Disclaimer: Fan Fiction Inspired by the film The Matrix by Larry and Andy Wachowski © Warner Bros. Entertainment (1999).  The Ghost in the Machine and The Hecate Cycle © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson (2002)

Credits:  Opening lyrics from Greensleeves (16th century traditional, lyrics attributed to Henry VIII)

Ratings:

± Complete work:  R for Language and Violence.

± Chapter Eleven: R for Language. 

Chapter Eleven The Dish and the Spoon

Alas my love you do me wrong

To cast me off discourteously;

And I have loved you oh so long

Delighting in your company

Drip.  The ceiling fan died a slow death.  Drip.  It kept her company.  Drip.  The rustle of his overcoat echoed the choirs of angels.  Drip.  The click of the latch on the sliding metal door embodied the gentle whisper of a merciful god.  Drip.  Fading from black to gray, the dangerous silence receded from the room.  Drip.  An el-train jostled along its tracks and the melodic horns of quarreling delivery trucks harmonized.  Drip.  Her lips were dry.  Drip.  She tasted salt and bile. Drip.  A pair of eyes opened and the cold fluorescent lighting taunted her. Drip. The eyes closed. Drip.

* * *

A sea of nondescript umbrellas surged in the early morning down pour disappearing into random lobbies and the occasional ground floor food court.  Behind mass marketed glass doors, muzak lulled the willing masses into a stupor and the slick packaging of "recycled" coffee cups and paper napkins satiated their consciences.  Happily disenchanted eyes roved over the Tribune's crisp pages pausing only for a split second to register the headlines before moving on to the financial pages.  The Paradise Street fireball with its three roasted janitors, dismissed as a gas explosion, received scant notice in lieu of declining stock values, 401K scandals and potential layoffs.  An art institute honors graduate languishing behind the counter of the midtown Starbuck's growled as he shoved the lukewarm mochas and lattes across the green Formica countertop.  In the corner under the standard issue torchière, a solitary figure armed with a purple highlighter attacked a stack of green file folders. 

"Why don't we just meet in the bowels of hell next time, Kai." Spaz seized the wooden chair and looked over his shoulder.  "Where's your friend?"

"I'm alone, Spaz." Her rich emerald colored eyes seemed different.  "In fact, I think for the first time ever, I'm completely alone."

"What are you talking about?" 

She handed him the damp newspaper and capped her marker.

"I saw this on the news this morning while I was eating my Wheaties right before you called and told me to get my ass down here.  Again I'll ask, what's going on?"

"I did it."

"What?"

"I need your help."

"You?  You blew up a fucking building and you want my help.  You?  You blew up a fucking building—"

"Spaz, I think you've made your point. Yes, I blew up a fucking building!" Forty-three pairs of eyes briefly focused on the petite redhead.  "I don't want to draw attention to myself." She lowered her voice.

"You don't want to draw attention to yourself?"

"Shut the fuck up Spaz." She struggled to maintain her civility and reminded herself that she had given up the luxury of the offensive.

"Then why in the hell are you across the fucking street from the Federal Building?"

"Where wouldn't you look for me?" 

"Good point."

"I need your help."  She stuffed the folders back in her satchel and retrieved the goldfish bowl from under her chair. "Shall we?"

He remained sitting. "You've not told me why."

"I got fired."

"Yeah right, like you can."

"I'm not shitting you, Spaz.  There's something going on and I've lost my fucking job over it."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculous all that sounds coming from you?"

"There's a bastard out there eating Voids for lunch and it's got the MF spooked."

"MF? The Mainframe?"

"No, the motherfucker." She kept a straight face.  "I get close to something I can't put my finger on yet and then I get reassigned to Enforcement and my projects dumped.  There won't be a liaison for the Voids after I'm gone."

"And what happens to the Voids?"

"I don't know.  All I do know is that I was to be reassigned—put in a subordinate position chasing resistos' shadows and doing meaningless paperwork.  That's all I can say for certain. There's a lot more to this than some sort of efficiency reorganization.  Something old has come back.  I just have to remember."

"I don't get what blowing up the fucking building does for your memory."

"I had to get out." She shrugged.

"You're unplugged?"

"There's nothing to be unplugged, Spaz, but with a few keystrokes I become a free ranging variable.  They have no idea where I am—it's an old security feature."

"Still, why did you blow up the fucking building?"

"To get rid of the files."

"What?"

"Sometimes you'd be surprised just how real this all is.  Look, I need you to help me.  They're going to be looking for me and I've got other matters to attend to.  Will you help me?"

The lanky young man was silent. "Shit," he exhaled as he stood up and took the goldfish bowl from Kai.  "So what does it feel like?"

"What does what feel like?" She followed him to the door.

"What does it feel like to be a free agent?"

* * *

She stood outside of the locked door staring into the eyes of her withered reflection.  Helpless.  The old woman shook her throbbing head and turned away. She knew what transpired inside of the china shop. 

* * *

Drip. Angry feet pounded across the floor. Drip.  A handful of keys clattered onto the metal tray. Drip. "What is this mess?  What have you done to your hand?"  Drip.  Cold fingers seized her forearm.  Drip.  "It is not safe to remove your IV.  You'll get a nasty staph infection." Drip.  The surgical tape ripped unevenly. Drip. A sigh. Drip.  "I am sorry I missed your resurrection, my dove." Drip.  The alcohol soaked gauze stung and he wrapped the tape viciously. Drip.  A coarse towel slapped the wet concrete. Drip. He cursed and used his foot to mop up the saline. Drip.  The valve on the old IV bottle squeaked shut.  Clink. Clink.  A long finger tapped the side of the syringe.  "Enjoy your narcotic dreams, I know how you long for them.  You must sup and submit. Know that you cannot run from me, Persephone, you can try even as that other little monster once did and does now. However, in the end, I always catch my prey."

* * *

The marble staircase remained and he stood at its base with his arms folded and fists clenched.  The gray morning had given birth to a dreary afternoon and a soot stained dusk.

The tall man in the plain suit let the charred piece of tile fall from his hands. "This action was not considered a probable risk."  He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged.  "Nonetheless, the problem will be corrected shortly."

Smith tore his shades from his face and shoved them into the breast pocket of his Burberry.  He started to speak and, thinking better of it, swallowed his words. Gray days make it difficult to separate the sheep from the goats.

"Internal Affairs will remedy the situation.  Sometimes the older programs are prone to…this sort of response." Jones gestured to the smoldering ruins with up turned palms. "You know how it is.  Fortunately, few such programs remain unmonitored."

"I am certain that Internal Affairs will handle the situation with its usual adequacy and secrecy.  Excuse me, I have work to do."  Smith turned away.

"Very well.  We have our responsibilities, Smith.  We must all work for the greater good." Jones grinned and returned his attention to the debris.

"Or the lesser of two evils."  Smith glanced once over his shoulder.