The Ghost in the Machine
Disclaimer: The Ghost in the Machine is fan fiction inspired by the film The Matrix © Warner Bros. Entertainment. The Ghost in the Machine is not related to the official film enterprise in any way and represents an original work © oqidaun / M.L. Nicholson utilizing the concept developed by Larry and Andy Wachowski.
Credits:
All Opening Lyrics taken from Hymn (Front 242, Up Evil).
Closing Lyrics:
Chapter One: Everything Must Perish (Frontline Assembly, Epitaph)
Rating:
Chapter One: PG-13 Language
Generally R-ish for Language and violent content. Perhaps you're familiar with Kid Rock's song Bawitdaba "Cuss like a sailor, drink like a Mick." Well, I am Irish, but the first part applies more poignantly to this situation. Yes, I'll have soap for lunch tomorrow.
Chapter One
"Welcome to the Real World"
And disorder must come
And disorder must reign
Every minute will count
When disorder is king.
The humid air veiled the world in a sickening gray haze and copper colored sun smiled approvingly. The sweaty sidewalks were abandoned as though everyone had retreated ahead of the approaching storm. Smith collapsed on the wrought iron bench at the edge of Hopper Park and buried his throbbing head in his hands. The unseasonably balmy weather was conducive neither to thinking nor walking. The day knew no medium, only extremes. The bench was unforgivably hard, the sun excessively bright and the air had never been heavier nor more stale. Without raising his head or opening his eyes he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. For all intensive purposes Smith felt like he was going to vomit.
Time? Date? Place? He struggled to remember any detail that would help him figure out what he was doing sitting in the miserable sun staring at his shoes. He focused on his neatly crisscrossed shoelaces and the sharp crease in his trousers struggling to remember getting dressed, leaving his house, or walking to the park. A dense fog descended in his mind forming an impermeable cordon between his present and past. The gravity of the situation set in and he realized that not only could he not remember putting on his shoes, he was unable to remember any detail about his life. His heart quickened and the nausea intensified as he tried to recall his name. He sat up straighter, hoping that the change in posture would jar his memory. The only thing he was reminded of was his throbbing head.
Emptiness.
"Michael?" Smith looked up and reasoned that the voice's pitch registered somewhere between that of a strangled goat and a screeching banshee. A petite woman with red hair so unnatural that the color could only be reproduced by the slow decay of toxic chemicals dropped down on the bench beside him. She wore a faded black leather jacket and smelled of cigarettes mingled with rich perfume. She was drinking coffee through a straw from a paper cup. "What in the hell are you doing around here? I thought you'd gone off with Howie?"
Smith attempted to narrow his bloodshot eyes and give her the cool dismissive stare he had perfected in another life. The stare was unattainable in his present condition and all he manage was an agonized look of disinterest. Squinting against the bright sunlight, he tried to keep her in focus. "What?" His voice surprised him not so much because it rang like a steel gong in his head, but because he had never heard it before.
"What's happened to you?" He did not recoil when she moved closer to him. Despite the fact Smith did not know who she was, her familiarity was comforting. Slowly, she reached out and touched the side of his head. Her touch revealed the source of the continual throbbing. "My God, looks like you've been hit upside the head with a cricket bat." Smith raised his hand to his head and looked curiously at the blood covering his slender fingers. "What the bloody hell happened to you?" The woman's voice was no less abrasive than before.
"I don't know, but you're right in saying it's bloody." He accepted the handkerchief she offered and pressed it to his temple resting his elbow on his knee and closing his eyes against the pain. The pain produced an unusual sensation of fear and curiosity. He could not remember ever feeling this way before, but certainly he must have.
"You don't remember how you got your head split open?" As he leaned forward, she caught sight of the gun in his shoulder holster. "Damn it, Michael, what are you in to?" Her expression hardened and she moved back.
"What? I have no clue what you're talking about," Smith growled at the woman, her questions and this fellow named Michael. "Who are you?" If she could ask questions then so could he. Momentarily, her face grew pale, but then her jaw tightened and she took hold of his elbow and hauled him to his feet.
"I'm Kai, Fuckhead," She narrowed her eyes, her jaw remained set. She watched carefully as his expression remained blank. "Shit, you'd better have the biggest concussion in the history of humanity, cause I'm not going to play games, Michael."
"Games? I'm not the one who started in with the twenty questions, Ms. Fuckhead." Smith was not expecting the sharp punch to his ribs. A thin smile escaped even as error embarrassed him. "I'm assuming that's not your proper name?"
"Why me?" Kai breathed as she helped Smith down the deserted sidewalk. "Michael, you're gone for six months and here out of the blue you come back saying you don't remember a damn thing. If it wasn't for your head being smashed in, I'd left your sorry ass on the bench. I know you would have done the same for me. Amnesia is something they get in soap operas and poorly written pulp fiction." Her touch was not gentle. "There's something different about your eyes… What kind of drugs are you doing? Are you drunk?"
Kai droned on and Smith stopped listening. How could he forget knowing this woman? She asked a hundred questions, made a thousand accusations and waited not for a single reply. Her step was purposeful and though she was dwarfed by his six-foot two-inch stature she maintained a remarkably commanding presence.
The shadows of the cold lifeless buildings waged war with the orange sun. The street narrowed and the old brownstone apartments grew closer. Kai tugged him along through isolated unfamiliar streets, stopping randomly as if she were testing to see if he knew where they were going. Smith stumbled over the backs of her feet a dozen times, before she dispensed with the subterfuge. She finally stopped in front of a plain looking building with a curiously painted green door. She looked at him suspiciously, "Here we are," and made no move to open the door.
Smith reached out irritably and seized the doorknob. The door did not budge. He yanked and jerked turning the knob and still nothing happened. Suppressing the agony in his head, he hit the door violently with his shoulder. It creaked but the swollen wood did not shift.
Kai put her hand on his arm as he backed away and turned the knob while pushing against the kick plate with her scuffed periwinkle colored combat boot. The door swung open freely and Smith leveled a dark stare at her.
"You really don't remember. Do you Michael?"
I hope I won't forget this place
this burning sky that we call home
in the end we stand alone
come alive, come alive
Breathe
From Everything Must Perish (Front Line Assembly, Epitaph)