Public Transport
or
If I May Begin At The Begining...

Herr Mullen sat happily in his chair, his pudgy and fat fingers steepled. He grinned madly at Jyou over his desk, which was littered with telegrams.
           "Jyou," he announced, "I am going to write a series."
           Jyou blinked a few times. Then, he said "Are you sure? So far, you've only written short stories, and you haven't even seen all of the Digimon Adventures. The longest thing you ever wrote was the Christmas Special."
           "Yes Jyou, I know, I know. But, these just came through." He picked up a telegram and waved it at him. "These are from a Mr. Cireus, a Mr. C. Burke, and Mr. Unknown H. They are information, my dear boy!"
           "Information?"
           "Yes! For a long while, now, I have had an idea, a concept, bubbling in the hollow iron pot that is my head. However, I never had the information to carry it out. But, now, I have everything I need."
           "I don't understand, Herr Mullen. What is this idea?"
           Herr Mullen grinned. "The BDD."
           "What?"
           "The British Digidestined."
           Jyou looked at Herr Mullen. "Surely, you aren't serious? That is the stupidest idea you've ever had. Original characters from a country no-one cares about?"
           Herr Mullen glared at Jyou. "Lord Archive did it."
           "Yes! But that is Lord Archive! You are not Lord Archive, Herr Mullen. And it looks like you're just copying his ideas."
           Herr Mullen slammed his hands down on the table. "I am not copying his ideas!" he yelled, a steely glare behind his pince de nez, standing, sweat on his brow.
           Jyou stepped back. A moment of tension. Herr Mullen relaxed, and slowly lowered himself again, exhausted. The chair creaked under his weight.
           "Jyou," he said, "I am not a bad writer. I am not a plagiarist. All of these characters, aside from the Digimon, are my own. I simply want to have something relevant to me. Lord Archive, I am certain, has never visited England. And, even if he has, I daresay he has never actually lived there. I am certain I could capture the culture much more accurately than his fictions."
           "Then why don't you just sign up to the Dairies project?"
           "Jyou, I enjoy the Diaries series. It's Lord Archive, not Herr Mullen. I am a different entity with a very different style. No, this fiction will be mine."
           "Very well. Would you like to do the disclaimer?"
           Herr Mullen nodded, and pulled the type writer toward him.
           "The following fiction is property of Herr Mullen. Digimon is the property of Toei and Fox Kids, apparently."
           Jyou waited a second or two. Then he lifted his eyebrow. "Is that all?"
           "That's right."
           "...No sex in this one?"
           "No. That comes later. Much later. Onto the story, Jyou."

An aeroplane passed overhead, as Muawiya stepped out of the corner shop with the bin bags. The sky was blue, no clouds. The sun glinted off the cars parked up and down the road. The million points of light moved to follow Muawiya when he went to the wheelie bin; he set one liner down, lifted the lid, and threw the other bag over his shoulder. Dust rose from within the bin, along with the warm, slightly moist, musty smell of bins. Then, he bent down, and picked up the other bag. He moved the lid up again, and then threw it straight over; the lid sailed up, the down until finally making a clattering sound on the back as it swung pathetically, momentum unable to shift the light plastic weight. The bag went on top of the other one. Muawiya reached 'round, and lifted the lid again. Tried to. He moved around the bin, grabbed one of the handles, and swung it back to the top again. He went back inside, the bell giving a little tinkle.
          "Muawiya," shouted his mother from the store room, "Did you take out the rubbish?"
          "Yes, mum!"
          "Good! There's two pounds in the kitchen on the counter for a bus fare!!
          "Thanks mum!"
          Muawiya ducked under the shop counter, parted the bead curtain that led to the back hallway, went through, and then into the kitchen. He grabbed the new two pound coin, which his mother usually saved for what she would call "a rainy day". and left through the back door, grabbing his bag as he went by. He walked over the concrete patio, for want of a better word, looking at the unkempt grass that stretched for a short distance until the fence. He walked down the ally beside the shop, opened the gate, closed it, and came out on the other side of the bin. He made his way to the bus stop.

Chris shot. Sarah saved. She rolled the ball back to him.
          "Now give me a real shot!" shouted Sarah. "You kick like a girl!"
          Chris frowned, and put the ball down in front of him. He took a step back, and then delivered a fast punt. It circled 'round, and into the goal. Sarah couldn't have saved it in a million years.
          "Woah! That was like Beckham, that was! Okay, now I want a shot. get in here!"
          Chris stepped in goal. Sarah steeled herself to beat him. She took a step back, ran up, and pelted the ball past Chris and into the net.
          "Goal!"

Stephanie, laden with her bags of new clothes, left the Grafton centre. The sun didn't bother her, now, she'd bought some sunglasses.
She looked over the square, like the Footlights, behind her. She could go back in, sit down, get a coffee, or a muffin, but she'd miss the bus if she did. She wanted to go to

Market Street

, have a look at the stall jewelry. So, rather than going back in, she pushed on, Disney Store bags laden with yet more Winnie The Pooh toys.
          She used her DayriderPass to get on at

East Road

. The bus was, as usual, packed, but a Muslim boy stood up to let her sit down. He wore glasses, a t-shirt and jeans.
          "Thanks!" Steph said, sitting down. "It's so hard carrying all these things around. Usually, Daddy would be with me, but he's in a meeting so he couldn't come shopping with me today. I'm Stephanie, by the way, what's your name?"

Muawiya was sitting comfortably. The bus was just turning onto

East Road

. He was doing some maths in his grey school book. Muawiya loved maths. His father taught him accountancy when he was younger. Ever since then, he'd counted things when he was bored, and began doing random sums with the numbers he counted. The bus came to a halt. Only one person got on, which was unusual.
          It was a girl, wearing a pink summer top with the Disney logo on it, some blue jeans, pink-rimmed sunglasses, also with the Disney logo on the side. She had long, brown hair, platted in a ponytail. She muddled about with her bags, trying not to drop them whilst reaching into the tight jean pockets for her Dayrider. Muawiya looked around. No-one seemed to be willing to give up their seat for her, so Muawiya stood up. "Here," he said, "Have my seat." She looked a little surprised, either because he was so well-mannered or because she expected him to sound Pakistani, and not speak with an English accent. Lots of people seemed surprised by that. She thanked him, sat down, complained about how hard it was to carry all those bags, and then introduced herself. "My name is Muawiya," he replied. "Pleased to meet you."
          "Call me Steph," she told him. "Everyone does."

Sarah and Chris stood on Parkside, at the stop opposite the police and fire stations. The streets we paved with grey stone, with black tarmac making the road, painted white dotted strips down the centre, double yellow lines outside of the short drives that led to the fire engine and panda cars' stations. On their side of the road, a red bus lane, with "

Bus Lane

" written on it in white, allowed uninterrupted movement for taxis, bikes, and, as the name suggests, buses. The bus pulled up, with a pneumatic piston hiss, and the doors opened. They stepped on board the white, single decker Stagecoach, with it's red, orange and blue stripe scheme spattering over it. Chris paid his fare with a collection of twenty pence pieces, and Sarah used a five pound note. The doors closed.

Daniel looked out the window.
          It was the only thing to do on bus rides.
          Unless you counted talking to the people next to you. Daniel didn't see the point. An Asian boy was next to him. Probably from Kosovo; there were lots of refugees coming from Kosovo. Of course, that war was over, now. A few short weeks ago, actually. There was that whole thing with the Russians turning up in the Capital when really we were the ones who did all the work. The Russians kept out of it, right up until the end, of course. Then they just storm in to take the credit. Gits.
          It didn't sound like the boy, who was next to him a few seconds ago, and was now giving up his seat to a daddy's rich-girl, was from Kosovo, after all, judging by his accent. He was very much British, then.
          The girl now next to him- Stephanie- was explaining to the Muslim boy- Muawiya- why Winnie The Pooh was so good. Daniel didn't really like Disney. It was a big, child-exploiting cooperation, like McDonalds. Then, two more people got on board. Muawiya looked around, then told Daniel he should give up his seat to the girl who'd just boarded. Daniel floundered, looking for a lifering out of the stream of social situation.

Two new people got on. A boy and a girl. Muawiya looked around. Was anyone going to let the girl have a seat? It didn't seem like it. Muawiya thought that was quite rude; he'd always been taught to give up his seat for a women, like Muhammad (pbuh) had. He turned to the quiet, greesy haired boy next to Steph. "Excuse me, but I think you should give up your seat for this young lady."
          The boy jerked to life, looked around, tryed to say several things at once, failed, and eventualy stood up and said "Would you like my seat?"
          The new girl laughed. "How proper of you! No, thanks, you can keep it, I like to stand." she grasped one of the bands hanging from the bar overhead. "I'm Sarah, and this is my friend Chris. What's you're name?"
          "I'm Daniel."
          "Are these you're friends?"
          "No," said Muawiya. "We've all just met. This is Steph; I'm Muawiya. Pleased to meet you."

They all got off the bus at St. Andrew's Street, all actually headed for the market. Daniel seemed to have been dragged into the group, whilst the others just seemed to have got along. Chris hadn't said much, Sarah and Steph dominated the conversation, and Muawiya just talking quite politely to both of them, to their great pleasure. The group was just headed to Petty Cury, to get to the Market Place, when Sarah called out "Hey! Jessica! Michel!" The group all turn to see who she was shouting at. Chris waved his hand "Hey, guys."
          A girl, carrying an MVC bag, containing one or two CDs, as well as a backpack, came over with a lad who was carrying a laptop case, which was probably holding a laptop.
          "Hey, Chris, Sarah!" said Michel. Michel's voice was one of those effiminate voices that boys like Boy George and Paul O'Grady probably had when they were younger.
          "Who's are these, then?" asked Jessica.
          "Jessica, Michel," said Sarah, "These are Muawiya, Steph and Daniel. We all just met on the bus, and were all headed the same way."
          "Hey, Steph, Muawiya, Daniel." said Michel. "Hey, come through Lion's Yard; the worker's are off today, because it's Saturday. It's almost complete, it looks great!"
          Daniel started "But it's a construction site!"
          "It's nearly finished, just needs painting," said Jessicca, "It's perfectly safe."

And that's how they ended up inside Lion's Yard Shopping Centre. They scaled the wall (they made Daniel go first) and Michel opened it up with the key he'd pinched from his dad, who apparently owned the thing. They went inside.
          "Oh," started Steph, "A new Disney Shop!" she pointed to the sign. "Yay!"
          "An MVC, too!" said Michel. "Better than that, there's a liberary, too!"
          "You read?" asked Muawiya?"
          "Oh, yeah, I love books. Can't get enough of them."
          "It's true," said Chris, "I can never get him to come and play football," he motioned to his backpack, where his ball currently resided, "because he's either always playing something on his computer or reading."
          "Hey! I don't play! I code."
          "You and your internet, I don't understand it."
           Smash.

Michel and Muawiya got off of Sarah and Steph, and helped them up. Jessica lowered her arm, which was shielding her eyes, and the rest got off of the floor.
            Seven balls of light floated in front of them, amiss the broken glass on the floor.
            "My dad is going to kill me!" moaned Michel.
            The balls of light had arched through the glass ceiling, showering everyone with shards.
            "That doesn't matter; is everyone all right?" asked Muawiya.
            "We're fine," said Jessica. "But what're these lights?" She grasped one, then held it out in her palm. "Hey, cool."
            "It looks like a calculator," said Muawiya.
            "It's a computer!" said Michel, taking another ball of light. Everyone took one. There seemed to be one each.
            Then, all they could hear was rushing water.


Author's Notes.

I use that "Break a line, "Then," simple sentence here" thing far too much. I think I'm being dramatic. Anyway, that was my Tenth Tale. If you're wondering "What was so special about that?" then I shall have to tell you now. I've been waiting to write this ever since I signed up as an author on the DaD and DHZ, that's what's so special. I just never seemed to know enough to do it. So, I posted a thread on the DaD asking for help with this stuff. Thanks to Cirecus and UnknownH. Also thanks to Chris Burke for thedigiport.com and its Digidex. Most of the places I've made reference to exist. I bet you can discover what city I'm writing about. Look out for more from this series.