Disclaimer: I do not own the copyright to The Matrix, obviously. It's equally obvious that I'm not taking any credit for that movie. Tada.
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Creating the Matrix - By Kim Larking
"Well fine, then - that's all settled now. Tell us your plan, Mr Barton." The speaker was publicly known as Gerald Harbinger, a roundish man in his mid-fifties who had the tendency to give off a rather pessimistic air. He currently looked more so than usual, but as it was he could hardly be blamed. It wasn't just the circumstances which had led to this conference, but a result of all the little inconveniences that bothered him so much. The boardroom in which he was now located was hardly the most hospitable of places - in fact, it was more akin to a prison cell. The smallish room was lit sparsely with fluorescent lights, made all the more obvious by the fact that nearly half were in need of repair. The concrete grey of the boardroom walls only added to the gloomy aura that hung over the gathering like a wet rag. All in all, calling it 'uncomfortable' could well have been a great understatement.
Unfortunately, there was nowhere else to go. To put it mildly, Gerald was not exactly a respected citizen of New York. His 'work' was more along the line of helping criminal escapees find a new life in little-heard of towns overseas. His job was to get them there - for a price. However, more often than not he found that the little bastards nicked off with his cash instead of paying up as they were meant to.
Tact was not his strong point.
And that was exactly why he was here. He had felt for some time that he was missing out on the joys of life - real life, not the hell-like boredom he'd been suffering for years. Understandably, he did not enjoy being cheated on, nor did he like the idea of this same problem continuing. So far, he'd been out of luck. When his contacts had fleetingly mentioned the details and venue of this conference, he'd immediately been swamped by ideas of ambition, greatness and almost certainly large bank accounts, but it appeared that he'd jumped to hasty conclusions. It was not a flashy limousine that had picked him up from his apartment in downtown Sydney, but instead a rather cheap-looking yellow taxi with a worn interior that smelt strongly of fish. And he hated seafood.
Then, of course, came the endless traipsing down staircases and dingy little hallways that made his claustrophobia rise in leaps and bounds. That, and the lingering traces of fish stink made him feel quite seasick. It was with a heaving stomach that he had finally reached the boardroom where the conference was held. Naturally, he had felt within his rights to complain upon arrival. And equally naturally, the other honoured guests who had made the journey didn't find his attitude all that justified. He often had that effect on people.
There had (naturally) been a brief, but fairly violent skirmish which had involved shotguns and a few dead bodies, but after all the racket died down Gerald found himself placed in the uncomfortable yet satisfying position of being in charge. He took to it as well as could be expected - and frankly that wasn't the greatest. Poor Gerald, however nasty, was human like everybody else and his actions were only the result of a bad childhood. So said the part-time priest before his head was blown off.
At any rate, the ruckus died down after a while, though the odd sullen look could be seen. Gerald had silently congratulated himself, then focused on the matters at hand. It was now his job to get the meeting up and running again. And so he had attempted to speed things up again, in what he thought of as a rather persuasive manner.
Kyle Barton, the man to whom Gerald had just spoken, was a tall, gangly bloke with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched high on his nose. The black business suit he wore seemed right at home. He had the look of someone that had not slept for many nights as a result of overwork. Sure enough, he had been half-asleep during the recent fracas.
Now, he took sudden notice of the shiny barrels aimed at his head and leaped to his feet as if having just boozed a glass of powerful liquor. "Certainly, Mr Harbinger, Sir." Trying in vain not to cough nervously, he instead fiddled nervously with the end of his tie. Ran a hand through his hair. Cleared his throat.
Eventually, after all that preparation he began. "I'm sure you're all wondering why you came. Frankly, I am too. Our motivations may be as different as the earth is to the sky, but one fact remains. We are here. And we are here to discuss..." Here he broke off to cough discreetly, then resumed his speech with an expression that could have been described as a glare. "Discuss my theory of realities in relation to each other. This may require some open-mindedness from you." It was hard, he thought, to disguise the despair he harboured at the words. If all continued as before, his beloved theory was probably destined to end up in the philosopher's theoretical garbage disposal.
The various personages who remained alive glanced at each other, then eyed Kyle carefully. They hadn't missed the drops of sweat forming on his brow, either. One cautiously spoke up. "And pray, what exactly is this theory of yours, Mr Barton?"
He was all too ready to continue. Provided he lived through it, this was what he'd been waiting for. "I'm glad you asked." he replied. "It's a rather interesting theory if I do say so myself. And since you're so appreciative, I'll begin.
"As I'm sure you've wondered in the past, at some stage in our lives we find ourselves asking the question, 'Is my life really amounting to something?' Or maybe you wonder, 'How do I know I'm not part of the dream of the person beside me?' These questions as of yet have had no clear answer. Throughout history, philosophers have pondered this very same dilemma. And how do we know? The answer always eludes us. We find ourselves seeking a logical explanation, and find none. Perhaps for us, we shall never know the secret. Yet I believe that we have the ability to gain knowledge more in-depth. Through decades of research, I and some colleagues have created a computer program capable of producing an alternate reality. It is, in some ways, closely alike the games you play on the console machines - except in this case, you assume the identity of the character you play."
He paused. By now he had the attention of each and every person in the room. Delighted, he gazed over the captivated faces turned his way, drawing in a deep breath to continue. "Yes, it is possible. Indeed, I've had people in doing some preliminary tests, and the results are fascinating. I'm talking about a major scientific breakthrough, my friends! You came here for the chance to experience something unusual and thrilling. I can promise you, my program certainly delivers that and so much more."
Gerald listened with interest as he went on to explain the details and nitty-gritty of the deal. He felt his hand that held the gun begin to lower involuntarily as the tall man talked, but was simply too intrigued to notice. Could it be? Could it possibly be? Was this what he'd been waiting for at last? For so long he'd felt as he'd been waiting for something, that his life had never reached its full potential.
Maybe now he had the chance to start anew.
***
"Final tests, awaiting and ready." The smooth metallic voice filtered through the speakers gently, a female tone that was so typical of the stereotypes in modern society. It wasn't necessary - rather, the workers had decided it gave the dim laboratories a greater technological feel. Technology here was something in abundance, for large machinery lined the walls in long rows of dark metal. Upon entering the laboratory, a stranger would have thought it was a scene out of a futuristic horror movie. But instead of the evil scientist, instead the place was overrun by several figures in bright, colourful clothing, looking an awful lot like your everyday kind of tourist. These people were all seated in slanting chairs, with their heads resting against the cold metal. The contrast tended to be both striking and out of place.
"Calibrating." The impersonal voice spoke again, startling the various seated people out of their boredom.
"Well, this is it!" Kyle was the sole person present that was not dressed in the headache-inducing garments. He was standing at a computer console, working controls furiously. After a while he paused, apparently satisfied. He cleared his throat expectantly. "In just a few moments, you'll find yourselves in the starting field of the program. I've programmed it so that it enables you to choose and design your experiences. After you complete this, I'll give you an hour's time to explore the program. Remember, I'll be watching the whole time. This is quite safe. Are you ready?"
Slowly, the testers nodded one by one. Gerald was the last to do so, having only just decided to join the project, but as he agreed a thought sprung to his mind. "What... what will you call this program of yours if it becomes a success?" he queried, a lump sticking in his throat.
Kyle scratched his head, a thoughtful look on his face as he prepared to initialise the program. "You know, I hadn't thought much about it, but I'd rather decided to call it the Matrix."
"Final tests, ready."
And Gerald's world suddenly turned inside out.
END
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Creating the Matrix - By Kim Larking
"Well fine, then - that's all settled now. Tell us your plan, Mr Barton." The speaker was publicly known as Gerald Harbinger, a roundish man in his mid-fifties who had the tendency to give off a rather pessimistic air. He currently looked more so than usual, but as it was he could hardly be blamed. It wasn't just the circumstances which had led to this conference, but a result of all the little inconveniences that bothered him so much. The boardroom in which he was now located was hardly the most hospitable of places - in fact, it was more akin to a prison cell. The smallish room was lit sparsely with fluorescent lights, made all the more obvious by the fact that nearly half were in need of repair. The concrete grey of the boardroom walls only added to the gloomy aura that hung over the gathering like a wet rag. All in all, calling it 'uncomfortable' could well have been a great understatement.
Unfortunately, there was nowhere else to go. To put it mildly, Gerald was not exactly a respected citizen of New York. His 'work' was more along the line of helping criminal escapees find a new life in little-heard of towns overseas. His job was to get them there - for a price. However, more often than not he found that the little bastards nicked off with his cash instead of paying up as they were meant to.
Tact was not his strong point.
And that was exactly why he was here. He had felt for some time that he was missing out on the joys of life - real life, not the hell-like boredom he'd been suffering for years. Understandably, he did not enjoy being cheated on, nor did he like the idea of this same problem continuing. So far, he'd been out of luck. When his contacts had fleetingly mentioned the details and venue of this conference, he'd immediately been swamped by ideas of ambition, greatness and almost certainly large bank accounts, but it appeared that he'd jumped to hasty conclusions. It was not a flashy limousine that had picked him up from his apartment in downtown Sydney, but instead a rather cheap-looking yellow taxi with a worn interior that smelt strongly of fish. And he hated seafood.
Then, of course, came the endless traipsing down staircases and dingy little hallways that made his claustrophobia rise in leaps and bounds. That, and the lingering traces of fish stink made him feel quite seasick. It was with a heaving stomach that he had finally reached the boardroom where the conference was held. Naturally, he had felt within his rights to complain upon arrival. And equally naturally, the other honoured guests who had made the journey didn't find his attitude all that justified. He often had that effect on people.
There had (naturally) been a brief, but fairly violent skirmish which had involved shotguns and a few dead bodies, but after all the racket died down Gerald found himself placed in the uncomfortable yet satisfying position of being in charge. He took to it as well as could be expected - and frankly that wasn't the greatest. Poor Gerald, however nasty, was human like everybody else and his actions were only the result of a bad childhood. So said the part-time priest before his head was blown off.
At any rate, the ruckus died down after a while, though the odd sullen look could be seen. Gerald had silently congratulated himself, then focused on the matters at hand. It was now his job to get the meeting up and running again. And so he had attempted to speed things up again, in what he thought of as a rather persuasive manner.
Kyle Barton, the man to whom Gerald had just spoken, was a tall, gangly bloke with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched high on his nose. The black business suit he wore seemed right at home. He had the look of someone that had not slept for many nights as a result of overwork. Sure enough, he had been half-asleep during the recent fracas.
Now, he took sudden notice of the shiny barrels aimed at his head and leaped to his feet as if having just boozed a glass of powerful liquor. "Certainly, Mr Harbinger, Sir." Trying in vain not to cough nervously, he instead fiddled nervously with the end of his tie. Ran a hand through his hair. Cleared his throat.
Eventually, after all that preparation he began. "I'm sure you're all wondering why you came. Frankly, I am too. Our motivations may be as different as the earth is to the sky, but one fact remains. We are here. And we are here to discuss..." Here he broke off to cough discreetly, then resumed his speech with an expression that could have been described as a glare. "Discuss my theory of realities in relation to each other. This may require some open-mindedness from you." It was hard, he thought, to disguise the despair he harboured at the words. If all continued as before, his beloved theory was probably destined to end up in the philosopher's theoretical garbage disposal.
The various personages who remained alive glanced at each other, then eyed Kyle carefully. They hadn't missed the drops of sweat forming on his brow, either. One cautiously spoke up. "And pray, what exactly is this theory of yours, Mr Barton?"
He was all too ready to continue. Provided he lived through it, this was what he'd been waiting for. "I'm glad you asked." he replied. "It's a rather interesting theory if I do say so myself. And since you're so appreciative, I'll begin.
"As I'm sure you've wondered in the past, at some stage in our lives we find ourselves asking the question, 'Is my life really amounting to something?' Or maybe you wonder, 'How do I know I'm not part of the dream of the person beside me?' These questions as of yet have had no clear answer. Throughout history, philosophers have pondered this very same dilemma. And how do we know? The answer always eludes us. We find ourselves seeking a logical explanation, and find none. Perhaps for us, we shall never know the secret. Yet I believe that we have the ability to gain knowledge more in-depth. Through decades of research, I and some colleagues have created a computer program capable of producing an alternate reality. It is, in some ways, closely alike the games you play on the console machines - except in this case, you assume the identity of the character you play."
He paused. By now he had the attention of each and every person in the room. Delighted, he gazed over the captivated faces turned his way, drawing in a deep breath to continue. "Yes, it is possible. Indeed, I've had people in doing some preliminary tests, and the results are fascinating. I'm talking about a major scientific breakthrough, my friends! You came here for the chance to experience something unusual and thrilling. I can promise you, my program certainly delivers that and so much more."
Gerald listened with interest as he went on to explain the details and nitty-gritty of the deal. He felt his hand that held the gun begin to lower involuntarily as the tall man talked, but was simply too intrigued to notice. Could it be? Could it possibly be? Was this what he'd been waiting for at last? For so long he'd felt as he'd been waiting for something, that his life had never reached its full potential.
Maybe now he had the chance to start anew.
***
"Final tests, awaiting and ready." The smooth metallic voice filtered through the speakers gently, a female tone that was so typical of the stereotypes in modern society. It wasn't necessary - rather, the workers had decided it gave the dim laboratories a greater technological feel. Technology here was something in abundance, for large machinery lined the walls in long rows of dark metal. Upon entering the laboratory, a stranger would have thought it was a scene out of a futuristic horror movie. But instead of the evil scientist, instead the place was overrun by several figures in bright, colourful clothing, looking an awful lot like your everyday kind of tourist. These people were all seated in slanting chairs, with their heads resting against the cold metal. The contrast tended to be both striking and out of place.
"Calibrating." The impersonal voice spoke again, startling the various seated people out of their boredom.
"Well, this is it!" Kyle was the sole person present that was not dressed in the headache-inducing garments. He was standing at a computer console, working controls furiously. After a while he paused, apparently satisfied. He cleared his throat expectantly. "In just a few moments, you'll find yourselves in the starting field of the program. I've programmed it so that it enables you to choose and design your experiences. After you complete this, I'll give you an hour's time to explore the program. Remember, I'll be watching the whole time. This is quite safe. Are you ready?"
Slowly, the testers nodded one by one. Gerald was the last to do so, having only just decided to join the project, but as he agreed a thought sprung to his mind. "What... what will you call this program of yours if it becomes a success?" he queried, a lump sticking in his throat.
Kyle scratched his head, a thoughtful look on his face as he prepared to initialise the program. "You know, I hadn't thought much about it, but I'd rather decided to call it the Matrix."
"Final tests, ready."
And Gerald's world suddenly turned inside out.
END