Displaced - Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Chapter 12

Eric walked along the streets of 1950s Los Angeles, face flushed. It was Arvin the entire time.

The newspaperman turned gunman, who confronted Eric in the alleyway, then drew a bead on his chest, turned out to be an avatar controlled by Arvin.

After Arvin holstered his pistol, he and Eric decided to head back to The Clover, then talk things over. On the way, heat washed over Eric, the warmth pouring from his side. Clearly, Arvin was bothered, and Eric wondered what might've upset him.

True, their initial encounter was rife with intensity, but when their identities surfaced, the tension quickly subsided, or at least for Eric it did. Arvin hadn't relaxed since. Why not?

Eric cast a sideways glance, eyes narrowing. If anyone should be upset, he should be the one, since he stared down a pistol barrel, not the bot.

Eric faced forward, digital body shuddering. Simulator or not, the alleyway's intensity soaked into his bones, soaked into the mind that would eventually leave, but with a horrific memory in tow.

The occurrence carried deep implications, and he wanted to consider these, but not now. Instead, he enjoyed the sight beside him–Arvin, his robot client, in human form.

Arvin felt Eric's amusement, he didn't read it. In human form, Arvin could no longer read bio-human data, but perhaps he was better off. With Eric likely discharging pink and purple ribbons of glee, this might prompt a reemergence of his pistol. Apparently, human limitations had advantages.

"Back so soon, are we?" the waitress playfully asked Eric, the same waitress that took his order. She then feigned sadness. "And I'm sorry to tell you this, my dear, but your Guinness is gone. But if it's any consolation," she continued, patting her stomach, "she's in a better place."

Eric smiled. "Well, that's something to be thankful for." He turned towards Arvin, but spoke to the waitress. "And here's the friend I was looking for. Mind if we sit at the same table?"

"But of course. Come along then, lads."

She turned and walked the lads back to Eric's old table. Then as the men settled in, she inquired about their order. They went with two glasses of Guinness, and she left to bring them over.

Arvin eyed her as she sauntered off, then when she stepped out of earshot, he turned back and leaned in. "Just how fucking stupid are you?"

Eric jerked back. He never thought that Arvin would speak to him this way, or for that matter, to speak this way at all. In fact, the statement was so out of character, doubt crept in as to this person's identity. Eric slowly leaned forward. "Wait, you are..."

Arvin's human eyes squinted, then after a moment, they rolled. "Yes. It's me. Your special client."

Eric couldn't help but chuckle. He had become accustomed to real space Arvin, the prim and proper house bot with an elegant British accent. Now, no trace of the astute client remained. Before him sat a full-bore human, a transition worth marveling over. But with Arvin not about to marvel over anything, Eric shelved his admiration, then opened his hands. "What? Why are you so upset?"

Arvin leaned back. "Is it safe to assume you're here for the same reason I am?"

Eric nodded.

"Okay. And since we're here for the same reason, can I assume you recognize the importance of going unnoticed?"