Thomas worked for a respectable company 'Metacortex Ltd' that is to say to was ordinary, legal and was as such indescribably tedious. His work desk was a cubicle, which was boxed alongside the dozen others, into a methodical, dry fusion with artificial wooden walls that reached mid-chest. Thomas would often hear the irritant rustle of paper or a soft clearing of the throat against continuous 'tap tap tap' of the keyboard. The straight lines that formed the corridors and separated the congested cubicles, stood in sharp release. And in this room that boxed the numerous, yet anonymous people there was two sets of photocopiers, a water flask and no windows. It would be accurate to state that Thomas hated his job. He hated his job. He hated the facelessness of the 'regime', the blank look as neighbour 'left' handed him the files. The exact 30 steps from the door to his cubicle and the clip of his shoes as he followed it an exact 90 degrees turn left. The brief but hollowed words exchanged whilst on coffee break, before 15 minutes found the artificial corridors once again vacant. He hated that fake plant, shoved underfoot the fire extinguisher. He hated the work; the never ending files, inputting data, surveys, records, calculations that always followed logic and order and the monotonous drone that surrounded him. He hated it, but it was secure. It was safe, or at least he was told it so but perhaps it was the result of a self seeking desire-it was what others had aspired for. That was why he was somewhat concerned; his last day in the office had seen him in police cuffs, escorted rigidly away whilst the rumours of 'suicide' and 'criminal fraud' had circulated within earshot. In fact, Thomas wondered why he had even bothered to come; his boss had made it irrefutable clear that if he had one more 'issue', one more 'concern', than he was fired. Not only fired, but fired without a resume with 24 hours to clear his so called 'desk'. Not that Thomas actually cared, there was always the black market but it would mean him dabbling with more shady characters than he than he cared for, just to maintain his phone bill. Not to mention the 'tab' that the authorities keep on him.
So it was excusable, with him being 15 minutes late, that he was silently stealing across the artificial network towards his 'desk'; him crouching to tie his shoe lace every time someone crossed his path. The last thing he wanted was for someone to notice him in this impartial undistinguished environment only to report him. It was what made it even more disjolting and considerably upsetting to find someone else in his cubicle, sitting at his desk on his computer.
Thomas stood there between the gap that opened to his work office, sheltered at the end of corridor, and stared. The man sat decisively straight, with his legs that actually tucked under the desk and was fitted in a blunt black blazer and slacks. His equally black hair swallowed the neon light framed his white collar that peaked around his neck and hands, as it typed swiftly across the keyboard-and Thomas, for the life of him, felt as if he was replaced by an undated version of himself. Only this one was younger, smarter, and obviously more efficient, judging by the speed he worked through his files. Files. Yesterday's files that he hadn't done. His files, damn it, he hadn't even been given a notice of leave. Thomas loosened his tie in agitation and ran his fingers through his hair, a crease in his brow-
'Excuse me?' it wasn't the aggravated tone he had expected but one of genuine curiosity, as if part of him hadn't drawn the line that connected this man to his domestic bills. He had meant to say 'Who are you?' or 'What are you doing on my desk' or even the 'I'll see you in court' line. He had intended to step into his turf ,stand directly behind this intruder- resolutely but civilly escort him out. But all that resulted from his 'intent' was him hovering hesitantly at the doorway, his arms crossed as his nails bit fiercely into his flesh. What he hadn't expected was the man to unfold abruptly from the desk and turn to face him with that set, blank mask. The straightening of his blazer as he swept the absent creases, it was same eerie echo that he could not put to memory and those dubious black shades.
'Mr Anderson. You are late' his hands were tucked neatly in behind him 'We have been expecting you' a hand laid firmly on his shoulder. There was another that stood behind the first and looked absurdly alike, both with a grim line upon their lip- impersonal to a default. Thomas could hear the hushed whispers of neighbour across the corridor. 'It would appear that you are no longer required in the firm. I believe these are your personal equipment-' a piteously small box was thrust upon him 'I bid you good day' the dark haired man spun back and sat at his desk, upon his seat; as Thomas was led 'resolutely but civilly' through the recurring, echoing corridors.
It was moments after, while he stood in the elevators with an ominous security officer by his elbow, that his brain posed the classic question. Had he just lost his job? The elevator bell rung open and a concrete hand gripped his forearm, promptly marching them past the reception area and into the sky. Of course not, Thomas reasoned. That would be a breach of his contract, he was entitled to at least-at least- was it a week? Surely a week's notice before strict dismissal. That was a statutory law, implemented in every employer contract, and he hadn't even been informed. Why hadn't Nexton informed him? Thomas frowned, why did that sound so- artificial? No, perturbed? The white noise of New York filtered through him. Why hadn't he been informed? Nexton would hardly neglect basic company procedure; the man had certainly not him very much either...so. Neo looked blankly at the black car in front of him. Thinking back, Neo realised he hadn't actually seen Nexton in his brief entrance and exclusion from the office. He had ,quite bluntly, manhandled with a box full of stationary -that could not constitute a dismissal. It was-
Thomas's head was abruptly shoved under the roof of a car; a startled grunt as the man behind him effectively collapsed the back of his knee, forcing his body in an awkward fall with no way of preventing the impact. Admittedly, Thomas first reaction was to panic, the visual and mental dislocation of the disruption from one's thought had momentarily stunned him. As panic does. It was the second reaction that stunned him; the unexpected spike of feral struggle and terror that flooded his veins in seconds, an overwhelming rush through his system. And with it came a red blaze compulsion in his mind 'run', the second was thankfully less primitive and situated to the current situation 'fight' through no less difficult. The box was cumbersome, restricting his arms as the bodily weight of the other forced him into the car. Thomas's foot snagged and he weightlessly stumbled in an illogicality slow descent, as he watched his possessions scatter into the air. The next few seconds were rapid and Thomas found his hand snapping to grab the uniformed tie, using his momentum to fling himself forward. A hand twisted his arm. Head collided with solid- his sight distorted. Thomas instinctively ducked, mind still reeling at the impact as he tried to locate his aggressor-damn was there two of them or four? Stumble, retreat briefly, the reverberating sound of harsh breathing, mind still trying to rationalise, to reason. Thomas collapsed on a knee, hands tugging his hair as strangled cry gritted his teeth. A vicious pain paralyzed his mind, 'stop thinking' -a dull command in a engulf of pain. Wait-Hands jerking his arms behind as another forced his head brutally to the concrete pavement. 'Stop thinking' but the pain was crippling in that it cut all signal from his brain, his muscles was tense yet like puppet-strings, cut. Thomas struggled to focus, to formulate his surrounding outside from the maddening awareness of his own body, his resounding heartbeat, his itching skin. A blow to his head and Thomas gratefully watched his conscious disintegrate.
Too brief?