Fic: 'A Taste of Rice' (1/25)
Title: A Taste of Rice
Fandom: The Matrix
Character: Mouse
Word Count: 600
Prompt: From fanfic25, 5/2: 'Rice'.
Notes: None.
Summary: There was food in front of Mouse. Actual food. Well, not real food, but food he remembered.
A Taste of Rice
Even at ten o'clock at night, there were more people crossing the street outside the window than Mouse had ever seen in one place. He wouldn't have been surprised if there were people in Tokyo hired to do nothing except cross the street, to make the busy city seem busier. He chewed on his thumbnail and studied his reflection in the glass front of the restaurant. He looked tired, his eyes like shadows crouched inside his skull. Anyone entering the restaurant might have done their best to avoid the young man - a tourist who had been sleeping rough, if he'd been sleeping at all. Maybe he just stayed awake all night in Shinjuku, kept on his feet by flashing lights and buzzing alarms. A Westerner, too: someone who'd come to the city looking for a new experience and found something he couldn't handle. Mouse was a tourist, all right, but not in the way that most of the people that glanced pitiably or nervously at him would understand. He wasn't tired, either. He was anxious. Somewhere in the city, the rest of the crew were investigating a disturbance in the code that formed the Matrix.
A loud clink drew him back out of his thoughts. The waiter had placed the plate next to Mouse and walked off without a word. Mouse couldn't tell if everyone was trying to ignore him or whether the customer service had been misplaced in the late-night rush. It wasn't important either way, he thought, because there was food in front of him now. Actual food. Well, not real food, but food he remembered. He closed his eyes and tried to savour every element of his dinner, thinking of it the way he used to rather than in terms of objective truth. The smell. Not a chain of data designed to simulate a chain of hydrocarbons designed to stimulate an appetite, but the smell of stir-fried vegetables. Chicken. Even the rice had a smell, something he'd never noticed before; it was the smell of nature, of something grown. He took a bean between his fingers and looked at it. Green. Fresh. Textured. He popped it in his mouth. It didn't taste the way he expected it to; not artificial or constructed. It was a full taste, rough around the edges, but it poured itself down his throat and his mouth watered even as he swallowed. The chicken was warm and salty. As for the rice, he could barely describe it. As a kid, before he knew everything that had led to him eating non-existent food in Tokyo, he had thought of rice as being pointless: something to fill you up.
Every grain of rice that he ate was like a meal in itself. The taste was soft and moist; earthy, like mushrooms or potatoes. The smell was dense and complicated, but it smelled at its heart like the farm that belonged to his grandparents, the one he'd spent his summers on. Every now and then, Mouse caught himself with his eyes closed, savouring the smell. When he opened them, he was again faced with the clockwork pedestrians outside the window. Just as he was finishing his meal, though, that view changed.
She was blonde, tall, and striking. She stood out from the black-suited throngs like a mistress at a wake, vibrant in a red dress. She was the distillation of everything that was still worth living for, beauty and colour and allure. For a few seconds her image danced in front of Mouse's eyes. Then, just as quickly, she was gone, swallowed up by the faceless population. Mouse couldn't tell if it was lust or not that made his brain swim at that moment, but the colour certainly had a lasting impression, and it was only when he looked down that he noticed he'd finished eating. The last few mouthfuls had gone without him being aware of it.
One stray grain of rice remained under his fork. He pressed his finger down on it and popped it into his mouth. The grain was soft, and there was a lingering taste behind it. Red. The taste, he decided, was red.
Fandom: The Matrix
Character: Mouse
Word Count: 600
Prompt: From fanfic25, 5/2: 'Rice'.
Notes: None.
Summary: There was food in front of Mouse. Actual food. Well, not real food, but food he remembered.
A Taste of Rice
Even at ten o'clock at night, there were more people crossing the street outside the window than Mouse had ever seen in one place. He wouldn't have been surprised if there were people in Tokyo hired to do nothing except cross the street, to make the busy city seem busier. He chewed on his thumbnail and studied his reflection in the glass front of the restaurant. He looked tired, his eyes like shadows crouched inside his skull. Anyone entering the restaurant might have done their best to avoid the young man - a tourist who had been sleeping rough, if he'd been sleeping at all. Maybe he just stayed awake all night in Shinjuku, kept on his feet by flashing lights and buzzing alarms. A Westerner, too: someone who'd come to the city looking for a new experience and found something he couldn't handle. Mouse was a tourist, all right, but not in the way that most of the people that glanced pitiably or nervously at him would understand. He wasn't tired, either. He was anxious. Somewhere in the city, the rest of the crew were investigating a disturbance in the code that formed the Matrix.
A loud clink drew him back out of his thoughts. The waiter had placed the plate next to Mouse and walked off without a word. Mouse couldn't tell if everyone was trying to ignore him or whether the customer service had been misplaced in the late-night rush. It wasn't important either way, he thought, because there was food in front of him now. Actual food. Well, not real food, but food he remembered. He closed his eyes and tried to savour every element of his dinner, thinking of it the way he used to rather than in terms of objective truth. The smell. Not a chain of data designed to simulate a chain of hydrocarbons designed to stimulate an appetite, but the smell of stir-fried vegetables. Chicken. Even the rice had a smell, something he'd never noticed before; it was the smell of nature, of something grown. He took a bean between his fingers and looked at it. Green. Fresh. Textured. He popped it in his mouth. It didn't taste the way he expected it to; not artificial or constructed. It was a full taste, rough around the edges, but it poured itself down his throat and his mouth watered even as he swallowed. The chicken was warm and salty. As for the rice, he could barely describe it. As a kid, before he knew everything that had led to him eating non-existent food in Tokyo, he had thought of rice as being pointless: something to fill you up.
Every grain of rice that he ate was like a meal in itself. The taste was soft and moist; earthy, like mushrooms or potatoes. The smell was dense and complicated, but it smelled at its heart like the farm that belonged to his grandparents, the one he'd spent his summers on. Every now and then, Mouse caught himself with his eyes closed, savouring the smell. When he opened them, he was again faced with the clockwork pedestrians outside the window. Just as he was finishing his meal, though, that view changed.
She was blonde, tall, and striking. She stood out from the black-suited throngs like a mistress at a wake, vibrant in a red dress. She was the distillation of everything that was still worth living for, beauty and colour and allure. For a few seconds her image danced in front of Mouse's eyes. Then, just as quickly, she was gone, swallowed up by the faceless population. Mouse couldn't tell if it was lust or not that made his brain swim at that moment, but the colour certainly had a lasting impression, and it was only when he looked down that he noticed he'd finished eating. The last few mouthfuls had gone without him being aware of it.
One stray grain of rice remained under his fork. He pressed his finger down on it and popped it into his mouth. The grain was soft, and there was a lingering taste behind it. Red. The taste, he decided, was red.