Robin Wasserman - Frozen

You have a computer inside your head, the Faith leader had said. Programmed by man.

Normal people— human people—didn’t adjust their programming. They didn’t rewire themselves with chips and wireless projections. They just changed. Or they didn’t.

“Anything’s possible if you know the right people,” Jude said smugly, like he said everything.

“What’s it do?”

“Let’s call it a vivid illustration of my point.”

I faked a laugh. “You want me to stick something in my brain based on your predictably vague recommendation?”

“I don’t care what you do,” Jude said, and the way he said it, I almost believed him. Not that it mattered. “Think of it as a dream.”

“We don’t dream.”

He gave me a knowing smile. “Yes. That’s what they told you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Only one way to find out. You say you’re not afraid, right? Prove it.”

I tossed his little black box back to him. “Just how stupid do you think I am?”

He smirked. “You really want an answer to that?”

“Excuse me for not just buying all your crap without question, like one of your brainwashed groupies.”

“I don’t have to brainwash them,” Jude said. “They know the truth when they hear it.”

“Unlike me?”

“Apparently.”

“So that’s what this is?” I asked. “You’ve made it your own personal mission to convert me?”

He laughed. It made him look like a different person. No, that’s not quite right. It made him look like a person . “See what I mean?” he said. “Total egomaniac. You should really get that checked out.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” I pointed out. “Following me?”

“Maybe I was just in the mood to talk.”

“To me?”

He looked around at the wilderness. “Seems like my only viable option.”

I shrugged. “So talk.”

“Let’s start with: What’s wrong?” he asked.

He almost sounded like he really wanted to know. Not that it mattered. “No. I’m not talking about me.”

“Because?”

“Recovering egomaniac,” I reminded him.

He grinned. “The first step is admitting you have a problem.”

“And the second step is acknowledging that other people do too. So let’s start with you. Why are you following me? Really. ”

He shook his head. “No cheating. That’s still about you.”

“Fine. How about: Where do you live? What do you do all day when you’re not stalking me? How did you end up a mech—”

“I told you before,” he said, the joking tone gone from his voice. “The past doesn’t matter. All that matters is what I am now, and that’s everything I want to be.”

“Come on, how can you say that?”

“Easy. It’s true.” His eyes flashed.

Everything I wanted to be had died in that car crash.

“You really don’t miss it?” I asked. “Not at all?”

He smiled wryly. “There’s not much to miss. We weren’t all like you.”

“What’s ‘like me’?”

“Rich,” he said, ticking it off on his fingers. “Treasured. Sheltered. Deluded.”

“Is this fun for you? Insulting me every time you open your mouth?”

“A little.”

I started to get up again, but he grabbed my arm. “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t go. Please.” I glared, and after a moment he let go. But I sat down again.

“You think this is some kind of punishment,” he said. And again it almost sounded like he cared. Or at least that he understood.

“I don’t—”

“You do ,” he said. “Because you don’t let yourself see the possibilities. All you can see is what you’ve lost.”

Everything.

“Some of us didn’t have that much to lose,” he continued with less intensity than usual.

“You do realize you’re being ridiculously vague, right?”

“You want something concrete?” he asked. “How about the way it feels to walk for the first time?”

There was something new in his voice, something ragged and unrehearsed, like he’d gone off his script and wasn’t sure how to find his way back. He sounded like I felt: lost.

“Or to know that nothing can ever hurt you again, not for real?” he continued. “How about never having to be afraid?”

I was afraid all the time.

If he knew how that felt, if he could understand that and had found a way to fight back, maybe I’d been wrong about him. About it all.

“That’s why, isn’t it?” I said softly. “Why you don’t talk about before.”

He looked away. “I told you. The past is irrelevant for us.”

“I’m not talking about us . I’m talking about you. ” Without knowing why, I wanted to touch him, to rest my hand on his hand, his knee, his shoulder. I wanted contact. “I’m talking about whatever happened to you. Want to talk, Jude?” I said. It wasn’t a question, it was a challenge. “Talk about that. Talk about how you ended up here. How you’re just like the rest of us.” I paused, not sure I should keep going. And when I did, it was in a whisper. “Broken.”

He raised his eyes off the ground and looked at me. “I’m not broken. And I don’t need your pity.”

Pity hadn’t even occurred to me. Why would it when we were the same? “I’m not—”

“Save it for yourself,” he said, his eyes flashing again, a yellow-orange that looked like flame. “Drown in it, for all I care. I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’m proud of what I am.”

“So that’s why you did this to yourself?” I asked. “Turned yourself into some kind of…”

“Freak?”

“I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Because you’re a coward,” he said.

“Shut up.”

“Afraid to say what you think. Afraid to do… anything . Afraid to accept the truth.”

“Shut up.”

“You can’t face facts about what you’ve become, and so you’re missing it.”

I had never met anyone so disgustingly smug. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” he said. “I know all you care about is what people think, and whether you look cool. Guess what? You don’t. Not to them .”

“Why are you so obsessed with all this us-and-them crap? There is no them . There is definitely no us. ”

“Why are you so determined to lie to yourself?” he retorted. “ They know you’re not one of them. When are you going to wake up?”

“What the hell do you want from me?” I shouted. It was too much. It was too much for one day, too much on top of everything. I couldn’t deal. I shouldn’t have to. “You want me to walk away from everything, to pretend the past never happened and that I’m not the person I know I am?”

“That would be a start!”

“I’m not going to destroy myself.” I tried to make my voice as cool and cutting as his. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“That job’s done. You don’t have to do anything. Just acknowledge the wreckage and walk away.”

I stood up—and this time, although he grabbed my arm again, I didn’t hesitate. His fingers wrapped tight around my wrist. He was the only mech I’d ever touched. “Don’t come looking for me again,” I said. “Ever.”

“Trust me,” he said coldly. “I won’t have to.”

“I’m going now.” I didn’t move.

“I’m waiting.” He was still holding my wrist.

“Screw you.” And then, somehow, my hand was on his chest. His fingers tightened on my wrist. He yanked me toward him. Or I lunged. He grabbed my waist. Or I dug my hips into him. Whatever he did. Whatever I did. Our faces collided.