AUTHOR: Adrian J. Flood
RATING: PG-13 (mild language, creepy elements, gun violence)
FEEDBACK: THIZ IZ MI FURST FANFICCY! U HAV 2 BEE NISE 2 MEE N LEEVE A REEVU!11111 ...All right, that proves I've been reading "fanficrants" on LiveJournal and threads on messageboard for too long. A few well-put words of appreciation and/or of constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated, as this is my first time writing a fanfiction. Flames will be used to light my cigars, and trolls can simply stay under their bridges where they belong.
SUMMARY: A young medical examiner starts to wonder about reality when she encounters an Exiled program on the run from the Agents.
DISCLAIMER: The "Matrix" series, its characters, concepts and all other indicia are the intellectual property of Larry and Andy Wachowski, Paul Chadwick, Warner Brothers Motion Pictures, Joel Silver Productions, Village Roadshow Pictures, Burlyman Entertainment, Monolith, Sony Online Entertainment, etc.
NOTES: The events of this story take place in the Second Iteration of the Matrix; "Matrix Online" players will recognize one of the characters, whose backstory leaves room for much conjecture and speculation, the stuff of which fanfictions are made. I'd like to thank "Matrix Refugee" for brainstorming the idea on which I based this story, and to the kind people on Godawful Fanfiction's message board for their help with some of the technical details relating to medical examiners' protocols.
"This your first night shift?" Sacher asked, as he escorted Muriel Tate, the new assistant whom the Capitol City medical examiner's office had recently hired.
"Yes, it is," Muriel said, telling herself to stop fidgeting with the scab covering a nick on her left index finger. This was no place to get nervous.
"Talk about your graveyard shift, eh?" Sacher said, with a hint of an ironic chuckle.
Muriel laughed, seeing the humor in the remark. She had been on the job only a week, but she had already grown fond of the big man in charge of processing the examinations. His slightly sarcastic wit made the job easier.
Sacher grinned at her with approval. "You'll make it through the night: you need a sense of humor to handle night shifts, since this is when the worst stuff usually comes in."
He lead her down the hallway into the break room, where the rest of the night crew waited for any intakes. Rupert McGinnis, the lab technician, lay sacked out on a couch, while Adji Nahal, their computer technican, was playing a hand of solitaire on his laptop.
"Hey there, fellas," Muriel said, trying to sound casual.
Adji looked up, smiling at her. "So you took the night shift after all?" he asked.
Rupert lifted up the newspaper draped over his face. "That's stating the obvious."
Adji darted a gentle glare at Rupert. "It's her first night shift: it's worth taking note of it."
"Did any calls come in?" Sacher asked.
Adji shook his head. "Nothing so far."
Sacher glanced at Muriel, with a twist of a smirk in one corner of his wide mouth. "Your first night shift might wind up being a remarkably uneventful shift."
"What my brother-in-law over at Ladder 2 calls a 'white cloud'," Rupert said, folding up the newspaper and heading for the front office.
"A... what did he call it?" Muriel asked, sitting down on the now vacated sofa.
"White cloud: that's fire-fighter slang for when there's a stretch without any calls, right after a rookie joins the crew," Sacher said, picking up the newspaper and scanning the headlines.
"Not that I'm hoping anyone gets hurt, but I could use the experience," Muriel said, curling up.
"You'll get that experience, rest assurred: something always turns up during the night, and it's usually the worst stuff," Sacher said.
Muriel settled down, but Sacher's warning did nothing to help her nerves stop vibrating. A little fear had added itself to her anxiety.
About an hour later, a call came in from the district police captain: a squad had been clearing homeless people out of a warehouse over in Bathory Row, to prevent a potential fire hazard, and they'd found a body underneath a pile of rags.
"We're guessing he OD'ed or died in his sleep from the cold," the officer reported, as Muriel helped Sacher wheel the body into the examination room; she breathed through her mouth to avoid breathing in the sickly stench of sepsis, emanating from the cooler down the hallway from the examination room.
Refocussing, she unzipped the rubberized black canvas bag containing the body, uncovering the face of a young Caucasian male in his mid thirties, about six feet tall. She caught herself pausing to get a good look at him: he had the kind of face that belonged on a Hollywood actor or a male model, a delicate-featured face with clear, porcelain skin. 'Come on, refocus,' she told herself, and unzipped the bag the rest of the way. The man -- no, the subject -- wore what had clearly been an expensive suit of a dove-grey color, over a frayed dress shirt that had once been white, now worn at the collar and cuffs, as was the frayed drab trenchcoat he wore over it. The only thing he wore that didn't show signs of wear were the black PVC gloves that covered his hands. She guessed he'd been a stock broker or a dot-com investor who'd lost everything but the clothes on his back. He'd clearly been on the streets for a while: his bleached blonde hair had grown out, revealing it's natural dish-water hue, but he'd shaved recently and he'd managed to scrape the grime from his face.
Sacher, his hands sheathed in a couple pairs of latex examination gloves, peeled back the eyelids of the subject and shone a penlight into the eyes, checking for any reaction, but the eyes had already rolled back in their orbits. "Doesn't look like he froze to death: we'll have to check for needlemarks, in case it was an OD. Muriel, help me get the subject onto the table?" To the officer, he added, "Did you find an ID on him?"
"No, nothing: no dogtags, no driver's license, not even a wallet. Just a comb and mirror, in his breast pocket," the officer said. "Damnedest thing I ever saw: most street rats I see got something, even a library card or an expired license on them."
"Looks like we got a John Doe," Sacher said, as the officer went out. "Okay, let's do a preliminary exam and stow the subject in the cooler, have Adji take a look in missing persons and run a cross-reference on anyone matching the description."
"I'm on it," Muriel said, reaching for the intake forms Rupert brought in.
Sacher smiled a little. "You could start by helping me take the clothes off the subject."
She darted a look up and down John Doe: he'd had a nice build under those rags. "I'd rather you did the honors," she said.
"Hey, a stiff ain't gonna bitecha," Sacher said, clearly trying not to tease too roughly.
"I know. It's just a little weird for me, that's all... he's -- he was good-looking, y'know?" she said.
Sacher shrugged. "Eh, he's all right: better-looking than most of the subjects that come in." He pulled off the subject's scuffed shoes and worn socks and dropped them into a bin before unfastening the subject's trousers. While Sacher did that, Muriel braced herself and unbuttoned the front of the subject's coat, jacket and shirt, then undid the brass snaps at the cuffs of the subject's gloves.
As she peeled them back and uncovered the subject's hands, she nearly gasped at what she uncovered. "We've got some identifying marks," she said.
Sacher glanced up. "What's it look like?"
"Acid burns on his hands," she said, regarding the putty grey-colored splotches on the subject's fingers and the palm of his left hand. "Looks like hydroflouric acid."
"Probably had a bad experience with some rust-remover or metal polish. No wonder the guy ended up on the streets: must've lost part of the use of his hands," Sacher said, coming around to the upper end of the exam table and slipping his hands under the subject's shoulders, which allowed Muriel to slide the subject's clothes off easier. The subject showed no signs of rigor mortis yet: he was as pliable as if he were only asleep.
"Hey, take a look at that," Sacher said, pointing at the subject's flat abdomen.
Muriel looked, trying to figure out what Sacher was pointing to. "What is it?"
"No navel."
"That's weird," she said.
"Beats the hell out of me," Sacher said, lowering the subject's shoulders onto the table.
"Maybe it's some new cosmetic surgery technique," she said. "John Doe might have had an embarassing outie that he wanted to get rid of."
"Never heard of anyone doing it, what'd be the point?" Sacher said, examining the subject's genitals. "No signs of STD's."
Muriel notated all this on the intake form. The subject didn't look like he belonged on the street: no signs of malnourishment, unless he was frequenting a soup kitchen -- and a gym: the musculatare of the subject's form belonged on a male dancer, not a street rat.
"This gets weirder and weirder," she said under her breath.
"Damn right about that," Sacher said. "This guy couldn't have been out on the street more than a few weeks."
"But the wear and tear on his clothes says he was out there longer," Muriel said.
"Bet he was a reporter or a magazine writer doing an in-depth story on the city's homeless, but he got himself into some deep shit out there," Sacher said, reaching for a phlebotome to take a blood sample.
Muriel picked up the rectal thermometer, then handed it to Sacher as he finishing drawing the blood sample; her hand trembled, though she tried to hide this reaction.
Sacher shrugged and took the thermometer from her and inserted it into the subject's rectum, withdrawing it a few moments later. "Seventy-five degrees," he said. "That's a bit warm, considering how cold it is tonight. Must have just recently died, probably moments before the police showed up." Muriel jotted that on the report.
Sacher took several polaroids of the subject and clipped those to the report; Muriel notated the date and time of intake on a tag which Sacher tied to the subject's left foot: John Doe 1727-LK. 'Let's hope Adji can find out who you are so we can put a name to your face,' she thought as she helped Sacher wheel the gurney to the cooler; all the way there she had to steel her resolve, just to keep from getting dizzy from the smell coming from the cold storage: as cold as they kept it in there and in the exam room, nothing could really stop the inevitable processes of decay happening in the several bodies already stored there, waiting for an ID or for an open slot in the autopsy roster. They deposited John Doe 1727-LK on an empty slab and wheeled the empty gurney out. Muriel shut the door and latched it behind them with a audible sigh of relief. While Sacher scrubbed down the exam table for the next subject, Muriel brought John Doe 1727-LK's report to the front office, where Adji was already started to pore through the missing persons database.
"Any identifying marks I should know about?" he asked, as she handed him the report.
"Yeah, John Doe 1727-LK has hydroflouric acid burns on his hands, and he seems to have had his navel surgically removed," she said.
Adji raised an eyebrow in a silent question as he scanned the photos. "That's a new one." He looked at her. "Something bothering you?"
"It's probably just nerves or old 'CSI' reruns haunting me, but there's something not right about this," she said.
"It's the late hour and you've got newbie nerves," Adji said. "Take it easy till the next subject come in: that's what Sacher'd have you do."
"Thanks," Muriel said. As she stepped out of the office and headed back to the break room across the hallway, she said to herself, 'Maybe we'll have something more normal brought in, like a hit and run victim...'
Two hours later, the polic brought in the body of a victim gunned down in shooting, probably gang-related: messy enough to put John Doe 1727-LK out of Muriel's mind, even when Sacher sent her to the storage room, across from the cooler, to get more gauze pads to clean the victim before they got a better look at the subject.
As she emerged from the storage room, Muriel thought she heard something tapping on the inside of the cooler door. 'Too many horror movies,' she told herself. But as she headed back to the examination room, the tapping grew louder, as if someone were trying to beat down the door. Someone yelled for help, their cries muffled by the insulation on the cooler door.
"Sacher, there's someone in the cooler!" Muriel called.
Sacher hurried into the corridor; reaching for the door latch, he lifted it and hauled the door open.
Something vaulted over Sacher's shoulder, landing clear of him. Muriel stifled a shriek as she looked up into John Doe 1727-LK's brown eyes, now alert and wide with fear.
The subject, or rather John Doe, looked down at himself; finding he was naked, he started back, then glared up at Sacher and Muriel, as he folded his scarred hands over his crotch. "Would you both be so kind as to give me back my clothes and let me have some shred of decency?" he demanded, his voice a light yet husky tenor with a clipped British accent.
"How the hell...?" Sacher said.
"If you mean, how did it happen that I am alive, that can easily be explained: I was sound asleep, or at least I was until I woke up. It was the smell of that fetid meat safe that did the job," John Doe 1727-LK replied.
"You were asleep? That's not medically possible: we saw no signs of life in you before--" Sacher said.
"Excuse me, but I am clearly alive now, aren't I?" John Doe 1727-LK snapped. "Now stop idling and wasting time by asking me such pointless questions. Have some respect for the young woman's sensibilities -- and mine -- and give me back my clothes? Don't tell me you burned them, though considering your ineptitude, I wouldn't put it past you: they were all I had left to my name."
Muriel headed back to the examination room and fetched the labelled bin containing John Doe 1727-LK's clothes. Sacher led the young stranger into the examination room. Muriel set the bin on the exam table, which the Englishman was careful to stay behind, since it blocked the lower half of him from sight. "So, who are you? What's your name?" she asked, careful to keep her eyes on his face.
John Doe 1727-LK took the box from her. "My name is Flood. Just Flood. Now would you please be so kind as to turn away while I make myself presentable for mixed company?"
"It's all right: I know what a naked male looks like," she said, hoping to reassure him.
Flood lifted his chin disdainfully. "That may be so, but I do not care to be looked upon when I am in this state of deshabille..."
Sacher hid a laugh behind one hand. "Suit yourself," she said, obliging the young man, but she darted a glance out of the corner of her eyes at him, careful not to look below the base of his ribcage. It somehow didn't surprise her that the very first thing he put on, before anything else, was the gloves.
Official-sounding voices could be heard in the outer office. "Sounds like we got more company," Sacher said. "Go see what it is," he added to Muriel.
"Okay," she said, and headed out to the office.
In the hallway, she nearly walked into three tall men clad in dark brown suits, sunglasses hiding their eyes so that she couldn't read their expressions. They each had the same uniform look: smooth Caucasian faces, dark hair cut above the ears, each man in his mid-thirties, all of them in fit condition. Something about them suggested that they were from the FBI, but a wierd aura about them hinted they might be from a much more highly classified agency.
"Miss Tate, I'm Agent Feld," said the tallest of the three, the one in the middle, clearly the leader. "With me are Agent Woodward and Agent Bernstein. We are here because we are tracking a dangerous criminal who ended up in this facility because of a police oversight."
"Excuse me? this is the city medical examiner's office: only dead subjects are brought here," she said.
The Agent paid no attention to her protests. "We have been tracing the subject, who is known to be involved in an environmental terrorist cell: the subject in question, known to us by the name of Flood, was arrested for tampering with equipment at a National Weather Service station, but escaped from prison during a riot some months ago. He may seem like a harmless subject, when in fact, he is highly dangerous."
With that, he headed down the hallway toward the examination room, his two colleagues following him.
Sacher looked up to find they had company: the doors were opening to admit three guys in shades and dark suits.
Mr. Flood, buttoning the front of his shirt, looked up. His eyes widened and his lips parted in a gape of blank horror. Pulling on his jacket, then throwing his topcoat on over that, he bolted down the hallway, for the emergency exit.
Sacher bolted after him. "Hey, what's going on?" he called out to the young man, who ran much faster than he could.
Reaching the back doo, Sacher found it wide open. Footsteps echoed off the back walls of the buildings opposite; looking to the left, he made out Flood's retreating shadow. "Hey, come back here!" Sacher shouted after him.
Two of the FBI Agents emerged behind him, their service pistols drawn, one of them pushing Sacher back into the doorway. "Stay back, Mr. Sacher," the Agent warned. Both of them aimed at the fleeing shadow and opened fire. Flood yelped as if he had been clipped, and stumbled, but caught himself and sped toward the outlet of the alley.
A pair of approaching headlights backlit the fugitive's shadow as a car plowed into the alleyway, nearly ramming into Flood. The man stopped dead in his tracks, looking around for another way out. The front doors of the car burst open as two young men jumped out, lunging at Flood with an almost lupine speed. One threw a bag over the fugitive's head, while the other jammed a gun against Flood's ribs.
"You come with us quietly: we're here to save you, Floodwatchman," the one with the gun warned their captive. They bundled him into the back of the car and slammed the door shut. They dove back into the front seat of the car and backed out, tires screeching, sending gravel flying as they sped away.
The Agents opened fire on the car: Sacher heard several metallic pings and the crack of glass breaking, but that did nothing to stop the abductors from escaping with their captive.
Agent Feld emerged onto the back steps. "Report what happened here," he ordered one of this colleagues.
"Mission aborted: target escaped and was abducted by two lupines in a black Cadillac," one of them reported.
"Clearly the work of the Merovingian," Agent Feld said. Turning to Sacher, he added, "We will have a word with you and your assistant."
Sacher allowed the Agent to escort him back to the exam room. A very shaken Muriel sat perched on a countertop, clearly wondering what had happened.
"Where did he go? What's this all about? What did he do that you're going after him?" she asked.
"None of this is for you to concern yourself about, Miss Tate: because of a police oversight, a dangerous criminal turned up in this facility and resuscitated. He managed to escape, but we already have a lead on where he might have gone and who may have helped him escape," Agent Felt said.
As he spoke, the Agent took a small metal case from his breast pocket, and opening it, removed a syrette. Replacing the case in his pocket, he approached and gripped her shoulder in a vise-like grip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the light glint on the needle before he plunged it into a vein in her neck.
"Hey, leave her alone!" Sacher cried, making a move to grab the Agent's arm, but the other two Agents held him back.
'These guys must be part of one of those government cover-ups you hear rumors about, if those things really happen...' Muriel thought, just as her consciousness faded and the drug took hold of her senses.
..."Oof..." Muriel grunted, opening her eyes. She found herself still curled up in the armchair where she'd sat down earlier.
Rupert stood over her, looking worried. "You okay there? You were shuffling around in your sleep like someone was after you."
She uncoiled her legs and stretched, getting the sleep cramps out of her joints. "I was?"
"Yeah, I was about to wake you up, but Adji said it was better if I let you dream it out," Rupert replied.
She shook her head, as if to clear it. "I almost wish you had."
Adji came to her side and knelt down to get closer to her level. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She thought a moment, trying to recall any of the dream she knew she'd awoken from. "I wish I could, but I can't remember what happened in the dream," she said.
Rupert nodded, with a trace of empathy. "Might be just as well."
"True, but it couldn't be as bad as what you see when you're awake, can it?" Sacher asked.
"I don't know..." Muriel said. She couldn't remember what had happened in the dream, but she remembered having the feeling that something was not right. Someone had been in trouble, but she could hardly remember who it was or what had happened to that person.
The End