23
He shut his eyes tight but the invasion, that awful feeling, still crawled up, rising uncontrollably. The taste of bile and harshly acidic half-starved nausea. He stumbled away from Rosie's arm, releasing it to brace himself firmly against the concrete wall of the tunnel. "Please stop," he said aloud, which caused Rosie to question him in a blindly terrified way.
"Cut it, please, cut the feed,” he said to no one.
He wretched and then vomited loudly onto the wall.
No sooner was he finished than the half of his vision linked to Gus, a man he had yet to really know, faded away.
Rosie was growing ever more anxious by the second. Her head was still hooded like a prisoner of war. She called out to him, asking what had happened, pale arms groping in his direction.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. That was horrible, he thought. Who was that man, all those men, which ones were on their side? None but the old man and the dead one, and who was he? Certainly not the last one, the last vision before death, all black electrics and bloodless white skin. Unforgiving android. Must keep on. He raised himself and whispered to Rosie that everything was okay, that he’d explain later, and took her arm above the elbow, again leading her down toward the green lights guiding their way. Faster than before, both eyes aiding but mind still shaken. Real possibility of death. Shake it off.
Knowing where they were going only made matters worse.
They were going to a club under the new M4 called Hades. He had been there once before, in the spirit of someone else's party, a student friend of his, the birthday of a masochistic celebrant.
The idea of going back wasn't one he relished; it had been a night of almost uncountable disasters. Arriving with a party of eight, they had been culled down to three in the space of an hour. Not five minutes in the door a friend took something, some pills, the composition of which thrust him into a squatting, shivering, sweating overdose nightmare. Security had pulled him out of the crowd and carted him off to a medic. Two more lads had been accosted upon their second drink by a pair of burly Englishmen asking them to buy shots of absinthe. Politely declining was reason enough for the other two men to get belligerent, the result being two black-eyes, one broken nose, and the loss of forty quid. Another of the students had left almost instantly with a very attractive femme fatale, whose good looks, the friend said, did not make up for the fact that she had chained him to the bed, stolen his cash and cell phone and walked out. The last of the five, a big fellow with a passion for competition, entered into a drinking contest with a diminutive Russian fellow. He had lost, not quickly but handily.
The last three, which by some grace of God or science included Blake, the birthday boy, and his date, had decided to leave after that. Leave and never come back.
In a sudden flash of optimism he realized that it couldn't be later than half eight. The place surely wouldn't get busy until after midnight. Small consolation, he sighed.
As he stepped over and over toward the green light, it seemed choice was really an illusion. His will was a mockery.
Blake stared unhappily at the door in front of them. After two hours of disorienting walking, they had finally arrived. A good thing overall, he conceded, considering Rosie's present emotional state. The sensory deprivation was certainly taking some kind of toll. Her movements grew ever less frightful, but more resigned, feet dragging heavily, gait shifting less certainly forward, clinging harder to his arm. Now they did not move. She started making small spastic movements that made him curse himself and Odin and made tearing off the hood seem so righteous and painless, but still he didn’t.
Another problem reared up, invisible, paranoid, behind the door. What exactly should he say to the person who opens the door? Who could see such a sight as them and turn a blind eye? At least the text had informed them that that was his name. Yes . . . well, you see, sir . . . I assure you this isn't a kidnapping or perverse human slavery, really, just need a bit of work done. Is Tinker at home? Is this where he lives?
Or would it not even be a problem, and, if so, should that be wrong in and of itself?
F*ck it. Knock. Knock.
A minute passed before the door opened, answered by a short strong looking fellow of ambiguous heritage. The man's eyes were hard. He appraised the two, Blake with his oily hair and unshaven face and Rosie, who for obvious reasons attracted more of his attention.
Can I have a pen and paper?” asked Blake, making his best attempt not to look lost.
The man looked equally suspicious and perplexed at the request but nodded his head slowly and closed the door. He returned a minute later and handed the pen and paper to Blake. He scribbled a quick note: We’re here to see Tinker.
"Business appointment?" The man's accent was roughly Slavic, Blake couldn't place it though.
"No. But please, we’re really . . . in need.”
The man looked at both of them again, affecting disinterested mistrust. Without a word he closed the door and they heard it lock from inside.
They waited uncertainly. Blake reached over to Rosie's hand and intertwined his fingers in hers. He decided against knocking again, trying to have faith in something, not sure what, that might deliver them to where they needed to be. He realized in a barely conscious way that the green light was still pulsating from inside the door frame.
The door opened again and the man reappeared, looking none too impressed with either of them.
In you go,” he stood aside to let them pass.
One thing Blake had forgotten was just how big the place actually was. Perhaps some of it was the absence of people. Each floor was thousands of square feet and the walls were shaped with irregular facets and salients. On every floor bars lined opposing walls, all surfaces sticky with spillage from how many nights previous. DJ sets, massive speakers, platoons of lights and lasers, made temporarily redundant, gathered silent force from every direction. It all looked just like one might expect a club to look after hours, dreadfully hollow.
After descending four floors the man veered off the stairs and down a narrow black-painted corridor, past a medical room, a store room, a locker room for employees and eventually reached another shorter set of stairs. At the bottom was a small room with two very residential looking doors.
The man rapped on the door to the right. Blake thought it odd how very normal it looked, wooden, perhaps even the same stock one might find in an expensive Thamesview flat, but the sound of the man's knuckles said differently. It was metallic, heavy, strong, almost bulletproof.
A rough grating of metal locks and recognizably electronic beeping and the door opened inwards, and a pungent herbal smoke flowed outwards into their faces. As it opened the man who had led them down walked back up the stairs.
"Don't just stand there," said a voice from inside. "Come on in, strangers.”
Blake led Rosie through the doorway and into the room and a man instantly emerged from the space behind the open door, slamming it shut and locking it behind them, causing them both to start.
He was a man unakin to anyone Blake had ever seen. His home, indeed, matched him in its bizarre amalgamation of parts. Hopelessly twisted cables and wires to their left resembled his shoulder length shock of curly black hair. The man smiled. His teeth looked crooked and unhealthy, gums brown, a panorama not unlike the scrapped and discarded old style CPU towers piled in a corner of the room. On the back wall the Chinese and Nigerian flags were pinned side by side, indicating a heritage that was also evident in the man's skin and facial features. Tinker extended a dry hand to Blake, who tried hard not to see the grime caked densely under fingernails, a brownish color that also layered the floor.
Blake took the man's hand and smiled back but before he could say anything the man motioned him over to a computer screen. He squeezed Rosie's hand for reassurance and left her side, walking to Tinker who was typing something in a word processor:
>>> alls explained but now silences the game. gotta get the poor bird into a helmet quick then do some old fashion EKGing. not sure yet what i can do, but don't want em to have too much of my place on file. take her to the back room with the big door put this on her and come back
Tinker handed him a very ungainly helmet made of a dark metal with thick padding on the inside. It was immensely heavy, not at all the high technology Blake had hoped for.
He returned to Rosie's side and took hold of her hand with a gentleness that he hoped she wouldn't mind; he was still trying to navigate his feelings for this woman, blindfolded and helpless as she was now, he couldn't forget their incarceration, or the flat, no matter how distraught and invaded she felt now, still something was there, something neither of them was quite certain about.
He whispered to her to close her eyes and take off the hood, which she did, and he slipped the helmet onto her head.
Tinker felt it was safe enough to talk.
"Open them, dearie. We should be okay."
Rosie's eye lids raised slowly and her vision met the dingy light of Tinker's pad without too much pain. She took in her surroundings slowly, like a person waking from a long sleep, but she noticed she was not as fearful as she had been under the hood; perhaps the ability to really face that next step, whatever it was, eyes open, looking forward. She smiled at Blake, trying to show him, really, she was alright. The hood was off.
"Welcome back from Hades, to Hades, m'dear," said Tinker.
"Thank you," she said to both of them.
Tinker shook his head, his dreads twisting like serpents, and he motioned for her to come closer. Blake remained quiet on the periphery.
"Not that you probably had time of late, but me thinks it’s time to open up that skull of yours and see just what you're made of and how lucky or shitty you're going to have it. Friend of yours seems to think it's a rather deep set problem but no way we know until we crack that cranium; no jackhammer involved, of course, just good old fashioned MRI and EKGs." He grabbed a hairnet laden with hundreds of tiny nodes. "Normally I'd say we go with this first but as we don't know exactly what critters they got scampering around up there, a change of tactics is perhaps the order." He stopped his furious monologue to appraise her quizzically. "Any questions?" He laughed and his teeth shone like cruddy tombstones.
She knew, or thought, that he was making fun of her. Something in her wanted to cry but something, something she had discovered wandering around in the dark, did not let her. It pushed away all fear and left only curiosity. She looked right at the man but said nothing. Tinker cocked his head to the side.
"Alright, dearie. Glad to hear it, glad to hear it. Follow me and I'll show you just how lucky you both are to meet me."
He walked out of the room, stepping with a whimsically uneven gait not unlike his speech and led them to another door, which he threw open with unintended gusto, sending it crashing into the wall. He winced and turned to face them again, pointed inside.
"Now then, lady goes into the room. Gentlemen close the door. Door closed, lady removes lead bucket from head. See that thing there that looks like a tanning bed, that, missie . . . used to be a tanning bed! Fortunately, for you and my wallet a rather industrious friend of mine some years ago turned it into an MRI machine! Haíbúcuò as wŏmen would say. Enter room, remove helmet, lay on the bed, pull down cover. Removal of clothing is strictly optional. Shall we begin?"
Rosie nodded her head to Blake, who smiled unsurely in return. She walked into the room, waited until the door closed, took off the helmet, letting it drop with a heavy baritone thud. She got in the bed and closed the top. The bed was not uncomfortable especially after a long day of walking, and despite her enlivening curiosity she felt a small urge to nod off. Tinker's disembodied voice, piped in via speakers inside the room, pulled her into the present:
"Now, now. Time to end the suspense. A brain's a brain, unless it's your brain, so it would seem, so let us see just what makes you so damn special, shall we? You don't gotta do shit, just sit tight and think pleasant thoughts, one more invasion of privacy then perhaps I can explain."
Rosie relaxed her neck and let her breath go out. She heard the whirs and clicks that meant the machine around her was turning on.
Time passed hazily on the bed. She wondered if she'd actually fallen asleep for a time, but couldn't be certain. Only as Tinker’s slightly unsettling voice growled through the speakers did she return fully to the situation. He was speaking slowly as if his conclusions were only just on the tip of his tongue.
"A unique case, you are, dearie. Least as I can see . . . here's the good news: all brain functions are one hundred percent, full steam ahead, go go grey matter. Normal's the word . . . but then of course that's not the whole story.”
Tinker continued, talking faster and faster as he went, Rosie concentrated, frantically trying to keep up with his quicksilver explanation.
"The long and short of it is you got something else in there. Not sure exactly what it is just yet, but there are a few things I can say for certain. Hardware's lodged in several parts of your brain, Broca's playground and Wernicke's area, speech centers, one for production, one for recognition. This means the electrical impulses in these parts of the brain are read, stored, and applied against whatever experience they have of your thoughts . . . whoever it is, can hear what you hear and knows what you say, however quietly you say it. The shit's incredible actually. There's more hardware stationed around your cerebral cortex, the outside layer of your thinktank. It looks like you have about ten . . . no, twelve different devices measuring your brain activity."
"No recent surgery that's for damn sure, this shit's been around since you were knee high to a grasshopper. So, dearie, I'll let you think about that yourself. Craziest shit’s this: someone's known you a very, very long time.”
Rosie took a deep breath and closed her eyes, imagining she was back under the hood, walking through the dark, trying not to think about the invasive metal in her head. Only a prodigious effort stopped her from retreating. She would not go back to that state of fear. She had, in some vague way already known all this and it was of little consequence compared to the next question. She did not have time to ask it because Tinker was already answering it before she could speak:
"Twenty quid says you could give two shits, so long as I say I can patch you up and pull down the blinds to this little peep show. But . . . it's still too early to say. I've got hope. I've also never seen shit like this before. First step's over and done. Next one's to figure out just how the little buggers in your brain twitch and tick. Next up is an EKG. After that, all goes well and I'll have enough to try to hack them, in the computational sense of course. I'm no surgeon, and if I were I would probably advise against taking them out. Dearie, your brain looks well and truly wired. Ripe for a Hēikè, like myself.
He let out a wry laugh that made an ugly hawking noise over the intercom.
"It's all by ear, dearie, but you’re in capable hands."
Blake watched over Tinker's shoulder as the man worked, not really knowing what the readings or graphics meant, but he had decided on seeing the process unfold. Both mens’ concentration was fixed on the largest of the monitors in the apartment, which it so happened also appeared to be the oldest. Encroaching cracks flowered along the plastic edges and some pixels had clearly gone dead. Tinker was in the middle of another test. One to discover just how deeply the invasion of Rosie's mind ran. He asked her to perform task after task and answer question after question:
"Rosie, think ‘dog,’ the word ‘dog.’ Alright now do it again. Now think of a dog, the real thing, the idea."
And another:
"Speak any other languages? Parle vous le froggy French? Huì shuō zhōngwén ma? Just think, if you can, in another language."
And another:
"Jump, dearie! Not trying to be funny either. Jump up! High as you can now. Clap your hands now!"
And again:
"Walk, now skip, both hands up. Pinch yourself, no you ain't dreamin' but do it hard anyway, else I’ll send Blake in to do it."
Tinker was dogged and relentless. He pursued every area of inquiry he could think of and did so quickly, giving Blake some difficulty even in listening. The other man did not relent in his investigation and the ordeal lasted hours without respite for Rosie, who kept up better than Blake. After the first hour he often found his attention straying, but her answers and reactions never did, a fact Tinker commented on twice with great admiration. Finally, after two and a half hours of the grueling exchange, Tinker let out his breath and sat back in his chair. He said into the mic:
"As I've said, dearie. We're still only scratching the surface, could be a couple days before we get you right again, another one or two before you can safely leave your leaden walled prison, but I think we have come a good way."
He paused, gathering his thoughts and lighting a cigarette. He turned to Blake and asked if he minded the smoke—without waiting to listen for the answer.
"As far as I can see, the little fellows spying on your synapses are limited in their capacity. They do not, for reasons we should be extremely grateful for, give away your exact location. No GPS, why? I've no f*cking clue. I suppose it’s a bit redundant if they see what you see. Still, seems the simplest way to keep tabs on someone, but nevermind. It is what it is.
"They can read your thoughts, words come in especially clear, as far as I can see. Pretty amazing shit actually . . . But I said that already. Conventional wisdom says reading minds isn't possible without the actual person's input." Rosie made a fierce noise in the other room. "No protest. I know you're not being dishonest with us. Two reasons why. One, no cops in my house. Two, all the equipment I have attached to your cranium is as good a lie detector as man can make. Surprise!
"But I have digressed. Here’s how this all works: words are clear, but the little buggers read thoughts too. That is, the one's not linked to languages—emotions, forms, vague notions—but those things are a little less easy to read, less clear. What that means for you, dearie, is that they know what you say, how you feel and what you hear. You've been an open book, so to speak. Might want to think about why they might even want to know what you're thinking—not to mention how. Don't forget this little array of apparatus has been knocking about since you were a youngster. Brain's even grown over it in some places. And supposing they had to train the devices without you knowing, it's probably safe to assume they’ve been listening externally since the operation. Until now, I mean.”
Another large exhale of smoke. He snubbed out the cigarette in a well-laden ashtray shaped like a die. Rosie kept a pensive silence in the other room. Tinker lit another cigarette and smoke began to trail out of his nostrils.
"Shall we continue, dearie?" asked Tinker. The smoke in his throat muffled his voice.
"Yes," her voice said quietly over the speaker.
"I can't believe it," said Blake. "It just doesn't make any sense. None. At all."
He and Rosie were together in the shielded room. Blake had decided to keep her company during one of Tinker's infrequent and seemingly random breaks. Rosie said nothing in return but nodded to him from the open bed, and sipped at the steaming cup of coffee she cradled in both hands. After a moment Blake continued, thinking out loud.
"Why wouldn't they just let us go? They knew all along we weren't terrorists or criminals . . . or even dangerous! Why keep us there? Why lock us up?"
Rosie said nothing for a very long time, then put her coffee down on the floor and spoke.
They did let us go, when it suited them—because I was their unknowing little spy. Spying on you. They followed us to your brothers and your friends and then to their friends, whoever they were, and I still don't know why. Who are they anyway? They are the hunted ones, and we don't even know why?" She shook her head somberly. "I barely care. Have you any idea the feeling . . . of knowing you're actually on file . . . open access to someone you don't even know . . . Tinker says it was like that since I was a child. Did my parents sell me off as a child? Was I taken? Kidnapped? Are they really dead? What kind of perverted world would allow this . . . "
Blake looked at her pityingly. He still hadn't told her about the death he had seen thought the contacts. No good time for news of death. Rosie already seemed lost, and he hoped telling her would not make things worse. He just couldn’t hold it back any longer.
She listened to him tell the story of what he witnessed. The fall of the two antagonists, and finally the big man's demise at the hands of him, the dangerous one. She said nothing until he had finished telling it. Distraught even remembering it, Blake found his body shaking in a barely perceptibly way, as if death was prodding at him.
"My ignorance has killed, then," she said simply after he had finished. Tears ran from her eyes.
Blake jumped from his chair, protesting and rushed over to put his arms around her. She neither pushed him away nor accepted his attempt to console her. He could not comprehend the emotions he saw in her face but kept embracing her, trying in some way to give her comfort. They said nothing for a long while until Rosie, in a voice even and staid said:
"Tinker, are you listening? It's time to begin again."
"Right here, miss," said a blue voice.
Can we get back to work?”
Sure thing, miss.”
The ordeal persisted like a vision quest. As time went on, Blake watched two different Rosies, both functioning at the same time, apart but together: hyper-conscious and lucid, her words flowed from her mouth with the fluidity of a current, snapped answers to Tinker's rapidfire questioning in terse, utterly accurate and brutally efficient words. Faintly lacking emotion. This was the most obvious side to Blake, but not the only one. The other fought a silent dialectical battle behind her unfocused eyes, fought with the other side in the relegated field of her subconscious, a battle to be decided. Blake wanted to stop it. Not for the first time since knowing Rosie, he felt she didn’t deserve her lot. He wanted to take it away, her away, but also knew he could not. He could only hope that the fight did not leave her broken.
In the end, he had to leave the room, seeing Tinker focused and at work he went again, out of the room, away from his thoughts, away from insomnia, away from paranoia. Out the front door of the flat, unlocking it and ignoring the sudden flurry of protests from Tinker, and out the door and into the dark of the club, and the loud nearly thoughtless pounding repetition of music. The change was almost immediate.
Polysynthetic polysyndeton wormed its way in to his brain. Up the stairs and past the rooms and into the lights and into the crunching of his ears. Stairs and to the bar and asked for a drink. What will it be and whatever and something and anything and anything else man instant effect that is strong and take this and maybe this too and do not forget only this and pay him with a high five and away but he is not happy but on Tinker's tab and to the lights again green and blue and flash and yellow and not bad this shit and people and person and man and woman and walk and dance and run and jump and one and three it is hard to see and time and minute and hour and two and four to the floor and with the others and feel the sweat and just where am I, hard to say for sure.
The bar. Another sir and he looks angry and away and grab that and take it and nobody is happy here and they are really not and some pain and head is on the floor now and run and more stairs so many stairs climb and climb and climb away and lost now in the crowd and lost here and all is cooked and crooked on this shit and floor and goddamn the looks her looks and his and the ones they are giving but cannot escape them stump and climb and higher and higher but not too far and this floor and even more lights . . .
Stumble. F*ck foot and on and this chap seems okay but he says stuff and I really cannot hear music is too much and is over and over and really cannot hear for shit and it does not stop and now is the time please stop and please the man is gone what did he say and shakes his head and more lights but more dark all the lights still the dark and still so much and cannot fight and cannot cry and cannot understand and "Just what the f*ck are you on mate" hello new friend and laughing to him and he laughs to me and flights of stairs and lights and stares but still so lost so very lost and helpless here . . .
Blake woke up to a sensation not unlike being in a fishbowl. His vision swam up and tried to part his sluggish eyelids, which had hardened within a cocktail mixture of smoky sleep and dried sweat. The light was spitefully bright. He adjusted himself and found hard wood beneath him and as he moved felt that something was not quite right. As he shifted, his nose began to ache instantly in a blunt pulsating pain. The soreness in his shoulders and neck made him wince when he craned upward to look around.
The layout of the room gave him a fright. The walls were a grayish white that might appear normal in a dilapidated flat building or a prison. A toilet with a dusty base and rancid bowl and a Cyclopic gun-like relay camera further encouraged this impression. His heart began to palpitate and he only relaxed after he noticed that the opposite bed was littered with random assortments of medical supplies—an unused intravenous, bandages, gauze, bottles of water—and that the door was almost imperceptibly ajar. He sank back moaning piteously to himself and feeling tenderly at his swollen nose. How did that happened exactly? He was assuming this was the medical room, but on which floor? A club as big as Hades was sure to have more than one.
He laid there perhaps twenty more minutes feeling rough, trying to convince himself to get up and return to Rosie and Tinker, but more than anything trying to pick the shattered remnants of the night out of the ether. He really could not remember anything, although his nose was a ginger reminder that, at some point, he had done something worth punishing.
A blonde-bearded man that Blake did not recognize entered the room and noted Blake's newfound consciousness and discomfort with equal apathy and told Blake to leave, and not to "piss anyone else off" on his way out.
With considerable pain and soreness Blake obliged. Before leaving he asked what floor he was on. The man told him minus two. He left the man behind, found the stairs and went down. There was no music now, only masses of liquid and garbage left in its wake—Blake no doubt had contributed his fair share. The club was closed now; there were only a few slow-moving and red-eyed staff in the whole place. He passed a few disinterested people on his way to Tinker’s, but none spoke with him or inquired as to his purpose.
He knocked lightly on the door. Guilt over his desertion of Rosie made him relieved when Tinker answered and she was nowhere in sight. They walked into the second room wordlessly and Blake tried to ignore his own bodily pains and the amused curl of the other man's lips and, after sitting down, asked after Rosie.
"She's asleep," Tinker said good-naturedly. "Worked almost all night until she just stopped answering my questions. I looked in and she was snoozing in the MRI bed."
Blake eased his head back into the chair and closed his eyes. Tinker offered him breakfast, saying that the only things he had were toast and jam. After Blake declined Tinker laughed jovially and said he knew just how he felt and that, despite living underneath it, he almost never went into Hades while it was open, and never, under any circumstances, ever partied there, "you crazy bastard."
Blake noted that, in retrospect, it had not really felt like much of a party. It was more like getting lost in the woods.
"If your memory's not clear," said Tinker, "you can always watch yourself. I've been spelunking around the security feed since you left." He grinned wickedly, showing yellow cigarette and coffee stained teeth. "Even saw you get walloped live in real time, mate. Was going to try and help but you made such a miraculous recovery and ran off like a Jamaican. Anyway, if you're wondering, you deserved it so much as anyone can really deserved to get punched in the face."
Blake asked what he had done.
"You stole two people's drinks and downed them on the spot. And some big f*cker promptly hit you in the face."
Blake groaned, "Delete it."
"Sure you don't want to . . ."
"No!"
Blake was silent for a long time. A headache in his medulla started to throb along with his nose, giving his existences an intolerable symmetry. The two men largely ignored each other for the better part of an hour; Tinker's jokes abated and he began to pour over the results of Rosie's scans while Blake massaged the back of his head.
"Tinker, why are you helping us?" Blake asked after a time.
"What do you mean, mate?" He swiveled his chair around and looked genuinely puzzled, as if the answer was obvious.
"Well, we both showed up with nothing to give, just danger and risk with no reward. Why help us? Why take the risk?"
Tinker shook his head in amazement. He suddenly looked very serious.
"The answer's simple, man. Money. Your friend paid me quite handsomely I'll say for my expertise and silence. Thought you reckoned that far already. I'm not some f*cking God-given glory glutton working pro bono for every scraggling runaway that can make it to my doorstep. I spent years learning to do what I do, and I don't put myself in more danger than pays for itself."
He turned back to his work and Blake decided not to say anything further on the subject. Anyway, to do so would have been to admit just how little he knew about it. The facts of the matter were few. He wished he could ask just how much the fee for Rosie's “repairs” cost. Should he be encouraged or discouraged that the old fellow, whoever he was, had money? They'd only just met, so why was he helping them, him and his brothers? He wished to no one in particular that he might learn why exactly he felt like a piece on a chess board, when only a few days before his life was just that, him—thinking of nothing but art and showing the world his thoughts.
Blake languished on the couch for another hour while his headache worsened until it had take precedence over his smarting nose. The other man had turned back to the cracked monitor taking cigarette after cigarette from a pack labelled with Chinese characters. His eyes didn't leave the screen, which showed only a massive illuminated graphic of a brain—each section highlighted in different yet equally vivid colors and accompanied by programming code. Through noxious exhales the other man stroked his sparse stubble and muttered intermittently under his breath while Blake resigned himself to watching him work and nursed his own headache until it matured into a generally sour mood. Sleep was impossible but still the most desirous thing he could imagine.
Suddenly and with enormous mirth, Tinker started to laugh. He caught himself up in it and leaped from the chair. He put his hands above his head like a champion athlete, and all the while his sides heaved and shook and his face reddened happily. After a minute, he finally regained some of his composure and turned to Blake, who was regarding him with a pendulous expression that was swinging from annoyance to curiosity. Tinker was still grinning from ear to ear, showing his ill colored teeth.
"Just made your girlfriend into a superstar, my friend!"
His ruddy smile blossomed a thousand wrinkles on his cheeks and he kept laughing. When Blake asked what he meant, the other man managed to stave off his fit of joy long enough to wave his hand in dismissal. Blake asked again but Tinker refused to explain any further until Rosie was awake. He went back to his work station, chuckling.