MATRIX [One way or another, Korben thinks, things will always come down to this: him, one or two guns with fast-depleting ammo, and at least two-dozen bad guys rolling in on his position. Experience and the ability to think on his feet only has him pinned under heavy fire for a minute before he's shot two between the eyes, smashed a window and made a leap for the fire escape on the building opposite.
Boots on pavement, he bolts for the main street, swinging around into the crowd as he fishes a cell out of his pocket and makes the familiar call. The click of answer and operator would be a relief, if it wasn't for what he hears next.]
Couldn't be on the next block over, could it? [Voice pitched louder from the exertion of running, but the complaint's really only meant for his ears. Maybe his operator's.] No. They've always gotta be half a damn city away.
[And in these situations, he can never tell if he misses flying cars or not.]
REALITY [It's an unfortunate habit, getting attached. Korben's spent a lot of his life trying to get over it, but it never quite shakes loose. Extractions are the worst, layers of responsibility that anchor down heavy. He shouldn't get involved. Who wants to hold themselves indefinitely accountable for someone's introduction to reality? Their integration to reality. Most times, saving a life stops at a one-off action, but most of the time saving a life didn't involve fishing someone baby-bald and limp-limbed into the real world.
So he sits. He watches. He holds any tools the docs think he'd be useful in holding, trays of those creepy acupuncture needles and weird instruments for the cleaning of recently ripped-free plugs. He doesn't muscle in on being the first face new eyeballs open on, but when they're released to a regular cabin, he's there to wake them up for their first morning, protein slurry breakfast on a tray.]
Time to rise and shine. [He says, dry, setting the tray on the end of the bed.]
KORBEN DALLAS | the fifth element
[One way or another, Korben thinks, things will always come down to this: him, one or two guns with fast-depleting ammo, and at least two-dozen bad guys rolling in on his position. Experience and the ability to think on his feet only has him pinned under heavy fire for a minute before he's shot two between the eyes, smashed a window and made a leap for the fire escape on the building opposite.
Boots on pavement, he bolts for the main street, swinging around into the crowd as he fishes a cell out of his pocket and makes the familiar call. The click of answer and operator would be a relief, if it wasn't for what he hears next.]
Couldn't be on the next block over, could it? [Voice pitched louder from the exertion of running, but the complaint's really only meant for his ears. Maybe his operator's.] No. They've always gotta be half a damn city away.
[And in these situations, he can never tell if he misses flying cars or not.]
REALITY
[It's an unfortunate habit, getting attached. Korben's spent a lot of his life trying to get over it, but it never quite shakes loose. Extractions are the worst, layers of responsibility that anchor down heavy. He shouldn't get involved. Who wants to hold themselves indefinitely accountable for someone's introduction to reality? Their integration to reality. Most times, saving a life stops at a one-off action, but most of the time saving a life didn't involve fishing someone baby-bald and limp-limbed into the real world.
So he sits. He watches. He holds any tools the docs think he'd be useful in holding, trays of those creepy acupuncture needles and weird instruments for the cleaning of recently ripped-free plugs. He doesn't muscle in on being the first face new eyeballs open on, but when they're released to a regular cabin, he's there to wake them up for their first morning, protein slurry breakfast on a tray.]
Time to rise and shine. [He says, dry, setting the tray on the end of the bed.]