We are the Men In Black...Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:Well, they're not exactly what we know as Agents yet. Remember, the "era" of this version of the Matrix is sometime in the late 1940s. Now what famous group of ominous individuals was most heavily bopping around back in the 40s and 50s, especially with regards to "unusual and unexplained phenomena"?Simon H.Johansen wrote:The agents show up!! Very, very fine.
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So i'm betting that Abraham will be labelled a communist?Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:Well, they're not exactly what we know as Agents yet. Remember, the "era" of this version of the Matrix is sometime in the late 1940s. Now what famous group of ominous individuals was most heavily bopping around back in the 40s and 50s, especially with regards to "unusual and unexplained phenomena"? Heh, heh heh.Simon H.Johansen wrote:The agents show up!! Very, very fine.
Ph34r teh eyebrow!!11!Writers Guild Sluggite Pawn of Chaos WYGIWYGAINGW so now i have to put ACPATHNTDWATGODW in my sig EBC-Honorary Geordie
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Hmmm... if this is the case, can we have an Ayn Rand cameo?2000AD wrote:So i'm betting that Abraham will be labelled a communist?Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:Well, they're not exactly what we know as Agents yet. Remember, the "era" of this version of the Matrix is sometime in the late 1940s. Now what famous group of ominous individuals was most heavily bopping around back in the 40s and 50s, especially with regards to "unusual and unexplained phenomena"? Heh, heh heh.Simon H.Johansen wrote:The agents show up!! Very, very fine.
"Hi there, would you like to have a cookie?"
"No, actually I would HATE to have a cookie, you vapid waste of inedible flesh!"
"No, actually I would HATE to have a cookie, you vapid waste of inedible flesh!"
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(I think I've let that cliff hang long enough...)
"No!" her scream rattled the glass in the window seperating the observation gallery from the main operating room, driving The Director back a step by its sheer force.
The Men In Black, however, were unfazed. One of them took a step forward, blocking The Director with his diminutive frame. "Come with us," he gentled, his voice heavily influenced by an eastern accent she didn't recognize. "Everything will be all right -- "
She stared at him, momentarily confused by his kind voice, the concern hidden behind his aviator sunglasses. She shook her head violently, "No. I'm putting a stop to this right now!" she tried to lunge past him toward the door --
-- and bounced off him to land unceremoniously on her pretty behind. He hadn't moved a muscle. Shaking his head sadly, he extended a hand and bent to help her up.
Infuriated, she shrieked, slapped his hand aside, sending him staggering into the window. Stunned by the effect, she didn't notice the other Man In Black swoop toward her.
Suddenly, she was wrapped in black wool-draped arms that felt like steel pincers, her own arms pinned uselessly at her sides as she was lifted roughly off the floor and backed against the far wall of the small, narrow room. Light cracked behind her eyes as her head hit a picture frame; she barely heard the landscape shatter as it hit the cold tile at her feet.
"You will desist!" the second Man growled in an unmistakable Nebraska farmboy drawl.
"This situation is becoming complicated." The Director said wearily.
* * *
He felt the instant the cold steel contacted his scalp, only to be replaced by the searing heat of friction. Integrity gave way; hair, skin, nerves, thin layer of subcutaneous fat, bone -- all vanishing into a thin stream of organic mud beneath the howling blade.
Then there was no pain, only an uncomfortable sense of pressure as the blade penetrated deeper, cutting a neat line into the jellyish matter inside. And although the cut was neat, he could feel the tissue in its wake dissociating, irretrievably scrambling...
He could not bear this sensation; nor could he tolerate the tickling sensation he felt at what he knew must be blood and intracranial fluid flowing from the fissure, pooling under his head, tickling at the back of his neck, dampening the sheet beneath his shoulder blades. He felt, somehow, that he was in grave trouble. He needed relief, and a better look.
He sat up. He felt... different. Weightless. Disconnected. The light from the operating theater floodlamps no longer bothered him; in truth, he hadn't realized how much it had bothered him before, though the crimson tint of the burst blood vessels in his eyes may have had something to do with that...
But now, it wasn't the cabernet of blood that tinged his vision. Just beneath the walls, the floor, the ceiling, even The Doctor, thin lines of emerald. Code, letters he'd never seen before, cascaded just beneath the surface of all that surrounded him. He paused, lost in the sea of an alien language which surrounded him, defined his existence... it was mesmerizing.
He brought his mind back into focus, back to the surface, and turned to see his chalky face, still looking up from where it lay on the surgeon's table. Behind the body, The Doctor hummed as he pulled the gore-slicked saw from the dormant skull, then consulted a chart and opened a small box.
Am I dead? he wondered. He turned his attention to the window at the far end of the cold, antiseptic room -- a woman was sobbing somewhere beyond that window. He cocked his head, listened carefully... everything was so different, now, but he recognized that voice...
"No..." he whispered, his chest tightening painfully. "Oh, no..." he rushed toward the window, moved to brace his hands against it, to peer through --
-- and flew through it instead, as immaterial as... well... as immaterial as a ghost.
In an instant, he took in the scene before him -- the tall man in the executive suit, black hair graying at the temples; the small Oriental man dressed all in black; the taller, broader man in black, snarling into the face of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. The precious Annabelle Lee. The terrified Annabelle Lee.
"Take your hands off my wife!" Smith roared, and charged the filthy bastard who was still snarling into the face of the terrified young woman pinned against the wall. Smith's rage grew as he watched her feet dangle helplessly at least eighteen inches from the dingy tile.
Nothing in the room moved but for Annabelle Lee's slender feet; then, they too slowed, nearly stopped. Her left shoe, shining under the room's light, slipped from her foot.
He threw a hard right hook, placing it perfectly in the notch at the back of the Man In Black's skull. It passed right through, nearly pulling Smith off balance. His rage grew, until every cell, every atom shook. He struck again, and again and again, began to scream, his face contorted into a scarlet mask of hate... and none of his blows had any more effect than the first.
What stopped him was not exhaustion, but the sound of something hitting the floor. He paused, looked. Annabelle Lee's black high-heeled shoe gleamed up at him. He had hit the Man In Black, or tried to, at least two dozen times, in less than the time it had taken for that shoe to travel eighteen inches to the floor. And there was something else. An idea...
He looked back at the body he had left there on the operating table, and felt a pang of outrage as The Doctor inserted something into the skull -- his skull, he reminded himself. "I'll be back for that." he warned the unhearing Doctor.
Then he looked to the bloodless, panicked face of his wife, down to her bulging belly, and stepped forward.
* * *
"She is resistant." the larger Man In Black said, contempt lacing his words.
"She is frightened." the smaller Man In Black returned disdainfully.
"She is a problem." The Director clarified. "Her anomaly is no longer accounted for. We must analyze the situation in greater depth, but we cannot do so at this location, lest the Anomaly continue to propagate. This location is to be reformatted immediately; therefore, you will bring her to a secured location."
It was at that instant that the young woman threw her head back and released a moan of pure ecstacy. Her face no longer shone with terror, but a strange kind of adrenalized bliss mixed with confusion. Her eyes clenched against the unexplainable climax, she called out her dead husband's name.
Her muscles spasmed, twitched in animal response to the endorphines flooding her system. One of her arms jerked free of the superhuman grip of the Man In Black, and before he could re-trap the limb, she struck.
The Man In Black staggered as her fist connected with his jaw, sending his sunglasses flying in a shattered mess before her next shot fractured his cheek, dropping him stunned to the floor. He tried to scramble away, but her slim, bare left foot shot out in a blur of superhuman speed, catching him dead-center in the forehead and resulting in a sickening, wet crunch. His body collapsed to the floor, jerking, and was still.
The second Man In Black regarded her coolly. "This will not work to your advantage." he told Annabelle/Abraham.
"I won't let you take her," Smith responded through his wife's voice.
"If I am forced to, I can kill her," the Man In Black replied. "I know you don't want that to happen." The hesitant speech of his body language told Smith that the Man In Black didn't want that to happen, either... but that he was telling the truth about being able.
"Leave her," the Man In Black offered, "and I will make sure that she is not harmed."
"You mean the way I haven't been harmed?" Smith shot back angrily.
"No." the Man In Black removed his sunglasses, revealing thoughtful, almost kind eyes... and though Smith could see that he was as insubstantial as the tall, greying man behind him, there was something the tall man lacked -- character. And even a not-quite-human heart. "I will protect her."
Smith hesitated.
"Seraph." the Man In Black said, causing a look of stern disapproval to cross the face of the tall man behind him. "I am Seraph."
"Do you..." this was ludicrous, he was about to secure a promise from -- what was this Seraph? Smith could see the emerald writing in the other's skin, his very bones. "Do you promise?"
"Yes." Seraph replied sincerely. "I promise. The Director won't harm her. Will you?" Seraph looked over his shoulder at The Director.
"You are insubordinate." The Director nearly spat the words.
"I am all that protects you from him at this time." Seraph returned with cool confidence. "Give your word."
The Director stood, while Smith and Seraph stood toe-to-toe, each ready to engage the other.
Finally, after considering the very weighty variables of the situation, The Director re-focused his considerable attention on Smith. "You have my word."
Annabelle Lee/Abraham Smith nodded... and slumped into the waiting arms of the being known as Seraph.
* * *
In the silence before dawn, the walls dissolved. Verdant characters fell like soft rain through the geometry of the room -- a body in surgical scrubs vanished, melted into the code, reformed briefly with altered features and faded away, followed by a similar transfiguration of another in a Nurse's uniform. Scalpels blinked out of existence, rematerialized in their proper storage shelves. Linens thinned like candy paper in a rainstorm of green.
When the storm subsided, all was new -- through a virgin window, tawny sunlight flowed into the storage room, its boxes and shelves glowing in the filtered morning light.
No one noticed the dark-skinned nurse leave the room, crows'-feet forming briefly at the corners of her ancient eyes as she hummed an old hymn beneath the sound of her slippered footsteps.
On the bare concrete floor lay the unmoving body of Abraham Lincoln Smith.
"No!" her scream rattled the glass in the window seperating the observation gallery from the main operating room, driving The Director back a step by its sheer force.
The Men In Black, however, were unfazed. One of them took a step forward, blocking The Director with his diminutive frame. "Come with us," he gentled, his voice heavily influenced by an eastern accent she didn't recognize. "Everything will be all right -- "
She stared at him, momentarily confused by his kind voice, the concern hidden behind his aviator sunglasses. She shook her head violently, "No. I'm putting a stop to this right now!" she tried to lunge past him toward the door --
-- and bounced off him to land unceremoniously on her pretty behind. He hadn't moved a muscle. Shaking his head sadly, he extended a hand and bent to help her up.
Infuriated, she shrieked, slapped his hand aside, sending him staggering into the window. Stunned by the effect, she didn't notice the other Man In Black swoop toward her.
Suddenly, she was wrapped in black wool-draped arms that felt like steel pincers, her own arms pinned uselessly at her sides as she was lifted roughly off the floor and backed against the far wall of the small, narrow room. Light cracked behind her eyes as her head hit a picture frame; she barely heard the landscape shatter as it hit the cold tile at her feet.
"You will desist!" the second Man growled in an unmistakable Nebraska farmboy drawl.
"This situation is becoming complicated." The Director said wearily.
* * *
He felt the instant the cold steel contacted his scalp, only to be replaced by the searing heat of friction. Integrity gave way; hair, skin, nerves, thin layer of subcutaneous fat, bone -- all vanishing into a thin stream of organic mud beneath the howling blade.
Then there was no pain, only an uncomfortable sense of pressure as the blade penetrated deeper, cutting a neat line into the jellyish matter inside. And although the cut was neat, he could feel the tissue in its wake dissociating, irretrievably scrambling...
He could not bear this sensation; nor could he tolerate the tickling sensation he felt at what he knew must be blood and intracranial fluid flowing from the fissure, pooling under his head, tickling at the back of his neck, dampening the sheet beneath his shoulder blades. He felt, somehow, that he was in grave trouble. He needed relief, and a better look.
He sat up. He felt... different. Weightless. Disconnected. The light from the operating theater floodlamps no longer bothered him; in truth, he hadn't realized how much it had bothered him before, though the crimson tint of the burst blood vessels in his eyes may have had something to do with that...
But now, it wasn't the cabernet of blood that tinged his vision. Just beneath the walls, the floor, the ceiling, even The Doctor, thin lines of emerald. Code, letters he'd never seen before, cascaded just beneath the surface of all that surrounded him. He paused, lost in the sea of an alien language which surrounded him, defined his existence... it was mesmerizing.
He brought his mind back into focus, back to the surface, and turned to see his chalky face, still looking up from where it lay on the surgeon's table. Behind the body, The Doctor hummed as he pulled the gore-slicked saw from the dormant skull, then consulted a chart and opened a small box.
Am I dead? he wondered. He turned his attention to the window at the far end of the cold, antiseptic room -- a woman was sobbing somewhere beyond that window. He cocked his head, listened carefully... everything was so different, now, but he recognized that voice...
"No..." he whispered, his chest tightening painfully. "Oh, no..." he rushed toward the window, moved to brace his hands against it, to peer through --
-- and flew through it instead, as immaterial as... well... as immaterial as a ghost.
In an instant, he took in the scene before him -- the tall man in the executive suit, black hair graying at the temples; the small Oriental man dressed all in black; the taller, broader man in black, snarling into the face of the beautiful Annabelle Lee. The precious Annabelle Lee. The terrified Annabelle Lee.
"Take your hands off my wife!" Smith roared, and charged the filthy bastard who was still snarling into the face of the terrified young woman pinned against the wall. Smith's rage grew as he watched her feet dangle helplessly at least eighteen inches from the dingy tile.
Nothing in the room moved but for Annabelle Lee's slender feet; then, they too slowed, nearly stopped. Her left shoe, shining under the room's light, slipped from her foot.
He threw a hard right hook, placing it perfectly in the notch at the back of the Man In Black's skull. It passed right through, nearly pulling Smith off balance. His rage grew, until every cell, every atom shook. He struck again, and again and again, began to scream, his face contorted into a scarlet mask of hate... and none of his blows had any more effect than the first.
What stopped him was not exhaustion, but the sound of something hitting the floor. He paused, looked. Annabelle Lee's black high-heeled shoe gleamed up at him. He had hit the Man In Black, or tried to, at least two dozen times, in less than the time it had taken for that shoe to travel eighteen inches to the floor. And there was something else. An idea...
He looked back at the body he had left there on the operating table, and felt a pang of outrage as The Doctor inserted something into the skull -- his skull, he reminded himself. "I'll be back for that." he warned the unhearing Doctor.
Then he looked to the bloodless, panicked face of his wife, down to her bulging belly, and stepped forward.
* * *
"She is resistant." the larger Man In Black said, contempt lacing his words.
"She is frightened." the smaller Man In Black returned disdainfully.
"She is a problem." The Director clarified. "Her anomaly is no longer accounted for. We must analyze the situation in greater depth, but we cannot do so at this location, lest the Anomaly continue to propagate. This location is to be reformatted immediately; therefore, you will bring her to a secured location."
It was at that instant that the young woman threw her head back and released a moan of pure ecstacy. Her face no longer shone with terror, but a strange kind of adrenalized bliss mixed with confusion. Her eyes clenched against the unexplainable climax, she called out her dead husband's name.
Her muscles spasmed, twitched in animal response to the endorphines flooding her system. One of her arms jerked free of the superhuman grip of the Man In Black, and before he could re-trap the limb, she struck.
The Man In Black staggered as her fist connected with his jaw, sending his sunglasses flying in a shattered mess before her next shot fractured his cheek, dropping him stunned to the floor. He tried to scramble away, but her slim, bare left foot shot out in a blur of superhuman speed, catching him dead-center in the forehead and resulting in a sickening, wet crunch. His body collapsed to the floor, jerking, and was still.
The second Man In Black regarded her coolly. "This will not work to your advantage." he told Annabelle/Abraham.
"I won't let you take her," Smith responded through his wife's voice.
"If I am forced to, I can kill her," the Man In Black replied. "I know you don't want that to happen." The hesitant speech of his body language told Smith that the Man In Black didn't want that to happen, either... but that he was telling the truth about being able.
"Leave her," the Man In Black offered, "and I will make sure that she is not harmed."
"You mean the way I haven't been harmed?" Smith shot back angrily.
"No." the Man In Black removed his sunglasses, revealing thoughtful, almost kind eyes... and though Smith could see that he was as insubstantial as the tall, greying man behind him, there was something the tall man lacked -- character. And even a not-quite-human heart. "I will protect her."
Smith hesitated.
"Seraph." the Man In Black said, causing a look of stern disapproval to cross the face of the tall man behind him. "I am Seraph."
"Do you..." this was ludicrous, he was about to secure a promise from -- what was this Seraph? Smith could see the emerald writing in the other's skin, his very bones. "Do you promise?"
"Yes." Seraph replied sincerely. "I promise. The Director won't harm her. Will you?" Seraph looked over his shoulder at The Director.
"You are insubordinate." The Director nearly spat the words.
"I am all that protects you from him at this time." Seraph returned with cool confidence. "Give your word."
The Director stood, while Smith and Seraph stood toe-to-toe, each ready to engage the other.
Finally, after considering the very weighty variables of the situation, The Director re-focused his considerable attention on Smith. "You have my word."
Annabelle Lee/Abraham Smith nodded... and slumped into the waiting arms of the being known as Seraph.
* * *
In the silence before dawn, the walls dissolved. Verdant characters fell like soft rain through the geometry of the room -- a body in surgical scrubs vanished, melted into the code, reformed briefly with altered features and faded away, followed by a similar transfiguration of another in a Nurse's uniform. Scalpels blinked out of existence, rematerialized in their proper storage shelves. Linens thinned like candy paper in a rainstorm of green.
When the storm subsided, all was new -- through a virgin window, tawny sunlight flowed into the storage room, its boxes and shelves glowing in the filtered morning light.
No one noticed the dark-skinned nurse leave the room, crows'-feet forming briefly at the corners of her ancient eyes as she hummed an old hymn beneath the sound of her slippered footsteps.
On the bare concrete floor lay the unmoving body of Abraham Lincoln Smith.
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I was thinking the Oracle, which doesnt quite make the 'mom' comment work in Revolutions, but perhaps if we're talking in terms of Batman making Joker and all that, his wife does something which makes him into what he becomes, hence he calls her 'mom' in Rev.
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Actually, that was the Smith Template calling the Oracle "Mom"... and as the Oracle is to some degree responsible for the events that led to the creation of the Smith Template, it does seem appropriate to me, though not in the conventional human sense of lineage.The_Lumberjack wrote:I was thinking the Oracle, which doesnt quite make the 'mom' comment work in Revolutions, but perhaps if we're talking in terms of Batman making Joker and all that, his wife does something which makes him into what he becomes, hence he calls her 'mom' in Rev.
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D'oh!!Crazedwraith wrote:unlikely as this is set in one of the first matrices. Would she really survive six repitions??Simon H.Johansen wrote:This is far from the end - and it seems very interesting.
BTW - is it possible that Annabelle Lee is the woman we will later know as Trinity???
By the way, I've thought some more about it and it now seems less likely to me that Annabelle Lee is Trinity, as I don't recall Annabelle Lee having a particularly androgynous appearance.
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At first i thought Annabelle might be The Oracle, given Seraph's promise to protect her, but then i remembered that Smith had already seen the Oracle.
Ph34r teh eyebrow!!11!Writers Guild Sluggite Pawn of Chaos WYGIWYGAINGW so now i have to put ACPATHNTDWATGODW in my sig EBC-Honorary Geordie
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Huh? Sorry, Simon, I'm wondering where you got the idea that she has an androgynous appearance? One of the things I've been kicking myself for lately is not providing a physical description of her (and I may have to insert one into one of her first scenes) but I definitely didn't envision her as being androgynous! I'm honestly curious where you got that idea.Simon H.Johansen wrote:
By the way, I've thought some more about it and it now seems less likely to me that Annabelle Lee is Trinity, as I don't recall Annabelle Lee having a particularly androgynous appearance.
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If my memory serves, there were implications in Revolutions that Seraph was not originally The Oracle's protector. For a time, at least, it is implied that he was assigned to The Merovingian. I'll speculate that Seraph was one of the original enforcers of The Matrix, who defied The Architect but was too useful to delete, and so was demoted to his assignment under The Merovingian. When Seraph betrayed The Merovingian as well, he was queued for deletion, but fled the System's Agents --2000AD wrote:At first i thought Annabelle might be The Oracle, given Seraph's promise to protect her, but then i remembered that Smith had already seen the Oracle.
(Smith: I remember chasing you is like chasing a ghost...)
(Seraph: I have beaten you before.)
And took the assignment of protecting The Oracle. This line of reasoning would suggest that The Oracle at some point had the power to protect programs from deletion, or at least to argue persuasively in their defense.
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Point, whenever i try to remember stuff from Revolutions i normally get a blank unless it was a big bit, perhaps it is the mind trying to protect meRaoul Duke, Jr. wrote:If my memory serves, there were implications in Revolutions that Seraph was not originally The Oracle's protector. For a time, at least, it is implied that he was assigned to The Merovingian. I'll speculate that Seraph was one of the original enforcers of The Matrix, who defied The Architect but was too useful to delete, and so was demoted to his assignment under The Merovingian. When Seraph betrayed The Merovingian as well, he was queued for deletion, but fled the System's Agents --2000AD wrote:At first i thought Annabelle might be The Oracle, given Seraph's promise to protect her, but then i remembered that Smith had already seen the Oracle.
(Smith: I remember chasing you is like chasing a ghost...)
(Seraph: I have beaten you before.)
And took the assignment of protecting The Oracle. This line of reasoning would suggest that The Oracle at some point had the power to protect programs from deletion, or at least to argue persuasively in their defense.
Ph34r teh eyebrow!!11!Writers Guild Sluggite Pawn of Chaos WYGIWYGAINGW so now i have to put ACPATHNTDWATGODW in my sig EBC-Honorary Geordie
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I simply suddenly thought: "Hey!! Maybe Annabelle will later be Trinity!"Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote: Huh? Sorry, Simon, I'm wondering where you got the idea that she has an androgynous appearance? One of the things I've been kicking myself for lately is not providing a physical description of her (and I may have to insert one into one of her first scenes) but I definitely didn't envision her as being androgynous! I'm honestly curious where you got that idea.
Then again, I reminded myself that I thought of Trinity as rather androgynous (probably due to her rather short hair, among other things) something which I doesn't envision Annabelle as.
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You might have had something with that first instinct, but still been wrong. lolSimon H.Johansen wrote:I simply suddenly thought: "Hey!! Maybe Annabelle will later be Trinity!"Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote: Huh? Sorry, Simon, I'm wondering where you got the idea that she has an androgynous appearance? One of the things I've been kicking myself for lately is not providing a physical description of her (and I may have to insert one into one of her first scenes) but I definitely didn't envision her as being androgynous! I'm honestly curious where you got that idea.
Then again, I reminded myself that I thought of Trinity as rather androgynous (probably due to her rather short hair, among other things) something which I doesn't envision Annabelle as.
Remember that Smith will later be Neo, and they don't look much alike, either.
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The Code surrounded him, cascading like a neon jade waterfall. He flowed through it, examining each intricate strand, seizing them, expanding them to see what lay beneath.
As his mind drifted through the flowing architecture, the mechanics, glyphs and subroutines began to yield patterns, images. A block of encrypted code passed through his consciousness; he reached out, slowed it, examined it carefully:
Emily Sanders reached for the latch to the glove compartment, "I packed the map in here, darling," she smiled at her husband as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel...
Then his fingers slowed. She watched with a sense of horrified curiosity as his ring finger touched the leather of the wheel ever so slowly, so gently -- and with equal gentleness, the flesh flattened slightly before the finger rose again.
Her own hand pulled the glove compartment open, untended by her distracted mind. The door came off the hinges in her hand, as if it were merely painted paper. She tossed it aside without looking, without thinking. It floated to the floor as she stared past him her slowing husband at a child with a ball -- a ball that hung motionless, waiting for the strike of the bat in the grinning child's frozen hand. For the first time in her idyllic existence, Emily Sanders felt the cold metal touch of raw, alien terror.
The shocking, animal scream was mangled by digital feedback as the human known as Emily Sanders was forcibly exported from that sector of the Construct.
He watched in fascination as one of the rapidly changing symbols he held faded, winked out... then felt a tinge of sadness, of loss and shame he couldn't identify. He concentrated, struggled to make this gibberish yield something identifiable.
His concentration was broken by a car speeding away from him into a mossy distance, then screeching to a halt before it slammed into a glowing emerald lamppost. The door swung open to emit a leg made of ciphers blurring with the speed of their rotations. A green-code man staggered from the car-shape, his movements a ballad of disorientation and grief.
"Emily!"
Smith could hear the tendril of glyphs reaching out into the empty chaos of the Construct.
"Emilyyyy!" The man's coding dimmed as he fell to his knees beside the shape of the car. Smith watched this, and remembered something... he'd been doing something, looking for someone as the green man beside the car was looking for his...
His wife. His mate. The other half of his soul. The one this man called, "Emily" was gone. But where? This was all a projection, so where could she have gone?
He drifted away from the knot of grief, reeled in the code until he found the divergence of characters that marked the woman's departure. He felt an indentation in the coding there, and began to trace it gently...
It opened to his mind, a tunnel within the language, and he followed it, the text screaming past him as he raced along the new conduit, following the traces of alteration to the exported coding...
Emily Sanders awoke to that old familiar ache in her fingers. These old bones, she thought. Not twenty-six anymore. Where does the time go, lawd, lawd. With a groan of effort, she shooed the cats from the bed, who complained mightily before they slunk to the floor, consenting to let the old woman throw on her faded flannel robe.
Smith examined the new coding, and that surrounding it. Several smaller images -- alive but not alive. A moment of indecision, and then he reached out for the new coding of the woman known as Emily Sanders. He prayed he was not about to create an even larger problem by solving the first... but these people had to know the truth, even if they could never understand it as he did.
She reached the stairs, and that's where it happened; a searing, throbbing sensation ripped up her frail left arm, clutching her chest, squeezing. She gasped, and reached for the wall -- but the wall was gone. In its place, an ocean of alien letters flashed past her eyes.
"Don't be afraid." a voice spoke out of the glittering darkness -- and she was unafraid, because she felt strong arms surrounding her, protecting her, guiding her through what felt like a long corridor, surrounding her with a warmth and compassion she had rarely experienced from anyone, except... she did remember someone, somewhere...
The stream of letters flew by.
"Emily!" Jack Sanders stared, wild-eyed at the empty car, as if it had betrayed him somehow, as if it should confess, God dammit! He kicked the car, and that felt a little better, so he kicked it again, and --
"Jack?"
He stopped, his face blushing crimson, and turned.
"Jack!" From six feet away, she had a good running start, nearly tackled him to the dirty pavement with the force of her hug.
"Oh my god!" she sobbed and laughed into his ear simultaneously. "Oh my god, you wouldn't believe -- "
"Where were you! What happened -- "
"There was -- "
He drifted away from them to let them discover what they could. The street was a moving mass, and it moved past them unaware. He drifted until he found his bearings, then flew in the direction of the tall, stout building where he had left his body -- his shell.
If he had read Edgar Allen Poe, he might've found the situation ironic -- but he had not, and so all Smith knew was that a Seraph had taken his Annabelle Lee.
And as he rose to his feet in the storage room, and easily snapped the lock on the bolted door to stride out into the corridor, there was one thing more Abraham Smith knew.
All the angels in Heaven and Hell could not stop him from taking her back.
As his mind drifted through the flowing architecture, the mechanics, glyphs and subroutines began to yield patterns, images. A block of encrypted code passed through his consciousness; he reached out, slowed it, examined it carefully:
Emily Sanders reached for the latch to the glove compartment, "I packed the map in here, darling," she smiled at her husband as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel...
Then his fingers slowed. She watched with a sense of horrified curiosity as his ring finger touched the leather of the wheel ever so slowly, so gently -- and with equal gentleness, the flesh flattened slightly before the finger rose again.
Her own hand pulled the glove compartment open, untended by her distracted mind. The door came off the hinges in her hand, as if it were merely painted paper. She tossed it aside without looking, without thinking. It floated to the floor as she stared past him her slowing husband at a child with a ball -- a ball that hung motionless, waiting for the strike of the bat in the grinning child's frozen hand. For the first time in her idyllic existence, Emily Sanders felt the cold metal touch of raw, alien terror.
The shocking, animal scream was mangled by digital feedback as the human known as Emily Sanders was forcibly exported from that sector of the Construct.
He watched in fascination as one of the rapidly changing symbols he held faded, winked out... then felt a tinge of sadness, of loss and shame he couldn't identify. He concentrated, struggled to make this gibberish yield something identifiable.
His concentration was broken by a car speeding away from him into a mossy distance, then screeching to a halt before it slammed into a glowing emerald lamppost. The door swung open to emit a leg made of ciphers blurring with the speed of their rotations. A green-code man staggered from the car-shape, his movements a ballad of disorientation and grief.
"Emily!"
Smith could hear the tendril of glyphs reaching out into the empty chaos of the Construct.
"Emilyyyy!" The man's coding dimmed as he fell to his knees beside the shape of the car. Smith watched this, and remembered something... he'd been doing something, looking for someone as the green man beside the car was looking for his...
His wife. His mate. The other half of his soul. The one this man called, "Emily" was gone. But where? This was all a projection, so where could she have gone?
He drifted away from the knot of grief, reeled in the code until he found the divergence of characters that marked the woman's departure. He felt an indentation in the coding there, and began to trace it gently...
It opened to his mind, a tunnel within the language, and he followed it, the text screaming past him as he raced along the new conduit, following the traces of alteration to the exported coding...
Emily Sanders awoke to that old familiar ache in her fingers. These old bones, she thought. Not twenty-six anymore. Where does the time go, lawd, lawd. With a groan of effort, she shooed the cats from the bed, who complained mightily before they slunk to the floor, consenting to let the old woman throw on her faded flannel robe.
Smith examined the new coding, and that surrounding it. Several smaller images -- alive but not alive. A moment of indecision, and then he reached out for the new coding of the woman known as Emily Sanders. He prayed he was not about to create an even larger problem by solving the first... but these people had to know the truth, even if they could never understand it as he did.
She reached the stairs, and that's where it happened; a searing, throbbing sensation ripped up her frail left arm, clutching her chest, squeezing. She gasped, and reached for the wall -- but the wall was gone. In its place, an ocean of alien letters flashed past her eyes.
"Don't be afraid." a voice spoke out of the glittering darkness -- and she was unafraid, because she felt strong arms surrounding her, protecting her, guiding her through what felt like a long corridor, surrounding her with a warmth and compassion she had rarely experienced from anyone, except... she did remember someone, somewhere...
The stream of letters flew by.
"Emily!" Jack Sanders stared, wild-eyed at the empty car, as if it had betrayed him somehow, as if it should confess, God dammit! He kicked the car, and that felt a little better, so he kicked it again, and --
"Jack?"
He stopped, his face blushing crimson, and turned.
"Jack!" From six feet away, she had a good running start, nearly tackled him to the dirty pavement with the force of her hug.
"Oh my god!" she sobbed and laughed into his ear simultaneously. "Oh my god, you wouldn't believe -- "
"Where were you! What happened -- "
"There was -- "
He drifted away from them to let them discover what they could. The street was a moving mass, and it moved past them unaware. He drifted until he found his bearings, then flew in the direction of the tall, stout building where he had left his body -- his shell.
If he had read Edgar Allen Poe, he might've found the situation ironic -- but he had not, and so all Smith knew was that a Seraph had taken his Annabelle Lee.
And as he rose to his feet in the storage room, and easily snapped the lock on the bolted door to stride out into the corridor, there was one thing more Abraham Smith knew.
All the angels in Heaven and Hell could not stop him from taking her back.
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Peregrin Toker
- Emperor's Hand
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- Contact:
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Raoul Duke, Jr.
- BANNED
- Posts: 3791
- Joined: 2002-09-25 06:59pm
- Location: Suckling At The Teat Of Missmanners
Wouldn't count on it. We're watching The One free the first of the Zionists, to some small degree, so these won't all be people we see (or hear called by name) in the OT.Simon H.Johansen wrote:Emily Sanders, eh??? could it perhaps be her who laters become Trinity...
Okay, aside from eventual conspiracy theories, it's really getting interesting now.