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Ash on the train

Writing Excercise. (A work in progress. >_>)

Posted by numb3r_5ev3n on 2006.10.20 at 16:55
Current Music: Cheap Trick - Surrender
I'm sort of experimenting with the writing style that Michael Moorcock used in The Cornelius Quintet and The Cornelius Chronicles. The characters are, of course, from the Matrix, (Seven being emplyed as an OC here) the Harry Potter series, and the Moorcock sagas that are mentioned above, as well as A Nomad Of The Time Streams.

The "IM IN UR..." mental "flashes" are inspired by all of the permutations of this pic that I have seen cycling around the internets lately.

Seven awoke to find herself on Smith's couch, underneath the white down comforter that she'd dozed off beneath the night before. Smith was gone; there was no telling when he'd be back. Seven had elected to watch the apartment for him during his absence.

Seven sat up, yawned, and stretched, and stood. The apartment was pretty much as it had always been, in her experience - spare, neat, and fanatically clean (Seven faithfully kept to the plastic runners on the white carpet, rather than walk upon the carpet itself) with the devotion to Order that only a fellow machine - or a somewhat mixed-up hybrid like Seven herself - could appreciate.

She headed into the bedroom, and into the bath. Smith's bed was perfectly made, and did not look as though it had ever been slept in.

After the obligatory shower, Seven dressed (in a navy blue men's polo, dockers, and trainers) and went to peak into smith's refrigorator (the phrase 'IM IN UR FRIDGE, CASIN' YOUR FOODZ" briefly flashed in her mind, white text against black.) There were exactly two loaves of bread (one of the wheatless, yeastless, glutenless, flaxless, carbless variety, and another loaf of EXEKIEL 1:29 Whole-grain-and-seed) a half-empty bottle of mineral water, and a box of tastee wheat. She halfway wondered if, as a sentient program, Smith's groceries were purchased on the basis of intellectual curiosity rather than for the purpose of actual consumption. In any case, Seven decided it would probably be best to eat out. She took one last look over the place before donning her leather jacket and heading out the door.


Business was booming at the Taj Mahal Palace restaurant. After a moment of initial embarassment (in which she briefly wondered if wearing a leather jacket to an Indian Restaurant wasn't a serious faux pas) she joined the rapidly growing buffet line and assembled her plate. Buffets always made her feel obligated to take more food than she would ever generally consider eating, but she plowed through it nonetheless as she glanced over the lastest edition of The Free Weekly Spectator.

After lunch, she made her way across the street to the corner market and picked up a bottle of Perrier (her own.) She was momentarily distracted by the magazine isle on her way through the checkout line, her eyes pulled first toward GQ ("Films, Gadgets, Girls, Motors, Bars, Fashion, Grooming.") and Men's Health ("Is the sport of cycling addicted to doping?") before falling upon the headlines of Vogue ("Spring Fasions - 2007!") and Cosmopolitan ("Are you confident with men?") Another flash appeared in her mind, almost subliminally this time - ("WEER IN UR MAGAZINES, REENFORCIN UR GENDER ROLE STEREOTYPES.")

Seven paid for her mineral water and went on her way.


The afternoon sun beat relentlessly down Seven knelt in the brush, clutching her rifle as sweat trickled down the back of her neck from beneath her helmet.

There was a branch digging into the small of her back, and her allergies were threatening to give away her position with a telltale sneeze.

Also, Len's song Steal My Sunshine was stuck in her head.

Oswald Bastable was somewhere to her left. She'd lost sight of him when the fire of their oncoming pursuers had inpsired a hasty dive for cover.

(I was lying on the grass on Sunday morning of last week
Indulging in my self-defeat

Her instincts were confirmed when she heard Oswald shout,

"Time out, everyone!"

"What's wrong?" Seven shouted back.

(My mind was thugged all laced and
bugged all twisted wrong and beat
A comfortable three feet deep

"I seem to have dropped my pocketwatch!"

Seven saw it on the ground in front of her, and she stood up from her hiding place. Suddenly, there was an explosion of pain in her midsection. She lowered her gaze to see hot-pink staining her fatigues where the paint pellet had struck her.

(Now the fuzzy stare from not being
there on a confusing morning weak
Impaired my tribal lunar-speak

"HA!" Moses "Shaky Mo" Collier exulted as he climbed down out of the trees across the clearing from where she stood.

"I say, that was rather unsporting," said Oswald disapprovingly, as he stood up from his own hiding place and bent to retrieve his fallen timepiece.

(And of course you can't become if you
only say what you would have done
So I missed a million miles of fun

"Well shot, Mr. Collier," said Professor Snape, who came down from the trees after Shaky Mo. Seven thought he looked positively surreal in his own camoflauge fatigues and helmet.

(I know it's up for me
If you steal my sunshine

"Thanks, mate," said a grinning Shaky Mo, completely oblivious to Professor Snape's obvious sarcasm. Once again, Seven was striken by the seemingly familial resemblence between the two men: they had the same pale, sallow complexion, beak of a nose, and lank, oily dark hair.

(Making sure I'm not in too deep
If you steal my sunshine

Snape moved over to where Seven stood, and with a somewhat apologetic expression he siphoned the paint off of her fatigues with a muttered incantation.

(Keeping versed and on my feet
If you steal my sunshine

It was then that Una Persson led a charge out from the stand of trees opposite from where Snape and Shaky Mo had been hiding, with Professor McGonagall in tow.

"Wotcher, Oswald!" she exclaimed as she scored a direct hit on his chest, painting his fatigues a bright canary yellow.

"Really, Una!" Oswald protested as he returned fire, splattering Una Persson with bright orange. Seven turned to see Snape trading shots with McGonagall, Gryffindor red-gold and Slytherin Silver-Green liberally splashed over both of them. Shaky Mo was nowhere to be seen. Seven guessed he'd taken back to the trees.

Seven's only thought as she ducked back into the underbrush was how horrible the scene unfolding all around her would be if it were real.


Seven slumped back down onto the barstool, wincing from her bruises. Her companions all seemed to be in similar straits. After several pints, (except for Snape, who preferred wine) they were all pretty much tuckered out. Seven glanced over at Oswald, who had withdrawn his pocketwatch from his coat and was staring at it intensely.

"My bleeding watch has stopped," he slurred forlornly.

"It happens," Snape commisserated, staring at the dregs in his wineglass.


REMINISCENCE: A pair of sunglasses.


It was well past midnight by the time Seven got back to Smith's apartment. After nearly an hour of floundering around in the darkened streets, her eyes had no trouble adjusting to the dim moonlight that filtered in through the vertical blinds. She didn't bother with the lightswitch. She set her pelletgun in a corner and settled down onto the sofa with a groan.

Smith was still gone. Again, a thought flashed across Seven's mind:



- END - (for now.)

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