"How can you be so sure?" Roy asks for the umpteenth time. The clattering sack sways like an over-speeding swing, prepared to bash down any obstacles ahead.

We aren't passing the way we came. Compared to the trees on the previous route, these trees are like giants, and those are dwarves. The canopies entirely shield us from the harsh noon like mushroom caps. Bugs and birds alike are oddly absent. Aren't there supposed to be more nest materials here?

"Oi." A pebble hits my forehead. "Why aren't you answering?"

"Let's ask a newspaper collector in Dogson. He'll be happy to supply you with proofs." But once he gropes his pockets—possibly looking for his phone, my tongue is frozen in place. "Are you doing that?"

"My father has a friend who collects everything, even brooms."

"It was supposed to be a joke." I gulp down a nervous chuckle.

Roy snorts as he types. It becomes louder as his eyes meet a young scientist's photograph, barely gray-haired with a less-cruel smile. "I can't believe Jorge was more than a scientist; he's a roboticist. Why hasn't Sandra told me? Her dad is a zoologist, and they worked on a project together—" His eyes widen, like he just swallows a huge fly, and he masks his shock with a series of coughs, which sound like a dying engine.

I squint when a cave's mouth appears in the distance, shrouded in vines and parasitic branches of an enormous, bent tree. Weeds spread out like a welcome mat. Oddly, there aren't any other trees in a radius of two feet. "Why is this part deserted?"

Roy presses his smile as he paces to the cave. "Save that for another time."

Strangely, this cave is missing its natural humidity, which is supposed to exist since sunlight can't grasp into it too far.

The leaves blocking the entrance smells like chemical against dew. Roy plucks the final leaf on the frontmost vine. Before I can respond, the vines flick away. As if their limbs are controlled by machines, they settle back to their spots once we've entered. Subtle lights shower above us, casting our shadows like children on the walls. It takes a fully craned neck to view the map-like reliefs on the ceiling.

Roy carefully places the sack on a plastic-wrapped desk at the cave's edge. He tosses a white coat to me. Along with it comes a face mask, like the one he wore against the police. "Everything should remain clean in my lab." Various trinkets, old and rusty, pop out from the sea of actual junks as he unties the black sack. "Ah, lucky these were sorted before.

Is this really his lab? The floor, although not covered with tiles, remains dirt-free. Spiders are common in rainforests, but no webs are hanging here. The furnitures are countable by both hands, with only standard ones like shelves, tables, and stools. A huge chest, chipped with age, sits on the corner of the lab like it's the elder amongst the others.

Roy's title is clear—Mr. Scientist. But definitely not the next Jorge Zaragoza.

He scurries to a shelf full of odd objects. I tail behind him. My mouth slacks open beneath my mask at his collection of screwdrivers, colored cables, blacksmith's protection helmets, and others I'm unfamiliar with—especially those from the latest era.

His eyes lit up as he briefly addresses me. "Whenever I'm in a creative mode and Sandra's in that treehouse, this is where I go. Just to think, sometimes. That place is too small for this big head." He chuckles, pointing at his temple. He looks like a cat being proud of its... antiquity.

I chuckle back. "Anyone would die just to work here." Lame praise, yes, but—

"Not Sandra's dad, though." After scooping all the needed items in a small basket, he tips his head to a lone stool next to the shelf. "Take it and sit with me."

"What's with Sandra's dad?" I drag the stool to the said location.

My mosquito-bitten palm itches. When I look at it, a big black sack stares back. Beezus, how can I forget to reveal my sack? Roy is still engaged in his sorting, scoffing at those failing his elimination and carefully set aside those he picks. I pour my sack's contents from a good distance, away from his 'chosen ones'.

"He think I'm too nosy." Roy pauses his activities, noting the newer junks with caution. "I used to visit his lab and asked things. He's a zoologist at Dogson Police Department, under Dad's supervision. He treated me like a son, more than my dad did. Until I asked certain questions." Another pause. "Are you familiar with the term 'Chiroquin'?"

Like a light bulb, the answer flashes brightly—Auntie Morgan, wasn't it? "This must be about the gray thing."

He quirks a brow. "Yes. How did you and your auntie know anything about it?"

The memories are still warm, though it's been a few heavy days. "She explored OCZ and found it in their sewers. After she finished her research, she said the outcome could be used to overthrow someone." I pause as a shudder slinks up my spine. "Maybe I shouldn't have said that," I say in a lower voice.

Roy slumps forward, like a beaten scarecrow. Is it thanks to the bad memory? "I was there when Steven Hua and some others made it. I asked a lot. What was that for? Was it dangerous?"

At loss of words, I can only stare at the robot's lifeless eyes. The round, orange-faced, black-and-yellow-bellied—or is it neck?—creation lies down like it's napping, its yellow rabbit ears unmoving. A pair of metallic twig-like arms jut out of the other junks. Painted on its chin is a small banana; does it mean something?

"He didn't say why, but I couldn't touch it. I was so pumped up. When I tried to find Sandra, he grabbed my collar and looked at me like I was a mosquito." His gaze resembles the robot's empty eyes. His rare distress is suffocating me. "That was four years ago."

"Does Sandra know?"

He bites his lips, subtly shaking his head. "I won't talk about this around her." Bluish veins decorate his temples as emotions devour his eyes. "She doesn't know what Chiroquin does; she already has her own suspicions. But if she finally knows its purpose and who created it... I hope we're not the ones breaking the news." His knuckles whiten with every word. "She won't forgive him. And no one else—including us—either."

🐾

Roy rebuilds the mental shield he dropped within minutes. His old cheerfulness is back as his fingers glide over the crowd of metal pipes, rusty license plates, and other metallic junkies. "How big is OCZ's aquatic cage?"

Using my hands, I guess the cube's size.

"Hold still." He darts back to that shelf, later carrying a stack of blank papers, a ruler, and a pencil with him. After a few minutes of copying my mental imagery, he falls into a contemplation abyss, his hands folded after sticking the pencil into his mouth. "We need more mild steel. And we should look for Polyester Absorption Panels to soundproof it..."

I place the robot against the wall behind the desk. It's as big as a car's wheel.

Roy concluded that it's damaged beyond repair after slamming it repeatedly onto the desk, punching the banana button on its chin, and shaking it to no avail. "It can stay here since it's cute. An indirect gift from Jorge, I guess."

But is it really broken?

Turns out that their picture was on last week's newspaper. Why is it dumped just now? Has he given up on this robot? Is it too broken to fix, like Roy said? Or is it sent to track me? Another shudder snakes up my spine. It was found on my escape route, after all. I scoot back on my stool at the growing paranoia.

"Banana," I whisper. A sweet stench pierces me mentally, causing me to shiver. It's Jorge's breath from our last encounter. A flock of bad memories threaten to burst forth, but I rebuild the dam just in time, shoving them back to their posts.

But the most unusual thing happens in that sprinkle of time.

Like being snapped by electricity, the robot jolts to life, crackling and buzzing like a radio. Lightnings snap around it, followed by a gust of white smoke. Roy and I fall of our stools. We scamper back on our hands as it straightens on the desk, its blue eyes glowing.

"Damaged beyond repair," I quote.

"It was—I swear," Roy whispers back, warily eyeing the robot which constantly bumps its forehead against things on the desk. Odd glitches fill the air, sounding like a speaking toddler. Roy turns to me, awe instead of fear painting his features. "Banana might be the activation code."

After several intense crackling, it says with widened eyes and a childish voice, "Can Lin-Roy reassemble Xin-Yo, please?"

Roy recovers from shock quicker than me. Slowly, he approaches it when words are still too stuck in my throat. "What's your name? How can you know mine? And where are your hands?"

"Xin-Yo, Lin-Roy." Its bow is like an attempt to face-plant. "Xin-Yo can know any names just by looking at them. And Xin's hands are there, Lin-Roy." It tilts its head to the pair of branch-like arms.

"A few questions, then I'll help you."

"Roy." It's my first time seeing such a help-able being. Is this well-mannered, childlike robot really Jorge's creation? "Just help it. It's harmless—"

"Harmless?" he echoes, mockeries strewn all over his face. "Don't let anyone's good impressions fool you, Allice. Even a robot's."

Xin-Yo redirects its focus at me, wagging its holey shoulders, where arms are supposed to poke out from. "Allice Worke shouldn't trust too quickly."

What did it just say? Did it just lecture me—his defender? "I'm trying to help you." I frown. But its words trigger my suspicion, which existed before its awakening. "Why were you at the Selenite Landfill?"

"Selenite Landfill?" it squeaks out, fussing around the cluttered desk. When it speaks again, sadness taints its sentences, "Xin-Yo doesn't remember anything since last night's 8 PM news. Has Xin-Yo died of concussions?"

"Can robots get concussions?"

"What happened to you?" Roy angles the arms around the robot's shoulders. "What do you remember?" Before Xin-Yo breaks into another frenzy, Roy cradles it with gloved hands, observing its buttons and trinkets closer. After squirming for a while, it stops with a weak squeak, accepting its inevitable fate.

"Xin-Yo was beaten after the 8 PM news. Xin-Yo failed to cover the actual number of victims. Xin-Yo also failed to delete the zoo's data of animals' pick-up sites. And in the end, Xin-Yo was electrocuted by Mr. Jorge Zaragoza—Terminated." It shudders in Roy's arms, as if being rocked by an unseen force, and curls into a smaller ball.

Roy stares at me with bewilderment. "That must be why the website has been under maintenance since last night. And the breaking news on TVs all show the same number of victims this morning. I mean, logically"—Roy paces around the room, still cradling Xin-Roy—"they would change overnight. Hospitals have capable treatments..." When he finally stops rambling, he turns back to me, a smirk dotting his features. "Wondering why old Jorge doesn't want those truths published?"

I gulp, swallowing the sprouting dark thoughts in my brain—my locked-up relatives, the zoo-break, Sandra's dad and his band of 'Chiroquin' makers, various numbers and facts that Jorge bans from being published; which ends up with Xin-Yo being Terminated...

My throbbing brain needs a good tailor to sew those events together.

A/N: Hi there, thank you so much for reaching this part of the story! Whether you're a silent reader, a commenter, or a voter, I send you all my gratitudes XD

Anyway, an information: I'm planning to publish three chapters next week. So the updates will be on Tuesday, Friday, and Sunday (July 28, July 31, and August 2). If I find the new schedule suitable, I might update like that permanently. I'm trying to write new chapters and edit the available ones as fast as I can so it can join The Wattys, but we'll see about that :D

Thanks a lot for reading this and also for your continuous support. I really appreciate it :)

P. S. Also, a shoutout to Shreya_VA for making the aesthetic banner! Come check out her cover shop if you ever need some graphics.