Disclaimer: I don't own The Matrix, their characters, and any of the other sequels that sucked. They all belong to the Wachowski Brothers.
QUESTIONS
My name is Thomas Anderson. I was a former computer hacker. That was then. About a year ago, I woke up from a two-year coma in a hospital in Denver, Colorado. How I got to Denver, I don't know. Personally, I've don't recall ever being in Denver my entire life. Ever. But I must've, even if I woke with a coma that lasted for six months, I mustn't have recovered completely. The only other explanation is that I was taken there by hi-tech robots that enslave humans and bend them to their will. Yeah right.
Excuse me. The robot thing is a bit touchy. See, until now, I still have dreams. Dreams no normal individual can have. But it's not always the same. Sometimes I dream of a blackened, ruined metropolis that are infested with flying robots. Well, they're not really robots. More like… machines. Then I realize that it's not all rubble, but there are red tubes scattered for miles. I peer into these red tubes, and I see the faces of people. I think I'm insane. Maybe I am. I mean Denver? The hell would I be in Denver for? And what could I possibly have done to be in a coma for a year?
Then again, sometimes I dream of women. One woman, actually. I don't know her name, but in my dreams I always call her Trinity. But she doesn't call me Tom or Thomas or even Mr. Anderson. She calls me Neo. Neo was my hacking name. If I remember correctly, Trinity was the guy famous all around for hacking. I can't remember why, but he is. I don't know why I would even think Trinity's a girl, I mean, he did all those great things, didn't he? He can't be a girl. But the girl in my dreams. She's gorgeous. Not, supermodel gorgeous, but I can look into her dark eyes and see the fire of courage and determination. I can feel my heart beat faster in every waking moment I look at her. And then I wake up and I realize it's not real. My dull walls would seem green at first. As if these symbols scrolled quickly down. It's not always after I wake up. Sometimes it could be when I let my guard down. I could see symbols zipping by. I remember in Chinatown, I spotted an asian man with round rimmed sunglasses. He seemed to be made out of gold. I didn't investigate further because I was suddenly distracted. The image brought back an image. An image of walking through a city of gold. Was it the same blackened metropolis? It can't be. Because nothing so beat up could look this beautiful. Nothing. I look back and the man's gone. Nowhere to be found.
I also remember one more thing. I'm dressed in all black and I tangle with a neatly dressed man in a suit. He doesn't call me Neo. He calls me Mr. Anderson. Somehow, this makes more sense, but somehow it doesn't. It would if I wasn't flying and trading punches with him. Everywhere around there were duplicates of him, watching as we fight in the sky and eventually bring it down to the street. It's pouring and I'm losing.
Sometimes I see people like him. It's not really him. But I see the sunglasses and the suit, and the earpiece and the black FBI car, and they would park outside my apartment. I can see them through my window and they would watch me. Acknowledge that I knew they were there, then they'd get in the car and drive away.
But the alarm went off, and I woke up from my sleepy train of thought. It was time to get to work.