The Anti told me I had to stay in a little room all by myself.

I hated doing what other people told me to do, but ever since I accepted to be his Visionary, and he gave my Dad a promotion, the unspoken pact between us was that he would talk, and I would try my best to listen.

Being left all alone in that clean, dry white room that reminded me of the room I had in the hospital made me lose my shit, so I found a wrap-a-pill in a pocket of my black trousers and spent the next remaining forty-five minutes making funny faces at myself in the mirror.

As a kid, when I wanted to lose myself in my thoughts, I took a mango flavoured wrap-a-pill (the one they used to give dogs, but recently they have been commissioned for the lowest member of the human race as well. They don't keep your stomach empty and they get you high) and laid on the cement outside my house pretending I was in my garden.

I remember that one day the heat almost killed me. I passed out because I had too little to eat. Story of my childhood. That day, my father was particularly upset, so he beat me up. I learnt my lesson and I never did it again.

It suddenly occurred to me that I didn't always enjoy being ugly. Of course, one day during my adolescence, the idea was bestowed upon my brain by some kind of cosmic force: if you are ugly, you are free. No one to tell you what to wear, what to not do to your hair, no one at your mother's funeral who feels some kind of first-hand embarrassing pity for you, like 'look at that poor little kid, so cute, and an orphan already.'

Maybe I am overreacting with the funeral thing, everyone wants to be pretty at weddings and funerals. But generally, being ugly is a virtue. You can focus on the things that matter.

I didn't always think this way. When I first went through puberty, I hated that I just didn't look good. I had long, white limbs, bad skin, bad teeth and generally speaking I wasn't the picture of health. I had fluffy reddish hair and people always told me I was cute. My father had vintage books with pictures of elves and fairies, and told me I looked like them (my father was Scottish, so he loved his folklore) but it wasn't interesting to me. I wasn't going for the King of the Fairies look.

I wanted to be handsome, and I just wasn't.

I clearly recalled thinking that even boys like me deserved a little love, and all those cringy Disney clichés you get only if you're good looking. But, back then in front of the mirror, I had a lot of time to think about it, and decided all of those kinds of things are not so cringy if you're the one who finds them. The losers always want to feel like the winners.

I hated physical contact and the idea of forming a relationship with anyone had always been very far from my mind, so I never asked anyone to hang out.

With a father like mine, even in a year like 2053 I was still a little ashamed to be interested in all genders. And it wasn't only that. I used to imagine a good-looking person who would come to me and tell me...

Well, something. And something nice, not something like, "You're what happens when the devil fucks a scarecrow."

Or something along those lines, you get the idea. I think I masturbated, once or twice, but it was as far as I could go.

"Until?"

It suddenly looked to me as if somebody had asked a question. Maybe it was myself, in the mirror.

"Until," I said. "One day, approximately one year ago, I felt very sick and tired of the idea of being a virgin. I thought it had to represent you, in some way, you know. I didn't want to identify as a virgin, it was a flag I was not going forward to carry. So, I asked one boy after the women's soccer game to come hang around with me, and I tried to make it clear how the situation was.

You know, the usual things... I kept to myself, I tried to blush at the right times, one time I even held his hand. He took away his hand as if he'd been burnt, and pretended what I did was an accident, so I let it go and tried to pass it off as something I had really done randomly. Until, finally, I gathered the courage and asked if he was like me.

He seemed to understand what I meant, he said yes. So I asked him if he wanted to do it, and he asked, do what? I replied, do you wanna blow me? and he asked, for how much?

And I kind of lost my mind because I thought he wanted to be paid to blow me, as if it was some kind of punishment. But then I thought people liked going to prostitutes rather fine, even the old and ugly ones. I must have misread his feelings, because I said, 'You can pay me if you like'."

"And what did he reply?"

"He replied, 'Have you taken a look in the mirror recently? Why would I pay to suck that, if I wasn't even going to do it for free?"

The person who had asked me all the questions started laughing, and clapping his hands. Knowing how to hide my embarrassment, I turned around.

It was Michaim Toutatis.

"How long?"

"I've heard all of it," he said. "Starting off from when you wondered when you stopped caring about being ugly. No, don't look at me like that. You're a natural talent, Mister Iris. You're already ready for interviews. Just keep it low and dirty like that. They will love you."

I arched an eyebrow. "I do not think so. What I found in my pocket. It wasn't a wrap-a-pill, was it?"

"MDMA," The Anti replied. "I dropped it there. A little surprise for my Visionary. Hang around, and you can have as many as you like. I see that they bring out an amazing theatrical vision in your pretty sterile personality, if I do say so myself."

"But..." I tried to reason. I had heard too many horrible stories about people drugging you and taking advantage of you. "You could have done whatever you wanted to me while I..."

"Let me rephrase your sentence, Logar," Michaim said with a sweet smile. "You're what happens when a killer doll fucks a scarecrow. I'm sorry if you were feeling differently about me, but you and I? Never going to happen. You do know that my anti-gay politics are this way only because the President likes people like you, and I have to do the opposite of what he says? When I take a picture with all my eight wives and a publisher writes under it, 'This is a real family', we're obviously just taking the piss, right?"

"Right," I replied, rolling my eyes in the back of my head.

"However, Mister Iris, I want to make this one thing clear between me and you. I know you've expressed feelings of wanting to be my bitch before, but this ends now."

"But I..."

"No buts, Mister Iris. I am not that way inclined, and it honestly shocks me to think a person such as yourself can lead the Vision without putting your selfish unnatural needs first. So, keep your romantic and sexual preferences to yourself, and don't make them known to me. Even if I did screw boys, one like you wouldn't cross my mind."

"Geez, thanks," I curled upon the floor.

"What are you doing?" Michaim Toutatis asked. He actually gulped. I knew it. I had seen it coming. For all his words, he was a coward.

"You drugged me," I replied, emotionless. I could feel the cold pavement under my cheek. "You drugged me, and now I'm going to die."

"Don't be foolish," Michaim said. He was trembling.

"I'M NOT JOKING," I yelled. I had no idea who could be around, but it was good fun in any case. If somebody discovered us, the better. "I feel like... blargh! I feel so close to puking. What if I choke on my own vomit, Mister Toutatis? People will find me with you. They will know you drugged me. They must be under the impression that you wanted to get under my panties! It's hot pink briefers, just so you know. You're welcome. Now that you know what my panties look like, will you let me go Mister Toutatis? Pretty-please-let-me-go?"

I started rolling around on the pavement. "Because I know what dear old Daddy is going to say! He will shake his head and say, I knew it. I knew my little Loggie liked men, but I've never expected men to like my little Loggie."

Mister Toutatis was not half as enraged as I'd hoped. He started laughing. He kept repeating, "Brilliant! Brilliant!" and, "If only I could have filmed you..."

I almost laughed along with him. The fake seizure had been fun, and I was almost glad The Anti shared my sense of humour.

Until I felt a boot weighing on my right hand, nearly crushing my fingers.

I looked up, and it was my turn to gulp. The Anti had hot white fire burning in his eyes.

"Fool me one more time, especially claiming those lurid things about me and you," he said. "And I will crush your fingers one by one as the filthy naughty boy you are. Do you believe me?"

I nodded once for yes.

"Oh, and one of those days, I'll let you meet the others," he smiled in a very fake way. "When you do get to meet them, don't get attached. If the mission fails, I'll make your sniper shoot you one by one."

"Do we have a sniper?" I asked.

"Not one word from that filthy mouth," Mister Toutatis said. "One day I will have to wash it with soap, but not before I wash the dirt off from the rest of you."

With those last words, that actually sounded like a promise to my ears, more than a threat, he left the room and locked me inside.

That was when I realised the truth.

I was his prisoner until he wished. Certainly, until he said so. One of those days I would get out, to meet the others, but I didn't know when it was going to be yet.

In the meantime, I should have at least tried to obey his commands. I owed it to my father.

The Anti wasn't back until the next few days. I had been given nothing to eat for that evening, so I laid down on the floor, and tried to sleep much earlier than I was used to.

Because in the room, I didn't even have a bed.

At least there was air conditioning.

While I was on the floor, guilt was eating me inside out. What would my father say? I knew him enough to know that behind his rough exterior, he would never be happy with his promotion until he could share it with me. I could imagine him waiting for me to come home, to give me the news. He must have thought I had run away. He must have thought I had gotten myself killed, somehow.

He must have sighed and decided that, after all, I was the failure he always thought I was going to be.

I started crying very soon, and I had to bite on my lips not to whimper, because I had no idea if The Anti was sleeping in a nearby room. With the little I knew of houses, I had, in fact, understood where I was.

I was locked up in one of The Anti's many toilets, inside his mansion. Comfortable enough that I wouldn't die, seeing as I had air conditioning, water, and a place to do my earthly duties, but uncomfortable enough that I would learn my lesson, since there wasn't a bed or food.

I had to congratulate him in my mind. The Anti was a pig, and a coward, and probably even a thief, because, let's face it — how could a man of his low IQ could come up with flying machines?

But when he wanted to, he was a genius. He really knew how to get at people. He hit where it hurt the most.

And you could say everything you wanted about my lonely childhood. Nobody had ever done that to me before, and I started feeling especially vulnerable, because I had a lot of places where if you hit me, you would hurt me.

I had places that if you'd hit in the right way, you could have killed me.

The morning after, Michaim's wife Marian opened the door. "How are you doing, hooligan?"

"I've never hit anyone at the games with my umbrella," I replied. "Okay, it was one time. How come you know all about me, either way? Would you prefer to eat something different?"

"Excuse me?" she asked. I didn't like her that much either way. She had worry lines on her face, and looked like she never smiled.

"You know, I have something here for you if you like sweet things. And if you like the taste of strawberry... blonds."

What could have looked like a little smile before was completely dropped off of her face. She went absolutely still, until she said, "You idiot."

"Don't worry, I don't like you either way," I explained. "And your husband already turned me down." I flexed my hand so that she knew it had something to do with it. "Ow."

"But I did bring you something to eat," she specified. "In the literal sense. Don't be dirty minded. Not that you're not cute..."

I bent a little to grab the piece of bread she was holding in her hand. It was stale, and about as big as one of the bathroom tiles, but I felt as if I was in heaven. "Well, today I did get to first base," I said. "You're the first person who tells me I'm cute."

She laughed just a little. Then, she said, "Don't be pathetic."

She wasn't saying it the way some men would find hot. She was saying it as if it was very true and somehow sad, that I was pathetic, and I couldn't help but feel a little depressed. However, my jokes did make her laugh. I guess it was all I wanted, in the end. To be approved.

"Michaim told me to bring you your breakfast," she said. "He gives you permission to drink the water from the faucet if you're thirsty."

Oops. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt.

"Do you know about the Vision?" I asked.

Her face became suddenly pale. "Don't tell me anything Michaim wouldn't want me to know," she said. And I thought, wow. Marriage goals.

"However, I do know. A little. Society needs to be shaken, yes, that's true," she didn't look very convinced. Only in the exhausted way anyone who had lived most of their life in Silkton and was under twenty-five could be, but definitely not more than that.

"I'm glad you think that," I said, a little, knowing smile perched upon my lips. "I'm the Visionary."

"Yes," she smiled tightly. "I've seen you shake."

"Either way," I said. "If you mind, turn around so I can take a leak. Also, if you don't mind. No lucky lady or man has seen my naked nether parts and I'd like to keep it that way for today."

"Do you really have to..." she started to say. "I'm leaving now."

"Please, remain, I'm sure you won't feel tempted," I replied. "I look as if Jack O'Lantern and Margaret Thatcher had a child, and he was ginger."

"What the..."

"Either way, your husband is creating this army. We shall bring the Vision, and I'm the leader, the Visionary. Then there is the Armed Hand — she has a rifle! — and the Grenade. I don't think she has bombs. But Michaim said she is a bombshell! It doesn't matter to me, but I hope this matters to other people. Maybe they will take pictures of us. And then there is someone else, I just don't remember who..."

I put my trousers back on, washed my hands and used what looked like expensive towels to dry them.

"The Diplomat," Marian said. She was still turned around, giving me her back.

"You can turn around now," I noticed my tone was a little sweeter. "I'm not like Michaim. I don't force people to do anything they don't want to do. You can leave now."

"No," her green eyes were full of something that resembled sadness. "I know about the team he's making up. He's told me a million times. But you must listen to me, Visionary. He doesn't know what he's doing. He will tear you apart."

It took me a while to understand what she meant. When I got it, I started to laugh, and if I had my way, I wouldn't have stopped laughing to this day.

"I know," I said, between breaths. "I know. Why do you think I accepted? He was going to fire my Dad. Might as well get some money from it, I thought. Right? Right?"

Marian looked at the floor. "I should go," she said.

"Wait," I called after her, before she could lock me up. "Wait, your husband will pay us, won't he? Won't he?"

The door slammed close in my face, and I started banging it with my fists. When I saw I was getting no reply, I started throwing every single thing I could find around.

Then, I had the best idea. I figured a man like Michaim would simply buy back everything you broke, so I had to use something that even he couldn't have in excess.

I had to take it away from him. Like the cake I had stolen at the party. Take something away from the man who has everything, and even he will feel threatened. It's human nature. The survival of the fittest.

In my case, the survival of the pettiest. But I stood a chance. It was true that times were changing.

I suddenly recalled the sensation I felt just a few minutes before, when I opened the faucet and washed my hands.

The water actually felt cool and refreshing. But my hands weren't hot in the first place. Did Toutatis have an impressive air conditioning system? Everything was possible.

The toilet was actually almost cold.

I started to look around for any tool or device that could have told me Michaim Toutatis had an air conditioner, but I found nothing. Maybe he didn't have it on in the toilets, but it was cold and I had been locked into it for so long, the refreshed air could not have moved from one room to the other.

I looked around all day, and even used a screwdriver.

My research led me to one, impossible, almost magical, result.

In the hottest city in the world, Michaim Toutatis' house was naturally cold.