THE CITIZEN
I walk along a storm drain, looking down to the water, where a family of otters swim past. Soon, a small gang of their human fans bump into me, brandishing smartphones and commenting on the status of the family: if they’re from Bishan, if they’re from Marina Bay, who are the missing kids, what’s happened to the mother, and so on. Otters, the concerns of the privileged and the brainwashed.
And then I realise -- just yesterday I was in the same position as the otters; using the drain network of Singapore as discreet transportation across the country. Do the otters look upon the citizens as a population of fools, just as I do? Once upon a time, could the otters have been hiding the unborn spirit of Lee Kuan Yew? How long do otters live, even?
I take out my phone to google the answer, and then the pavement swings upwards into my face.
The dream: the ape man stalks me through the jungle. And I’m armed only with a samurai sword. The jungle increases its tropical drone as the light begins to fade, as my vision begins to blur. Blearily, I keep moving, feeling the heavy presence of the ape man weightlessly stepping through the undergrowth, his red eyes ambiguous in their intent, his big warm hands instruments of death and life. I reach a small pond and fall into it, where I stand knee deep in stagnant, muddy water, taking in an unnatural metallic scent, while above me the de-powered corpse of a robot hangs amongst the tree branches. Black, glossy, lifeless eyes judging me from above. From behind the robot’s armpit, the formless shape of the ape man blooms, its two eyes blazing through the dusk. And as a mist creeps in from the surrounding trees, I brandish my samurai sword, in fear or in bravado, as the canopy erupts in a galaxy of red, judging eyes, hanging there, gazing at my helpless form. The jungle, reclaiming the land that was once claimed by us, the ancient gods rebuilding cities and worlds removed from our blinded vision of civilised society, indifferent to all our struggles and pain.
I come to, greeted by the chemical stench of WD-40, and Joanne’s furiously stroking my penis with an oiled up robot hand. A steady rhythm, the schlop of my foreskin on the downbeat, the metallic creaking of the hand on the upbeat.
“What are you doing? Why are you doing?” I plead.
Joanne ignores me. Her face scrunched in a frown, focussing single-mindedly on my penis. I flail at her.
“I’m not even the reincarnation of Lee Kuan Yew anymore! It’s not me! Stop it!”
Her head swivels to me, the robot eye burning a hole through my skull. Somehow, through the intensity of her rapidly stroking hand, I begin to feel a sense of pity.
“Redundancy,” she says, her voice distorted by granular synthesis. What have they done to her? Did I do this to her? Was it yet another change brought about by the destruction of the mantou?
I flail my arms again, this time successfully removing her arm from my penis. Immediately, I kick her in the chest and she falls to the ground in an uncoordinated clatter. Taking the opportunity, I jump from the table and run in the direction away from Cyber-Joanne. Thankfully, she didn’t bother to undress me. All I have to do is to stuff my lubricated penis back into my pants and zip up my fly.
Behind me, I can hear the whirring of machinery as Cyber-Joanne gets up, giving chase with the assistance of some god-knows-what machinery to close the gap. I can only hope I have given myself enough of a lead to escape...to where?
The damp wooden corridors and the glass strewn floor, the abandoned offices with the yellowed portraits of Jack and Rose. I must be in the Toa Payoh Seu Teck Sean Tong. HQ. I turn down the corridor, recognising it as where I’d come from the second time I’d been here -- Cyber-Joanne was milking me at the same place where I’d found her being pleasured by the robot -- and then I run, hoping against hope that the changes in the 八字 didn’t have an effect on the internal architecture of the Toa Payoh bunker. A warren of corridors to mirror the tangled mess of destiny the destruction of the mantous have left us in.
I rush up a final flight of stairs and emerge into the temple again. Outside, the rain patters against the roof of the building, a steady drumming to underlie the clattering sound rising from behind me. Escape.
I turn back to see Cyber-Joanne, missing a leg, hopping up the stairs. Her arm has come loose, sputtering and creaking. A screw falls out from near her shoulder. She raises the arm towards me, it’s shiny metallic finish turning to rust before my eyes. On her face, one human eye widens in desperation. And then she misses a step and falls back down the stairs with a loud clatter.
The temple goers stare at me. I shrug sheepishly, and somehow, for whatever hairbrained sliver of love that I still possess for Joanne, edge my way back down the stairs.
Her body lies splayed out across cracked timber. Her robotic parts twitching and sparking in the half light. Her red robot eye twittering. Her mouth, her lips, her jaw jerking open and shut, the even clicking of her teeth snapping out of time with the herky jerky rhythm of her broken body attempting to rise.
I take one step closer. But she doesn’t do anything. She’s harmless.
So I kneel down next to her body and place my hand on her shoulder. Her jaw stops clicking and she looks up to me with her one good eye. With her remaining human arm, she reaches up, jerking it towards my cheek, which she caresses softly as her robot eye flashes to green, and then fades to black. Her human eye stares out, its pupils wide in fear or in anger or in love; I’m not sure I can tell anymore.