Mayabird wrote:Elheru Aran wrote:
I've got this idea that in the Matrix, there are some small alternate Constructs, early experiements by the machines; Libria is one such, an early version (1.0.4) or some such of the Matrix, one that was unsuccessful because it was too perfect. Preston is one of the remaining portions of that construct. I've also got some ideas involving a few other gun gods...
Ooh, so does this mean we'll get to see some of these other earlier Constructs?
[cryptic] Perhaps... [/cryptic]
Okay, here's part two...
********
Earth, former continent of North America
2571 A.D.
With a powerful blow, a module in the twenty-third grid of the Machines’ power plant cracked. More blows followed, coming from within; the lid of the module lifted slowly, as nutrient fluid splashed out. And John Preston, gasping for air, looked around him, and saw a scene of Hell.
Bodies floated in modules, arranged in neat rows, each body plugged into the power plant; huge metal octopi hovered above the units, occasionally reaching down and gathering up a module; and Preston arced his back in a spasm of pain, as the jacks abruptly unplugged.
With a whoosh, he was swept down through a disposal chute. Stale nutrient fluid flowed along with him; his body was on fire as he tried to slow his passage. Eventually, he splashed down into a large sewer, where he lay, gasping. A bright light suddenly swept across him, and he feebly held up his hands, protecting his eyes, as a being came down for him…
The former Cleric opened his eyes. He was dressed in rough, nondescript clothing. He was laying on a thin mattress, apparently within a ship of some sort. Struggling upright, he ran his hand over his head and felt rough stubble; and the door opened.
Like lightning, Preston’s hand darted forth and clasped itself around a woman’s neck. His other hand lifted, poised to snap her neck if she made a wrong move. “Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here?”
Morpheus materialized seemingly out of nowhere behind her. Calmly, he said, “Peace, Cleric. She is with us. And you will find your answers if you will come with me…”
Preston gave the two of them wary looks. Finally, he gave Morpheus a minimal shrug, released her, and walked past the woman into the corridor. Following the large black man into an open room containing some kind of large reclining chairs and a console at which an operator was busily occupied, Preston’s eyes missed no detail. Morpheus paused, swiveled one of the chairs to face Preston, and took a seat. He motioned Preston to a nearby stool, and remarked offhand, “This young man at the console is Tank, our Operator.”
Tank turned around and gave Preston a wary grin and nod, before returning to monitoring the constant rain of green characters scrolling down his screens. Morpheus continued, “You are aboard the ship Nebuchadnezzar, of which I am the captain. We are presently several hundred feet below the true surface of the Earth, and several thousand feet below what is now the surface. I now ask you, Cleric, to open your mind and listen carefully. Long, long ago, before your time, the people of Earth had grown to a massive population, covering the land in cities, sailing the oceans in great ships, and flying through the air in huge craft. To alleviate the pressure, it was decided that certain segments of humanity were dispensable; they were thus converted into power units for a great Matrix, one that would store these people until such time as they were wanted. Machines were created to service this Matrix.
“But, the Machines were given too much latitude; they began to think for themselves. The humans saw this as a threat, and they attacked the Machines. They lost.
“After they were integrated into the Matrix, it underwent considerable changes. People’s minds did not register correctly with the Matrix; it was too perfect. Thus the Architect and the Builder worked together, to create the Matrix as it is today-- the final version-- 5.9.2. The portion of the Matrix that you came from, Cleric, is an old part-- one of the earliest versions of the Matrix, that was sustained because a certain portion of the population were suited to that part. It is version 2.8.4 of the Matrix; one that suited the Architect because of its inherent order. The Builder was dissatisfied, but the Architect had precedence, and overruled him; he kept Libria as an artifact of his work, a construct he could visit on occasion to relax amid its order.
“You have been removed from Libria, Cleric, because, to be frank, we need you. I believe that you are the One, prophesied to destroy the Machines and save humanity.”
John Preston could only look at Morpheus, slightly incredulous but betraying no trace of it. Eventually, he sighed, shifted position, and asked, “What is it that I am to do, then?”
Morpheus gave Preston a slight smile, laid back into his chair, and with a motion of his hand invited Preston into the one by him. Tank, following the unsounded command, moved from his console and took up two input jacks. The Cleric, wary, sat back. Tank warned him, “This is probably gonna hurt a bit, since it’s your first time…”
A bolt of pain lanced through the back of Preston’s head-- replaced by the sight of a featureless, white room. He was dressed in his Cleric habit; Morpheus appeared, dressed in his immaculate black trench coat and silver sunglasses. He motioned, and they were standing atop a great building.
“We are now in the Construct, Cleric. We created this section of the Matrix secretly, separate from the one the Machines control. It is used to train those who have been recently awakened. Here, we learn how to twist the Matrix, to bend its rules to our advantage--”
And he spun around, sprinted, and leaped… arcing high in the air, he landed with a crunching impact on the roof of the building far across the street. Preston looked on, incredulous. Morpheus called, “Come, John. This is the Matrix. It is not real, but we are. We can control it. We can bend its rules. We exist outside it, Cleric.”
The Cleric closed his eyes; his hands, at his side, clenched and then relaxed. He looked outwards, his eyes distant. And what he saw was not the world; rather, it was a vista of green. Code characters, programs, scrolling all around, forming buildings, shaped like people, cars, even pieces of trash on the ground.
A slight smile appeared on Preston’s lips. He walked forwards, till he reached the edge of the building. And he called to Morpheus: “You say we can bend the rules, can we not?” At Morpheus’ acquiescence, he nodded quietly, and then stepped into thin air.
The coding of the Construct rippled, and he walked quietly, solid as though he were on a bridge of stone between the two buildings, until he stepped onto the balustrade of the building across the street.
Tank, monitoring the console, goggled; everybody gathered around him, eagerly watching, had similarly incredulous reactions.
Morpheus likewise stared; and then he grinned. “See, Cleric? Already you learn… Tank? Agent training program two, please.”
The Operator stared, but dutifully loaded the program as excited chatter broke out in the background. The clinical monitors by Preston remained calm, unexcited, while those of Morpheus’ showed considerable agitation.
The Construct rippled around the Cleric and Morpheus; when it was still, they were in a large warehouse. Preston looked about idly, while Morpheus was tense; he asked, “Have you encountered Agents before, Cleric? I thought not… but you most likely have. The Clerics of the Tetragrammaton Construct, John Preston, are with but few exceptions Agents in training, sent there by the Architect to learn, to understand, and to become lethal. The Agents, Cleric, are the control organ of the Matrix; they keep the peace, and destroy all that disrupt it. Sound familar, Cleric? Indeed…”
Green coding rippled in the distance, at one side of the warehouse. Preston shifted, every sense suddenly hyper-aware. And two Agents suddenly popped out of nowhere, one in front of Preston and the other at his right. Morpheus reflexively bent down in a defensive crouch. They fired their .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistols…
And the bullets whipcracked through thin air, for the Cleric had simply moved out of the way of the bullets. He flicked his wrists, and his sidearms inserted themselves into his hands. Spinning in a blur of motion, two shots-- clear and distinct, above the loud booms of the Desert Eagles-- cracked forth.
The Agents were still standing. Preston stared. One grinned malevolently at him, and then launched itself into a flying kick directly at the Cleric’s skull. Preston bent sideways as the Construct slowed down around him; holding his guns directly over his head, he let fly on full automatic, a three-shot burst from each pistol. As the second Agent began to blur in the bullet-dodging program, a bullet gently, almost casually, entered his skull; another penetrated his neck; and a wild one went through his shoulder. He vanished in a burst of green code.
Preston whipped up his feet, still in midair; he connected solidly with the first Agent. Using the impetus from the kick as leverage, he spun upwards gracefully, leisurely rotating through the air, bringing his arms down to bear upon the Agent. His pistols cracked once more.
Morpheus’ jacket settled into place as he completed his crouch, and he stared incredulously as the Agent dissolved and vanished away, and Preston gently landed, guns retracting into his sleeves. The second hand on Morpheus’ watch clicked once. The Cleric asked gently, “Is that it?”
It's a strange world. Let's keep it that way.
