To Metody, the Extras look like they're following a complicated, invisible track, like a factory robot following a line of paint, our one of those fancy European cuckoo clocks with the rings of kissing peasants and animals and bell ringers that come out and go through their jerky little dance on the hour. They ebb and flow like a looping picture on the computer, circling through the Market in exactly the same way.
At four, there is the lady in the lace apron. She buys one pound of venison. Four fifteen, the two women in mob caps. Four forty five, lady with gray curls. Five thirty, man in a suit. No one for a whole half hour, then that guy who only looks, but never buys.
She knows them all, and makes a careful effort to talk with them and model human conversation. Once every other day, she picks one for something unexpected - an extra bit of meat thrown in gratis, a little packet of spice or advice on cooking, or sometimes even a gristly piece of meat. Something that makes the day different - something that forces them into unplanned action.
Away from the actual people, Metody herself does not encounter much that is unplanned our unexpected. The crowd always moves the same, sounds the same, is the same. So when Rosalind wanders through, out of place, unusual, odd - she notices. The brightly dressed young woman (today's outfit is heavy on baby blue, accented with shimmering yellow) straightens up, face brightening then fading at the sight of the trickle of blood. She leans over her counter of purplish meat and elegant carvings, offering over a handkerchief as green and curly as a leaf of fancy lettuce.
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To Metody, the Extras look like they're following a complicated, invisible track, like a factory robot following a line of paint, our one of those fancy European cuckoo clocks with the rings of kissing peasants and animals and bell ringers that come out and go through their jerky little dance on the hour. They ebb and flow like a looping picture on the computer, circling through the Market in exactly the same way.
At four, there is the lady in the lace apron. She buys one pound of venison. Four fifteen, the two women in mob caps. Four forty five, lady with gray curls. Five thirty, man in a suit. No one for a whole half hour, then that guy who only looks, but never buys.
She knows them all, and makes a careful effort to talk with them and model human conversation. Once every other day, she picks one for something unexpected - an extra bit of meat thrown in gratis, a little packet of spice or advice on cooking, or sometimes even a gristly piece of meat. Something that makes the day different - something that forces them into unplanned action.
Away from the actual people, Metody herself does not encounter much that is unplanned our unexpected. The crowd always moves the same, sounds the same, is the same. So when Rosalind wanders through, out of place, unusual, odd - she notices. The brightly dressed young woman (today's outfit is heavy on baby blue, accented with shimmering yellow) straightens up, face brightening then fading at the sight of the trickle of blood. She leans over her counter of purplish meat and elegant carvings, offering over a handkerchief as green and curly as a leaf of fancy lettuce.
"Miss?"