This is my first fic so be nice and review
Sharp
He had always been different. Always been a dreamer. Ever since he would remember the boy had sensed that something was wrong. It was in the air he breathed, in the food he ate and in the blood that flowed through his veins. His world didn't feel true. It lacked an authenticity that he knew existed somewhere. He gained that truth on his eleventh birthday.
Violent
Listless
Rebellious
Troublemaker
The teacher hated him but that was fine he'd never see her again.
He had watched the movies, seen the television shows, he believed that he knew how to fight. He truly "knew" that when the time came he would know how. He simply would. It was a blind and powerful faith in himself that would catapult him into any trial he would ever have to face. And in his world that was all he needed.
When his foot connected with the man's wrist it broke violently sending the gun spinning through the air. The weapon landed just out of reach, a brutal temptation.
"Get out of the way you little shit."
Behind him a high school student lay prostrate on the grass, clutching a rapidly spreading crimson stain. The girl's ragged breath pounded in his ears.
"She's a traitor."
His eyes narrowed and once again his feet left the ground.
Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!
His footsteps broke harshly against the wooden fence as he swiftly scaled the sheer wall before collecting himself into a ball. All at once he exploded off the flimsy barrier and drove his heel deep into the man's stomach. He was rewarded with a splash of blood on his enemy's lips and a strangled cry. Before the pair could reach the ground the boy let loose another attack. His momentum carried him forward into a flip and he extended his right palm solidly planting it in the man's throat. The dry crack echoed across his backyard like a gunshot. They landed in unison, the boy in a uniformed kneel and the man in a tangled heap.
The man did not move.
"Run."
Startled, he whirled around to face the girl whose life he had just saved. She had a tortured expression carved on her delicate features as she struggled to speak.
"They will come for you now."
"WHO!"
His babysitter smiled softly.
"Enoch...the rebels."
Her eyes sparkled as silent tears rained down her cheeks.
"Zio-"
Now there were two motionless bodies.
Gardens die.
The Back gate exploded open and a flurry of bullets hailed the arrival of the "rebels".
People destroy.
Enoch was over the fence and onto the neighbor's roof before the splinters could complete their journey to the lawn. Cautiously he watched them form a circle around the body of the man he had killed. They said something to one another. He watched their faces, stoic and motionless behind the darkened glass. One made the sign of the cross before turning around to face Cassidy.
They shot her body thirty seven times. Then a phone rang inside his house and the men slowly left leaving Enoch on the roof, frozen by terror. Bits of broken shingles lodged themselves under his fingernails as his fists clenched in revulsion and rage. When he walked in the backdoor he discovered the house empty and with the approach of sirens filling his ears. Five bloody fingers turned the doorknob diligently. He would never come back to that house again.
Enoch hated rats. They were disgusting, beady-eyed opportunists who hid in the shadows waiting for the chance to rob him of what little he had with their naked tails and pointed teeth. They stank and carried diseases. They multiplied and consumed. They were everywhere. Sweeping across the planet like a plague. Lately rats seemed a lot like people.
Sick for sleep
People who had taken away Cassidy. People who had stolen his life from him. People from outside who lied and preached about a freedom he didn't want. It had been seven months since he had walked into his house and seen his parents on the floor with the contents of their skulls splattered up the wall. It had been seven months since he'd heard a gunshot and Cassidy scream. It had been seven months since his special person died. It had been four hours since he had killed his last rebel.
She had been a lieutenant aboard the Anubis. Blonde hair, blue eyes, now that Enoch thought about it she had been beautiful. Well toned body. Graceful and strong. Strong enough to snap one of his arms and leave four seeping contusions along his torso. Strong enough to send him five yards into a brick wall and bring her balled fists down on his head hard enough to split the concrete beneath him. But not strong enough.
"AGH!"
His palm made solid contact and the glass exploded littering the ground with fragments of broken perfect. He brought the same hand back and then extended it stiffly before rushing into her chest. The air smelled of blood and pot. Two stories up a lady was calling the police, she had grey hair. Four onyx buttons on her jacket swelled and split before lancing off in separate directions. This time the blow was enough to send her halfway through the car door shredding the fragile sheet metal.
She countered quickly, letting the blow carry her backwards into a flip, her feet lingering for an instant effectively clipping him in the jaw. Enoch's head swung backwards. While her opponent was carried into the night sky she hand-walked across the roof of the vehicle and landed in a ball on the adjacent side. Enoch fell hard and swore he heard his own ribs splintering at the impact. His eyes clouded with agony. The air rushed from his lungs.
No time for pain
No time
No
He curl-kicked to his feet and hurdled the hood of the car. The woman's ankle was damaged and she couldn't get her leg around quick enough. She didn't have time to notice. The boy's foot connected with her jaw and snapped it cruelly. Once again she was lifted off the ground but this time she displayed no ethereal grace. She would not twist brilliantly and land unfazed. She simply flew.
People break.
Looking back he had never intended the blow to be that powerful. But we all make mistakes. We all lose control. Her head rotated on her shoulders 420 degrees as her carcass rotated in the air, limbs flailing. When her body's course was impeded by a brick wall the whole vessel disintegrated on collision. He could see the bones breaking in a wave spreading outward as each made contact with the residential barrier. He'd never hit anyone that hard.
Although in this past seven months he'd done a lot of things he'd never done before. Like fighting, he'd never thought for a moment that he wouldn't be able too, but he'd still never done it before. Firing a gun, it seemed like lately he couldn't stop. Dodging bullets, he'd done a lot of that. Jumping onto the roofs of four story buildings, yeah a few times. Killing...
"STOP!"
He staggered to his feet clutching his useless arm and swore. Blood caked the entire left side of his body and he needed a shower, he sniffed the air, Bad.
Praying makes it hurt
He tossed the red towel onto the couch before collapsing into a chair. He'd bought red towels because lately blood seemed to play an important role in his life. It was everywhere. This way he wouldn't have to buy new one's after he cleaned himself up. Although he hardly needed to conserve money. The men in the suits gave him everything he needed. Always catering to his every need, always watching, always there.
But never real
A pale hand reached across the coffee table and wrapped itself around the corner of a laptop before dragging it back towards its owner. His fingers played across its surface practicing the complex and deadly alchemy that was Windows XP. The e-mail let him know who his...enemy... had been. The suits claimed she had been at his house that day, that she had participated in mutilating Cass' body. He didn't really care if she'd been there or not. He couldn't remember anyway and it's not like it would matter. At first things like that had mattered too him. Innocent, Guilty. Good, Evil. Love, Hate. Seven months ago those words would have meant something too him. He'd forgotten what they'd meant very quickly. Maybe too quickly.
He was empty now. He would sit in this apartment that the suits gave him and he would wait for them to give him a manila envelope. He would smile and take it after thanking them and then he would close the door. He'd pad across the main room to the kitchen counter. He'd take a knife and open the package. He would memorize the face, the location and the date. And then he would kill that face and forget that location and be somewhere else on that date.
Although it wasn't like he'd ever have any problems with the law. The suits took care of everything. They always did. After he came back they'd send an e-mail informing him of just who he had killed. He'd requested that they do this for him in the beginning. Back when killing was hard. Back when he pretended that he understood why Cassidy had to die. But lately things had changed.
Too much set.
Her name was Innoscent. He frowned at the spelling, the rebels had a tendency of doing that, spelling things wrong, screwing things up, messing with the system, killing people, killing Cassidy. She was a lieutenant aboard the Anubis. She had a child his name was Cryptik. He looked a lot like her. Enoch wondered if he would kill him too. She had been scouting out a possible red pill. Apparently she enjoyed taking control, being hands on, in the field. That's what the report hinted at anyway. Stupid girl. Her desire to prove she could still "hack" it had gotten her killed.
He read some more about her past accomplishments and something about her crew before getting bored. Dead people did not interest him. Neo had been interesting, but he'd just discovered his existence before he had passed, returned to the source and supposedly ended the war. But he hadn't ended the war nothing was different and Cass was still dead.
The first five shots had torn through her chest sending bits of shredded cloth and flayed tissue into the air. The rounds were large and each impact rattled her whole body. Steadily the trail of mutilation had snacked its way up her neck. The eleventh through thirteenth round decimated her throat and exposed her spine through the crater between her chin and her chest. The next eight shattered her jaw and cheeks collapsing her beautiful features and the blood fountained off in all directions. It continued separating a large junk of her skull with twenty four through twenty eight. After that the lawn was littered with pieces of skin and fragments of bone. Her body convulsed as each round slam-
"STOP!"
He was shaking and bathed in a cold sweat. Grisly images tore across his field of vision raping him of the shred of sanity he clung to. But it didn't stop, it never did. And praying just made it worse. So much worse, and still the butterflies would sing.
"Cassidy?"
"Yes, Enoch."
She turned to him and smiled. A mild expression of concern floating across her features.
"Why did you die?"
She seemed to consider the question carefully before opening her mouth.
"CHESSMAN! HE KNOWS! ALWAYS KNOWS! PRAYING MAKES IT WORSE!"
When he woke up he was in pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt had been pulled over his head. He'd been bathed too. Wearily he stumbled out of the bed. BED! He whirled around. Yes, he had been carried into the bedroom. Someone had moved him. Someone inside. WEAPON! WHERE! LOOK FOR WEAPON! His sensed exploded into overdrive. His muscles tensed in preparation. Nothing. Nothing except a monster.
Then he realized it was probably one of the suits. A machine. Cold. Dead in the true sense of the word. Not human.
He swayed on his feet. The sudden movement sparked a twinge in his shoulder bringing his attention to his left arm. It was covered in bandages. He took them off and rotated it cautiously. The appendage worked fine. It would break again.
His reflection in the mirror looked haunted. He always did. He ran a hand through his perpetually short hair and sighed. Something moved beneath the reflection.
The door closed behind him and he locked it out of habit. He'd changed into "casual attire". This meant a black t-shirt with black fatigue pants and a pair of black flip-flops. Those were the clothes the suits had given to him. They'd been labeled. On his wrist a watch sparkled in the sunlight. The suits had given it to him also and told him never too take it off. He slipped it into his pocket. The viper snaked its way up his arm and sank its long fangs into his throat.
Slaves don't dream.
The suits couldn't do anything too him. They needed him. He was their tool. Neo's "ascension" had caused a stalemate of sorts and this meant that the machines could not openly carry out their agenda. Diplomacy crippled them. Politically it was the most fragile situation that the Matrix had ever experienced. That's where Enoch came in. He killed the rebels for them and it was common belief that he did this out of revenge, which he had. The story was believable because it was true. He did kill the rebels for revenge the machines simply provided the information. So it worked out perfectly for the machines, they had their weapon, the Zionists had their target and the Exiles had someone to watch. It was a delicate balance. One that was maintained and weighted with the utmost care. The world was a powder keg and the smallest Spark would set it off.
Graveyard fenced in.
It was a twisted violent tension. The air thrummed with unseen possibility. The sounds of everyday urban hell sang of its destruction. The unaware could even sense it on some basic and long suppressed level. Something was coming. And the Chessman would know.
CHAPTER TWO
"You are here because an Angel has sent you."
They were in the park. Fourth bench from the right. A chessboard spread out before them. Life continued in sadistic parody all around them. It was as it always had been. It was as it would never be again.
"She told me to ask you why."
From beneath his thick brow a pair of scaldingly clear eyes bathed the boy in pity. His dirty wrinkled hands folded against the tattered brown coat in his lap and he sighed.
"All you must do is all you can ever do."
Enoch's face twitched.
"That's what the man at the carnival said to you did he not?"
The prisoner nodded slowly.
The exile cleared his throat, "What do you think it means?"
His guest was silent, prompting him to answer his own question.
"It means we are only given as much power as we are allowed. We can only change what we are meant to change and hope that it is enough. I sit here day by day and watch the world through this game in front of me," he gestured to the chess board, "This is what I have been given and it is all I can do."
The eleven year old was impatient, "I know."
"Yes, you do know but you don't understand. Or rather, you understand but you do not accept. You must come to peace with the fact that things happen simply because they must happen and in order for you to understand what you must understand why."
The pigeons flocked around them, a grey cyclone of shrieking unimportance. They were ignored.
"She died because she had to. Your precious person left because that was her reason for existence. Very few people are fortunate enough that their entire destiny consists of something as simple as death. In light of the After she is lucky. However I won't expect you to believe this until the time comes when you must."
The wind stirred his matted hair and breathed calm reassurance on his skin. Enoch watched this and hated.
"So what is this? This thing that is sleeping all around us. I can feel it when my eyes are shut. I can hear it when my hands are over my ears and I can taste it when my mouth is closed."
The Chessman looked resolute, "I don't know or rather I do not understand. Or perhaps I understand but I do not believe as true. But I can tell you why. It is coming because this world has decayed. It is stagnating and fate is disgusted by it. Something is coming to change."
Their eyes clashed, "And now you must go."
A rook took its duty and passed along the course dictated by the rules of its own existence. Enoch saw this and hated this too; the berretta was between his sweaty hands before the rebels were out of the car.
"Be sure that you visit once more in nine days."
The bullet left the chamber and slid through air and flesh and bone.
"Ten o' clock."
Four more rounds were set free. Two more slaves fell.
"It's a date."
And then one more car arrived and people started running. A woman to his right screamed as her daughter's head disintegrated in a torrent of blood. Bits of bone and dental matter retreated from the dieing child and ricocheted off the cement. An innocent caught in the crossfire. Just like Cassidy.
Steadying his arm and ignoring the gunfire hissing by him so threateningly he took careful aim. The target was taking cover behind one of the parked vehicles. About an inch of his shoulder was left exposed however and Enoch took full advantage of this opportunity. The first shot brought him to the ground the second shot knocked him from cover and the third screamed through his left eye socket and set his head dancing across the street.
Monster on the couch
He'd avenged the girl and now it was time to run. The Park was shaped like a half moon with the rounded section facing the river. The eastern edge was densely wooded and a boardwalk could take him to the Tube. Enoch was on the west side. So the boy started running.
All around him pedestrians were fleeing for their lives as the rebel death squad gave chase and continued to pound at him with an assortment of automatic weapons. Lucky for him they were crap shots; bits of wood and concrete exploded all around him as he made hasty progress toward the exit, raining down all around him in beautiful error.
Choking on the moon
Gradually the blaring of car horns and the shrieks of the onlookers died away, succumbing to the solemn quiet of the East End. It was here, in the middle of the concrete and chrome monster that the throes of slavery held no weight. For it was in this small refuge that rules gave way to chaos. In the early construction of the matrix there had been an inherent flaw in its architectural scripting.
What remained was a Bermuda triangle of sorts breeding all forms of untold anomaly. It was dark and thick and dangerous. This is where those giving the chase would become the ones receiving the chase. Here is where the tables turn.
Slick like fire
Slam had grown up like most other redpills; hating and despising the world because it didn't seem real. It didn't seem true. The great irony is that he would grow up a hacker, a nerd, the kid who got the shit kicked out of him and was stuffed into lockers. His life consisted of computers and computers and more computers. He was addicted to technology.
That was until April 9th during his sophomore year. He had been up in his room as always, cold and empty sitting in front of an electric box that poured lies into his fragile mind. And then suddenly the box stopped lying to him and the world began to unravel. Now he was here. With a gun. In the East Side. And he was scared.
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