I get two blocks before the heavens part and rain begins to pound heavily onto the cracked pavement. I avoid a quickly forming puddle at the corner of Yardley and Bixby and step under a nearby canopy to give myself some cover.
A black Ford Crown Victoria cruises the block and I step into the nearest doorway, careful to stay out of sight. I curse lightly as the car passes, as if the storm wasn't warning enough . . .
The dual .45's under my leather coat now seem a little heavier and more obvious as I cross the street again. I try to walk at a slow, even pace as I watch the brakelights go on and the car stops two blocks ahead.
For a moment the car just stays at the corner, and I stop as well. If they're Agents (and I most certainly know they are) I need to be ready to bolt.
The car decides to turn right instead, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I turn left at the next block and begin to hurry, I'm late to meet an old friend.
I open the door to the Cascade Diner and the bells tied above the entrance ring politely. Despite it being four in the morning, Matrix Standard Time, the lights are still on and hums come from the kitchen. I know for a fact though that I'm the only patron that will be calling tonight, in fact I'm expected.
I take a seat at the counter, a hot cup of coffee already steaming and waiting for me. After a moment the kitchen door swings open and he steps out.
A thick man, though with his height and obvious muscle it would be idiotic to call him fat. His red hair is starting to fro and he looks ridiculous in his white apron and paper hat. But, like the old saying goes, "Good looking friends are hard to find." Or . . . something like that.
"You're two hours late, Rick. Lucky for you I don't sleep."
I push my coffee cup away from my lips and nod.
"And I suppose this storm that came out of nowhere is your fault?"
I nod again, this time with a smirk.
"You know, I used to think the weather man was just an idiot. Funny how you never notice the little things."
"Funny," I reply, now digging into a slice of hot apple pie that slides over the counter my way.
"Does it always rain like that, you know, when they're doing a search?"
I swallow a bite and wipe the corners of my mouth, "If they're really serious about it, I've seen it hail."
"No way," he says absently as if there was a tiny twinge of regret somewhere.
I finish my coffee and he pours me another cup without asking, just like the old days.
"You know, I think it about it sometimes."
I know what he's talking about, but indulge him, "What's that?"
"Taking the red pill."
"It's nothing special," I lie to him, we've had this conversation before.
"So you've said. I just don't know that I'm doing enough."
"We do what we can, old friend."
He nods. We sit in silence for a moment and he asks the question, "So, what if one of these nights, an Agent walks out that kitchen door?"
The phone at the end of the counter rings, but we continue to sit in silence for another minute.
He removes his hat and looks at it for a second, "I think it's for you." Another minute goes by, nothing said.
"My handle would have never worked anyway, who want's to free a guy named Warthog?"
I smile, "How much do I owe you, Andy?"
He rolls his eyes, "Get the hell out of here already."
I walk down to the phone and give Andy another nod before I pick up the phone. In a few minutes he's alone in the place, and I wake up.
Our ship is dimly lit, so my eyes don't sting so bad when they flutter open. I say, "our" because there are only two crew members aboard this ship, and we both hold no rank.
Saint un-jacks me and gives a small smile as she returns to her console, "It was a good night, I've already sent the encoded file to the Zion Mainframe."
"Sorry I was late."
"It's alright, I knew you had other engagements." It's no question why they call her Saint. Sweetheart would have probably been inappropriate anyhow.
The story of our meeting isn't all that spectacular. We were already partners in the Matrix, members of the Secret Intelligence Service with years in the field under our belts.
It was an encounter with the terrorist Morpheus however that changed our lives. He recruited us specifically for our skills on behalf of the people of Zion.
Saint and I both march through the tight hall to the cockpit. Our ship, the Helios, is a little different from the standard hovercraft. Ours was assembled from the junked skeleton of a World War II submarine. Thus it is small and cramped, just the kind of ship to slip into the best transmitting spots.
Our jobs are the most dangerous, the darkest elements in the holy way against the machines. Ironic that are handles reflect such purity (hell, they call me, "Paladin") when what we do is steal. We're thieves, our mission is to obtain technology from the enemy.
I smile to myself at the thought and look over my shoulder to my flaxen haired partner, "The coils are hot, you ready to call it a night?"
"Let's take her down, Pal."
We cruise and descend out of broadcast depth, and out of the range of the roaming sentinels. We get about another forty feet before we get an emergency broadcast.
A code appears on the screen before me and my partner screens it before patching it through.
"This is Morpheus of the Nebuchadnezzar to Helios. We need something, one of our targets has been bugged. We need to know how to get it out . . . without killing the target. And Paladin, we need it fast. Morpheus out."
There's a short pause before my partner switches the coils to ascending power, "I didn't really want to sleep tonight anyhow." See what I mean about the handle? I think Patience was already taken.
"Let's take her up, then prepare to broadcast into the Matrix."
Morpheus and his crew are all loyal freedom fighters, lucky for us. Lucky for them, we're . . .
The Matrix: Black Ops.
Next Mission: Pest Control.
A black Ford Crown Victoria cruises the block and I step into the nearest doorway, careful to stay out of sight. I curse lightly as the car passes, as if the storm wasn't warning enough . . .
The dual .45's under my leather coat now seem a little heavier and more obvious as I cross the street again. I try to walk at a slow, even pace as I watch the brakelights go on and the car stops two blocks ahead.
For a moment the car just stays at the corner, and I stop as well. If they're Agents (and I most certainly know they are) I need to be ready to bolt.
The car decides to turn right instead, and I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I turn left at the next block and begin to hurry, I'm late to meet an old friend.
I open the door to the Cascade Diner and the bells tied above the entrance ring politely. Despite it being four in the morning, Matrix Standard Time, the lights are still on and hums come from the kitchen. I know for a fact though that I'm the only patron that will be calling tonight, in fact I'm expected.
I take a seat at the counter, a hot cup of coffee already steaming and waiting for me. After a moment the kitchen door swings open and he steps out.
A thick man, though with his height and obvious muscle it would be idiotic to call him fat. His red hair is starting to fro and he looks ridiculous in his white apron and paper hat. But, like the old saying goes, "Good looking friends are hard to find." Or . . . something like that.
"You're two hours late, Rick. Lucky for you I don't sleep."
I push my coffee cup away from my lips and nod.
"And I suppose this storm that came out of nowhere is your fault?"
I nod again, this time with a smirk.
"You know, I used to think the weather man was just an idiot. Funny how you never notice the little things."
"Funny," I reply, now digging into a slice of hot apple pie that slides over the counter my way.
"Does it always rain like that, you know, when they're doing a search?"
I swallow a bite and wipe the corners of my mouth, "If they're really serious about it, I've seen it hail."
"No way," he says absently as if there was a tiny twinge of regret somewhere.
I finish my coffee and he pours me another cup without asking, just like the old days.
"You know, I think it about it sometimes."
I know what he's talking about, but indulge him, "What's that?"
"Taking the red pill."
"It's nothing special," I lie to him, we've had this conversation before.
"So you've said. I just don't know that I'm doing enough."
"We do what we can, old friend."
He nods. We sit in silence for a moment and he asks the question, "So, what if one of these nights, an Agent walks out that kitchen door?"
The phone at the end of the counter rings, but we continue to sit in silence for another minute.
He removes his hat and looks at it for a second, "I think it's for you." Another minute goes by, nothing said.
"My handle would have never worked anyway, who want's to free a guy named Warthog?"
I smile, "How much do I owe you, Andy?"
He rolls his eyes, "Get the hell out of here already."
I walk down to the phone and give Andy another nod before I pick up the phone. In a few minutes he's alone in the place, and I wake up.
Our ship is dimly lit, so my eyes don't sting so bad when they flutter open. I say, "our" because there are only two crew members aboard this ship, and we both hold no rank.
Saint un-jacks me and gives a small smile as she returns to her console, "It was a good night, I've already sent the encoded file to the Zion Mainframe."
"Sorry I was late."
"It's alright, I knew you had other engagements." It's no question why they call her Saint. Sweetheart would have probably been inappropriate anyhow.
The story of our meeting isn't all that spectacular. We were already partners in the Matrix, members of the Secret Intelligence Service with years in the field under our belts.
It was an encounter with the terrorist Morpheus however that changed our lives. He recruited us specifically for our skills on behalf of the people of Zion.
Saint and I both march through the tight hall to the cockpit. Our ship, the Helios, is a little different from the standard hovercraft. Ours was assembled from the junked skeleton of a World War II submarine. Thus it is small and cramped, just the kind of ship to slip into the best transmitting spots.
Our jobs are the most dangerous, the darkest elements in the holy way against the machines. Ironic that are handles reflect such purity (hell, they call me, "Paladin") when what we do is steal. We're thieves, our mission is to obtain technology from the enemy.
I smile to myself at the thought and look over my shoulder to my flaxen haired partner, "The coils are hot, you ready to call it a night?"
"Let's take her down, Pal."
We cruise and descend out of broadcast depth, and out of the range of the roaming sentinels. We get about another forty feet before we get an emergency broadcast.
A code appears on the screen before me and my partner screens it before patching it through.
"This is Morpheus of the Nebuchadnezzar to Helios. We need something, one of our targets has been bugged. We need to know how to get it out . . . without killing the target. And Paladin, we need it fast. Morpheus out."
There's a short pause before my partner switches the coils to ascending power, "I didn't really want to sleep tonight anyhow." See what I mean about the handle? I think Patience was already taken.
"Let's take her up, then prepare to broadcast into the Matrix."
Morpheus and his crew are all loyal freedom fighters, lucky for us. Lucky for them, we're . . .
The Matrix: Black Ops.
Next Mission: Pest Control.