On a ferry taking him from Manhattan Island to Staten Island, Roberto Grognon, the man who would become Robert Grognon's father, watched the Hudson River, savoring a meager ray of morning sun, his hands snugly gripped to the ferry's iron railing. The weather was relatively mild for February, and the sun more than welcome, especially considering the snowstorm two weeks prior. The blizzard had struck several states of this Terran country named the United States of America, paralyzing infrastructure for nearly two days straight, claiming a hundred lives and injuring thousands. Two weeks later, temperatures had barely changed, but life was resuming its course.

Roberto had traveled from Paris, France, where he had taken a flight from Orly Airport. He had saved for a long time to afford a one-way ticket to this land full of promises he had fantasized about since childhood. He had made the decision to live what was called the American dream and had set his sights on New York City, convinced he would make a career in show business. But for now, he was mostly watching his savings dwindle unlike the snow, speckled with dirt and pollution, that adorned each street and avenue of the city with a thousand windows.

He was looking for a job. Anything to avoid sleeping outside, and especially, to not return to his native country, France. He couldn't bear the idea of returning to his small French town, the combined gaze of all his acquaintances (many of whom had never left the town of Ferté-Saint-Mignon, where Roberto was from) forming a joyful inquisitorial tribunal eager to confront him with his failure.

The night before, sprawled out on one of the sofas in the common room of the hostel where he was staying, tired from a week of running to auditions across Manhattan, a borough of New York City, Roberto lazily flipped through a local free newspaper, whose business model relied on an incalculable number of advertisements boasting the pompous performances of real estate agents or discount lawyers, dominating the classifieds section, particularly job offers. The offer Roberto spotted was quite appealing, given his financial situation, which the word "precarious" was no longer sufficient to accurately describe the quagmire he found himself in.

The job description left him daydreaming: it involved managing a second-hand clothing depot on behalf of a local association. The pay was minimal, but lodging and meals were guaranteed. He then went down to the hostel lobby, compulsively scratching his emerging beard, newspaper in one hand, finger used as a bookmark to easily find the ad again, and a lit cigarette in the other, leaving behind a trail of tiny ash particles that effortlessly landed gracefully on the creaky wooden floor beneath the weight of his somewhat scruffy young body. Over the phone, the friendly voice of a man we'll call Bob told him the position was open, and they would be delighted to see him in person to discuss the tasks and other formalities further.

This is how Roberto found himself on the ferry separating Manhattan from Staten Island, two islands that are polar opposites. One proudly erects its towers of concrete and glass, as if defying the sky - "Strike us! Go ahead! We stand tall! We hold strong! We are New York!" (The future, unfortunately, would prove them wrong, but I digress). The other island, discreet, with small anonymous streets lined with white wooden houses, typically adorned with an American flag on the porch.

Traffic was sparse, unlike the overflowing hustle and bustle of Manhattan's streets at the same hour. Armed with a city map, Roberto headed to one of these houses, where he was greeted by a tall, smiling man, the one called Bob, the same person he had spoken to on the phone the previous day. He was balding, but the rest of his hair fell haphazardly over his shoulders.

The man known as Bob welcomed him, explained the purpose of this "association," a kind of micro-society where everyone did their part, and where the majority of the money collected from their various activities was reinvested in buying more houses in the neighborhood, to accommodate other future members or open other businesses. They went to visit the shop, a two-minute walk away. It was located in one of these houses, slightly elevated from the sidewalk, requiring one to climb high and steep steps made slippery by ice. The interior was a mess of clothes accumulated on makeshift dressings, but the clientele, mostly precarious, was there. A young woman at the reception, her expression vacant, then, noticing them, greeted them with a salute, two fingers joined above her eyebrows. Roberto and the man known as Bob toured the place, discussed various tasks, and eventually, Bob offered Roberto to stay for a meal before heading back.

"I'm telling you, American Airlines, they have a building, in Salt Lake City, right? So, imagine - where did you get lentils from? Anyway - imagine, a disaster happens, right, I mean, today we're safe from NOTHING. A DISASTER of EPIC proportions, hear me out! I'm not afraid of the word, I'm gonna say it! A FREAKING NUCLEAR BOMB! Well, they have an underground complex UNDER that building! They can live there in self-sufficiency for months! EVERYTHING is recycled! EVERYTHING! While WE, the common folk, the left behinds, we'll be dying with our mouths open, THEM, the nice MANAGERS of American freaking Airlines, the engineers, the office employees there, with their cheap suits, THEY will be waiting out the worst, eating CANNED FOOD and drinking their RECYCLED PISS!"
"Damn it, Alan, we're eating, shit! You're annoying!"

In that fanciful atmosphere, Roberto finished his plate of tabbouleh. They were all there, sitting in a circle in a large living room on the ground floor of one of those big white wooden houses, their plates on their laps, chatting, calling out to each other, but mostly eating, after having served themselves from a table at the end of the room. Roberto suppressed a belch, wiped his mouth, placed his cutlery on his plate, when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A door burst open, and a short man ran out, grabbed his plate and cutlery, and darted back to where he had come from. Roberto was momentarily taken aback, then stood up, took his jacket, and informed the man known as Bob that, if agreeable, he could start as early as the next day. The man known as Bob was delighted, before announcing it to the others in the room. They applauded. Roberto heard the infamous Alan, Mr. American Airlines, ask one of his buddies, "Is this kid gonna crash in my room?" Roberto wasn't too fond of Alan, but he certainly wasn't in a position to complain. What did he prefer? Alan's outlandish theories, or the mocking judgments of the inhabitants of La Ferté Saint Mignon?

Two weeks later, Roberto was in the storage room of the thrift store, sorting through a new shipment of clothes. Twice a week, a truck from the association, driven by Ernesto and Dublin (because he was from Dublin, Ireland), delivered a bulk of coats, pants, shirts, t-shirts, sweaters, undershirts (Roberto never understood the concept of undershirts. Why not just wear two shirts, one on top of the other, right?), shoes, sometimes orphaned, other times completely mismatched, all donated by generous benefactors.

Roberto received them on the makeshift dock improvised in the garage driveway of the house, and then spent most of his time sorting the clothes, setting aside those too damaged to be sold in a designated corner, while the rest were washed, ironed, and hung on hangers. It might not seem like much, but Roberto ended his days relatively exhausted, and the lingering cold didn't help much.

One morning, around 11:43 New York time, Miss I-chew-my-gum-while-looking-at-you-disdainfully called out to him from inside the store.

"Hey! Frenchie! Come here a sec!"

Roberto finished ironing an off-white shirt (was it really that color to begin with?), set aside the still-hot iron, and went inside the store, greeted by a much-welcomed wave of warmth. Miss I-chew-my-gum-while-looking-at-you-disdainfully stood before him, chewing her gum, looking at him disdainfully. She gestured with her head toward the reception, where a young woman stood, looking around.

"She's from your neck of the woods. Can you help her out?" asked Miss I-chew-my-gum-while-looking-at-you-disdainfully.

"Ok, but I'm not really a salesman."

"Me neither, welcome to the club."

She put her headphones back on and resumed what she did best, ignoring everyone around her.

"Hello," said Robert in is native tongue, "can I help you?"

"Oh! You speak French, wonderful!"

The young woman was roughly Roberto's age, and he couldn't help but notice that she was quite pretty, with a hint of mischief in her expression.

"I'm looking for something to bring back to my parents, a souvenir, a trinket, anything really, can you help me?"

"I can try," said Roberto, "but this is mostly a second-hand clothing store... I'm not sure what I could offer you."

"Eh, you know, where I'm from, I could bring back a roll of toilet paper and tell them it's American, and that would be enough to make their day."

She laughed a laugh that Roberto seemed to be hearing for the first time. The world lost its substance, and only that laugh, not mean, just genuine, floated around his ears like a breeze on a summer evening. Who was this young woman?

"Roberto," he said.

"Sorry?"

"My name is Roberto."

"That's funny, Roberto!" She extended her hand. "Roberta! Pleased to meet you!"

Bewildered, Roberto took her hand. It was only slightly warm, probably due to the cold outside.

"May I ask which small town you're from?" Roberto ventured.

"Oh, it's a tiny place, Coin-Canard."

"Wait, what?"

"What's wrong?"

"I live - well, I lived in La Ferté Saint-Mignon."

They looked at each other as if seeing each other for the first time.

"It's a joke..." she said.

"No, I went to Collège Aristide Briand in -

"At Grand-Duc, I guess.

"Yes! What a coincidence!"

Short interlude.

As our Grand Regent rightly points out upon hearing this exchange, during this dialogue, we reach a level of silliness such that one might believe at first glance that it was written by a Sunday writer, probably their first novel. At worst, it will never find its audience, and at best, the novel will end up as a holo available in every cheap store that can be found on a space station. However, note that I am merely reporting facts, as scrupulously and meticulously as possible. This dialogue took place, and I am in no way responsible for its content. For any complaints, please address the Engineer, creator of the Universes, who is, according to the long line of Grand Regents, Responsible and Architect of all our actions, down to the smallest detail. And truthfully, it sometimes grieves me to toil over writing all this, knowing it was preordained that I would, down to the comma.

But let's move on, I neither have the time, the desire, nor the role to start a debate on free will and destiny.

However, the transition is seamless, for the destiny of Roberto and Roberta Grognon, to return to them, was to meet and exchange banal pleasantries to later give birth to Robert Grognon, our newly beloved Grand Regent.

Following his disconcerting but decisive encounter with Roberta, Roberto will not stay in New York City and will return quite swiftly to La Ferté-Saint-Mignon. Nevertheless, for those viewing this work in holo, I propose a montage of my creation retracing the different stages of the relationship between Roberto and Roberta, all set to a song by Fraquelin Démarre and the Axiphones, their very last, literally, I dare say, the one that will mark the end of the story of their group, written, played, and recorded simultaneously, titled "I'm willing to give you my heart, but know that I might die-argh".

For the unfortunate ones without a holo-compatible version of this work, the script of the sequence is included below, and without further adue, I wish you a pleasant reading.

INTERIOR - ASSOCIATIVE STORE, DAY

Roberto and Roberta are laughing heartily. The young woman at the reception rolls her eyes and chews her gum even harder, finding in one of the brochures laid out on the reception desk a welcome refuge.

EXTERIOR - NEW YORK STREET, DAY

They walk side by side through the snowy streets. She points at something with amazement and discusses it fervently. He laughs, looking in the same direction as her, then looking at her. She notices it, and smiles.

INTERIOR - DINER, EVENING

They are sitting in a diner, facing each other. She talks a lot, he listens with a smile, reacting to what she says. An older waitress with drawn features and overly pronounced makeup comes with a coffee pot to refill their cups.

EXTERIOR - NEW YORK STREET, EVENING

They kiss for the first time, shyly. A shaggy, unkempt man with dirty skin and missing a tooth, walks past them, stops, overly perplexed in an almost comical way, and approaches them, gaping, staring intently as if seeing a couple kiss for the first time.

INTERIOR - AIRPORT, DAY

Roberto and Roberta embrace. She then glances at the departure board, kisses Roberto one last time before leaving, her eyes full of regret. Roberto watches her walk away, turns to leave, takes a few steps, then turns around and runs towards Roberta, presumably shouting her name. She turns around, astonished. He speaks quickly, gestures rapidly, she nods, smiles, they embrace.

EXTERIOR - STATEN ISLAND, DAY

Roberto waves goodbye to the association members lined up. The man known as Bob returns the gesture, Alan makes a rude hand signal that is blurred. Roberto walks off frame while almost everyone waves.

EXTERIOR - COUNTRYSIDE, DAY

A bus drives through the countryside. Through the window, we see Roberto Grognon, smiling. The bus moves away, and in the foreground, a sign appears marking the entrance to La Ferté-Saint-Mignon.

EXTERIOR - LA FERTE SAINT MIGNON, DAY

Roberto gets off the bus with his luggage. He looks around, and turning, sees Roberta jumping into his arms.

VIEW ON CALENDAR

Days fly by.

INTERIOR - MATERNITY, DAY

Roberto opens a door, and their respective parents enter, Roberta's and his. Roberta lies in a bed, radiant, holding a baby in her arms. Everyone is happy. Fade to black on the sleeping newborn's face.

Robert stepped away from the memory.

"It's a strange feeling."

"Yes, it itches a bit," I said.

"Huh? Oh, not that. Although, now that you mention it, it does really itch actually."

"It's one of the downsides of our mental exploration."

"ONE? What do you mean 'one'? You mean there are more?"

"I hadn't mentioned it?"

"Well, no, it seems you omitted that detail. Don't take this the wrong way, but I thought I asked if there were any risks?"

"I did tell you there were no dangers, no pain."

"Are you quite sure of yourself?"

"My job is to report our conversation word for word, as I may remind you, your Grandeur."

"Mmm... Yeah... Specify then, are there any risks of discomfort to come?"

"Oh yes, quite a few."

"Quite a few?!"

"Some might occur, others might not, it depends on our journey deep into your consciousness, Grand Regent."

"Robert."

"Robert, right! If we're done with this excerpt from your genetic memory, I suggest we move on to your life."

"How far back can we go with this genetic memory? Like, can we visit the memory of a great-great-great-grandparent, for example?"

"If that memory is available, I suppose so."

Robert looked at the intertwining roots running beneath our feet, some as thin as a hair.

"So, my entire lineage is here... And I could see their lives, their memories..." said Robert, thoughtfully. He turned his gaze to me, suddenly and with pronounced determination.

"Actually, I can't be bothered. Let's move on to my own life. Lead the way."