"....rain a coming'; it's Rollin' 'round the bend,
And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when.
I'm stuck at Folsom Prison and time keeps draggin' on.
But that train keeps Rollin' on down to San Antone."
He sighed.
"When I was just a baby, my mama told me, "Son,
Always be a good boy; don't ever play with guns."
But I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die.
When I hear that whistle blowin' I hang my head and cry."
"I bet there's rich folk eatin' in a fancy dining car.
They're prob'ly drinkin' coffee and smokin' big cigars,
But I know I had it comin', I know I will be free,
But those people keep a movin', and that's what tortures me."
‘There was only three who knew. Barloke, long time leader and mentor, who's hate for us was minuscule, but allegiance to the Merovingian, the same as the Vixen. Hmmm, there was another two. Humans. EnTrO, with him missing, it was hardly probable. Phrack, back from the dead, couldn't be that dumb. Could he? Logically, he is human, so yes. Though, he's been a long time friend. Either way, there's hallows to pay.'
"Well, if they freed me from this prison, if that railroad train was mine,
I bet I'd move on over a little farther down the line,
Far from Folsom Prison, that's where I want to stay,
And I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues awa..."
His head popped up as a bright light, only brighter then the room for it's green code structured color, began to glow across the white walled oubliette. The slow shape of code formulating into an object was ensuing, his upper lip shifted ever so slightly into a devious grin.
‘Right on time, supposedly.'
The code finally finished it's form, that of a grey door with steel hinges. He stood on his feet, staring down at the door as the room began to form into a long dead end hallway, leading straight to the single door. His face still shifted, he drifted his head to the side with anticipation as the door began to creek open ever so slightly, revealing the darkness following. He could feel it. He began to pull at it, bringing it and the doorway closer to him, narrowing down the hallway into the back of his mind. The door swung open, and darkness filled the room like a swarm of flies. In an instance, Seventeen was gone.
His shape slowly began to form from behind the main counter in the empty front lobby. His eyes darted across the room and suspected no persons around, which was highly unnecessary. Had there been someone, he would have felt the RSI code, Shadow, moving. Always shaking ever so slightly. He did, however, feel death. It was in that very room, right across from him. He waltzed through the lobby to the small glass case on the counter near the window. He lifted the glass, ever so slightly, the glass that incarcerated the red rose that incarcerated himself. Slowly raising it up, that familiar code, the touch, the impulses, the Matrix. His fingertip grip on the glass grew tighter, and the code began to overlap itself, the glass began to crack. In an instance, it deleted itself, the code imploded, and the glass shattered into multiple pieces, creating a new code, a new purpose.
"Ahh, Home."
He said to himself, amused. He reached down and slowly lifted the rose. Three petals fell from it's withered stem. He twirled it before his thick oval glasses, examining each dry, black petal. He smiled at it, happy to see it from the outside."This is what happens when a rose isn‘t fed its water. Ultimately, it fills out its purpose. Every purpose. A memento."
He slid it slowly into his sleeve, devouring the code into his. He looked around the store at all the flowers, admiring the structure of the old familiar style flower shop. He looked around the shop for 13 minutes, examining the flowers, in a manner of distinction. To his dismay, he couldn't find the flower he was looking for, and began examining the rest of the lobby. He went back to the counter and opened the cash register, a fair amount of money, but that hardly caught his attention. In the dime tray he noticed a small slit of paper folded, worth more then money through his eyes. He pulled it out and spread it open with his index and thumb. It read out..
He huffed at the note and placed it down backside up on the counter. He raised his index finger under his bandana and dabbed it on his curled back black tongue. He took his finger down and stroked slightly along the paper, a cloud of black ash flowing behind his fingertip.
He leaned back from the counter and drifted to the front door with pace. The closer he got, the more his code began to drift into the shadows of the floor, as if he were running through quicksand made of shade. Finally, reaching the door, just as the last tip of his Mohawk slid under the threshold. He was out. As he sifted through the alley way, he sung to himself...
'I found him by the railroad track this morning
I could see that he was nearly dead
I knelt down beside him and I listened
Just to hear the words the dying fellow said...'