Agnes. It is confidential.”

She sighs, believing that it is too easy to hide behind confidentiality agreements.

“You are so perceptive,” he whispers with a smile, thinking she is like her mother. “I am pretty sure you can understand what is at stake here though. You are walking in my shoes now that you study political science.”

“Speaking of science,” says Agnes, surprised by a sudden thought, an idea to discover what he is hiding, “I think this is really interesting: mixing politics and technology to change the world. How would a lobbyist be able to make the government embrace this new technology?”

“I do not know yet. It is quite a challenge to make a complex organism such as the government pivot to provoke meaningful changes with tech—” 

Agnes interrupts her father with a smirk. She successfully lured him into her web. Stewart looks at his daughter in surprise, imbued with dizzying pride. 

“Gotcha,” she says.

“I guess I will discover more tomorrow,” finishes Stewart, looking at his shiny watch. He knows it is the time to face the horrible and inevitable task that awaits on the second floor. He cannot avoid Anastasia any longer. “I do not even know if Anastasia is fit to realize that I will leave the Liberal cabinet and turn into a miserable lobbyist. What am I doing?”

⚮

Stewart arrives at the office at 5 am to avoid another traffic jam like yesterday. Plus, he needs to take advantage of all the time he can get to master The Last Resort by Friday. The cleaning lady unlocks the door for him. Winding through the dark, empty and quiet office enhances the feeling of extra space and calm he needs in order to focus on his task.

After pouring himself herbal tea, Stewart walks into the seating area with charcoal Danish-style couches. Before plopping down on one, he goes to the window to have a look at the Mile-End area, still illuminated by the street lamps. He looks at the bright cross at the top of the shadowy Mont Royal. A feeling of guilt takes over him as he spends a bit too much time procrastinating. He pressures himself to start reading The Last Resort document, which he does so for three hours, comfortably seated in the cozy furniture.

“A—Are you guys mad?” shouts Stewart after spilling cold tea all over the Danish table. The few employees who arrived a few moments prior without his knowledge turn to him, wondering who he is and why a stranger would yell at this time of the day.

“What is it, Stewy?” asks Jin from a distance. He also arrived a while ago.

“It—It is stipulated here on page 232 that Baltazar is going to take over global p—” Stewart pauses. “Baltazar is going to take over global fucking politics!” he exclaims, swearing unusually. 

People in the office look at each other with unease. 

“Don’t turn Distorted because of this,” continues Jin from his office, enjoying the scene. “It's just a document.”

“Just a document?” asks Stewart loudly, walking toward Jin’s office. “You are asking me to go to Trudeau’s c—cabinet and tell the Liberals that—”

“Come inside, Stewy,” says Jin, laughing. 

“Artificial intelligence is going to dictate how politics is going to work in a couple of years,” yells Stewart as soon as Jin’s office door is closed. He finds Jin smirking, hands behind his head and elbows pointed out. Stewart throws the document on the CEO’s desk, thinking Jin is over-confident about what he considers to be a strategy coming from delusional minds.

“This is insanity! How am I supposed to mobilize the government apparatus with such nonsense? This is science fiction.”

“This is deep learning, Stewy. This is just modern science. I know you have been living under a rock, but trust me—this is the future. Every powerful entity in Canada—and worldwide—will rely on us someday. This is The Last Resort, the plan to cure us of Distortion. Desperate times call for desperate measures!”

“I do not like where this is going,” says Stewart, taking his head in his hands. “The powerful entities you are referring to are not going to follow or even allow it. We are talking about astonishing disturbances in the global political power equilibrium.”

“What we are creating here at Artify defies brains such as yours. I like it! I’ve had many discussions with powerful parties, and I can tell you with confidence that they are all waiting for Noah’s Ark. We have to do something about the constant degradation of society caused by Distortion, or we will lose our chance to be able to do anything. That’s what The Last Resort is all about; we need to save humanity from this flood.”

Stewart crosses his arms in front of his chest. 

“Stock markets are plummeting, and that might not stop,” adds Jin. “Many big companies already understand that the nature of our business is their last resort.”

“I understand the idea of deep learning. I read stories such as AlphaZero beating the best Chess, Shogi and Go players on the planet only after learning how to play within a single day. But this is not about a game. It is—”

“It is the same thing, Stewy. Politics is a game of chess. You know that better than anyone else.”

Stewart closes his eyes and sighs at the sound of what Jin says.

“Everything is just a game for you, Jin,” points out Stewart. “Success is the only thing you take seriously. A game is about—”

“A game is about failing as often as possible and as fast as possible so you don’t fail when success is the last resort. Without deep learning, we can’t beat Distortion.”

“Distortion is not a player an algorithm can—”

“That an algorithm can beat?” interrupts Jin. 

The two men look at each other.

“Baltazar will beat Distortion,” says Jin.

“How will she do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Nope.”

“How am I going to sell this empty shell to T—Trudeau?”

“Baltazar will tell you.”

“She will?” 

“She’ll come up with a plan.”

“She’ll come up with a—Jesus!” shouts Stewart, looking elsewhere, waving his frail hands.

“She’ll do things even your juicy brain can’t comprehend.”

Stewart sits down and covers his eyes that are bothering him. Jin gets up and brings him a glass of water, knowing full well that his friend is afflicted by Distortion.

“Baltazar will create an Artificial Intelligence Galaxy where she will understand everything there is to know about humans,” says Jin. 

“This is t—too much.”

Jin sits down beside Stewart. 

“You know me,” says Jin, chuckling. “Come on, don’t take it so seriously. It’s just a game!”

“I hate technology, you know it,” says Stewart, dismissing Jin’s meager remark. “I do not know if I am the right p—person, Jin. Technology and I are not a good match.”

“No one else can resolve this part of the problem—we can’t make it without political power!”

Stewart is attentive, although restlessness is overtaking his mind.

“You’ve got to trust Baltazar, Stewy. You just need to meet her.”

“Meet her?”

“It’ll be better for you if you go ahead and get along with her. Just don’t touch her ass or I’ll have HR on your back.”

Jin burst into laughter. Stewart pretends that it is not funny. His face forces itself not to bend under the weight of goofiness.

“You are killing me, Jin. You know that?”

“Sure, I know. I like poking at your—”

“Leave my brain aside. Baltazar’s brain is the brain to poke right now, not mine.” 

“Right. Just don’t poke her ass, aha.”

“Does she have one?”

“Not yet.” 

⚮

Agnes wanders on rue Sherbrooke Ouest while waiting for her friend. She looks through the black fence, peering at the nineteenth-century buildings of the McGill campus. She notices how they are overlooked by the college students walking among them. They are all looking for something that is not found in the present, whether down on their iPhones or down at the ground, buried in their own minds. It makes Agnes remember a quote from the Distorted Crows YouTube video she watched earlier:

The memories of European vestiges could explain a thing or two to the ego-absorbed North Americans, such as how it was to interact with communities that were in harmony with a virgin land of abundance, untouched by the concepts of distraction and self interest. The first nation heritage evaporated when that harmony was exchanged for peace treaties—the deceitful agreements that led us toward the modern time of hollow humans.

Coming from afar, she sees her friend Edvard rolling through the crowd, clearly entombed in his own thoughts. She notices that he is about to crash into a young woman.

“Hey! Be careful, Edvard! You almost hit that girl,” yells Agnes.

“You shouldn’t ignore a cripple in a wheelchair, dumb bitch!” shouts Edvard at the woman who ignores him entirely, engulfed in her iPhone. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“She probably didn’t mean to,” says Agnes.

“Whatever. I don’t care,” he says with his dry, and unsettling voice.

“Don’t play tough with me. I know you.”

Edvard pulls out his iPhone, displaying a notification.

“Dude, I just received an email from my publisher.”

“What does it say?”

Edvard launches the email app.

“Mr. Wolstenholme, we are proud to announce that we have sold a million copies of ‘The Talking Robots,’” reads Edvard. “I can’t wait to make my next YouTube video and share this with my followers. This is perfect to boost my fame!”

“Good for you, Edvard, but it’s not a reason to insult people on rue Sherbrooke. You care more about people than that.”

“What’s one idiot on the street when thirty-two million followers idolize me?” 

“That’s so you, Edvard, acting like you don’t care about people.”

“Anyone could have done what I did.”

Agnes frowns, doubting the motivation behind this equally suspicious surge of humility.

“Once you find what you really love,” he continues, “the only thing you need to do is to do what you love. I found what I loved at sixteen years old.”

“You wrote The Talking Robots when you were sixteen years old?” asks Agnes, looking up into the sky, amused by her friendly jealousy and overtaken by admiration.

“I finished writing it at sixteen years old. Then I wrote The Crippled Orphan a few months later, the book that made me famous.”

“You are reaping what you sowed, Edvard. You have every right to be proud.”

“I am proud! But being famous isn’t important in the end.”

Agnes looks at him and frowns once again, knowing that being famous is really important to him. She knows he wants to be seen and appreciated despite his fragile condition, and fame is how he gets what he wants. She recalls him saying This is perfect to boost my fame. The contradiction annoys her. However, she recognizes that he has a hidden gift, a power that can help the people in these odd times. 

“You changed and are still changing millions of lives with The Crippled Orphan,” she says. “That’s the proof of that gift you have. You reach people’s hearts and change them positively. We haven’t been friends for many years, but I can feel that you helped me to raise the bar higher with incisive honesty, tough love and wisdom, even though you don’t show the last one often. It’s good to be around smart people. Young adults usually feel shallow to me. I admire your devotion towards your writing as well. It inspires and changes me I think. I see you as the best friend I never had.”

“Oh yeah, dude. Millions of lives!” exclaims Edvard, ignoring the long response.

“Jesus,” Agnes whispers, shaking her head as she wonders why she even tries to have that kind of discussion with him.

“I sold more than five millions copies of The Crippled Orphan and the number increases every day. I’m so famous!”

“Well, I hope I’ll be able to change the face of the world, too,” says Agnes, with less enthusiasm. Her teenage dream of becoming an activist keeps moving further and further away with every step she takes into politics.

“International affairs will allow you to do it.”

“I am not too sure about that,” she says faintly, overtaken by the dying wish of becoming a militant. 

“What do you mean?”

“I—I don’t think I found my way. But my father...”

“What of him?”

“He would be so proud that I walk in his footsteps.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Mom would also be—” 

Agnes’s throat tightens, as she is struck by the image of her mother Anastasia regurgitating the food she gave her this morning, unable to swallow. 

“Dude, don’t mind your parents. Do what’s best for you, although I’m pretty sure your brain and international affairs are a good Tinder match. You will achieve what you want, I know it.”

Agnes sighs and looks away, her dark blue eyes filled with tears.

“Yeah, I guess I could be a great politician,” she says, wiping off her eyes without Edvard noticing.

“Dude, that’s the spirit. You’re a winner like me. You might not have millions of people relying on you yet, but I don’t see you as any different to me. You are just a late bloomer!” teases Edvard.

“Maybe I could start a YouTube channel and talk about dating, just like you do ,” she says sarcastically.

“See? You’re getting it.” He laughs.

“No, I don’t. I still can’t understand how you can talk about subjects that don’t have any connection to The Crippled Orphan, which is the main reason why you are now globally famous. I mean, it’s not like you’re a specialist in the subject of love.”

Edvard stops his wheelchair by gripping the wheels with his large, strong hands.

“People want to relate to people, not books. I am a story greater than my books. They want to know how the character they like—me in this case—dates girls, because everyone is interested in the subject of love. My disabled state and the tragedy behind it enhances empathy—I know my business. I’m good content, and it’s good for my business. And if it’s good for my business, it’s good for me.”

Agnes looks at Edvard with eyes that reveal mixed impressions.

“I also sell them the dream of being successful. If I know how to become a successful writer, they think that I know how to be successful in anything, including love. I just tell them how I act on a date as my latest post title suggests: My Secret to Getting Laid on Every First Date.”

“Does your secret work?” she asks with a bad taste in the back of her throat, catching his lie. He has never dated since being wheelchair bound.

“One date out of two, yes. Aha! Hell, if a cripple can write a book and be famous, why can’t he have all the girls he wants?”

“You are such a character, Edvard,” she says, shaking her head, accompanied by an awkward laugh.

“Every great character has a great story to tell. You are a great character, too. Do you want me to tell the story of Agnes the Dauntless?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“Dude! I’m really considering it for my next book.”

“No, thank you!” She chuckles, touched by this rare sign of affection.

“God Edvard can do anything. I can even talk about politics. I’ll invite you to my live streams.”.

“That would be a disaster.”

“People love disasters. Otherwise, they wouldn’t like the news.”

Journalist on TV

A group called the ‘Distorted Crows’ seem to have outspoken opinions about the measures taken by the Liberal Government of Canada to lower the growth of Distortion. For the fifth time this month, graffiti was removed from the Parliament building in Ottawa. Again, ‘Truth Shall Prevail’ and ‘Distortion is the Truth’ were written on some of the stone walls.

    Canadian authorities have yet to confirm who exactly is behind these actions. They are tightening security around  Parliament to prevent such acts of terror from happening again.