Chapter One: Summoned!
I was sitting at home, detached from the world, searching for the password to C.I.A. Agent Jonathan Marx. This was nothing of late. I sat at my computer day-in and day-out searching for something I could not explain. I had conformed to a hacker to do precisely that, search. So, I spent all waking hours hovering over a shoddy screen and squalid keyboard. Granted my area was anything but immaculate, with various articles of everything strewn in any direction possible, it did suffice. Reaching my arm around through a pile of whatever was next to me, I found what I was looking for-my Advil bottle. The headaches I acquired during these long, sleepless nights sometimes got to me, thus I had every type of pain reliever dispersed around my cluttered mahogany desktop. By the time I looked up for longer than a second to blink, it was somewhere in the vicinity of 3:00 a.m. I had no true point of reference though, on account of my long broken clock hanging -dangling- on the wall lateral of me, but it must have been the only honest timepiece I owned. Yet still, I held no further desire nor need to fix it.
After scouring numerous files to the point of delirium, I finally stumbled upon a tidbit of information that might actually help in my previously vain hunt. I was about to download the files, when my screen forthwith seemed to shut down. At this, rage mewed up inside of me and I could barely withhold it. My finger slammed down multiple times upon the esc key, and when that did not succeed I pulverized the Ctrl Alt Del keys several times over. Still nothing appeared to be going on, yet my computer remained active. This bewildered me beyond words. It must have been an up and coming black out system the government had designed. Suddenly, something appeared on the faded monitor. It seemed as though my hard drive had somehow fallen folly to a fool's girlish pranks! I sat, quite agitated, as the letters appeared one after another.
The matrix has you, Dragon
I read the message and thought I was definitely hallucinating. I tried again to clear my screen. Then, in spite of fiery emotion ablaze inside my core, I continued to watch as the mysterious letters disseminated across the screen.
pick up the phone…
I was just about flung into shock when the phone buzzed in its holder. What kind of sick escapade was this? I pondered. Fear and flames welled up inside my stomach as I reached numbly for the phone. If this was some type of trace system of the government's I had surely blown it for the final time.
"Who is this?" I was barely able to enunciate as I supported the phone with quivering hands.
"You know who this is," a commanding voice retuned.
"Neo?" I uttered in full disbelief, my hands only quivering most violently.
"Yes. I need to be brief; this line is bugged."
"Whe…when can I meet you?"
"Soon. But right now, you must do exactly as I tell you. Can you do that?"
"Yes, of course. But…"
"Go down stairs!" Neo abruptly cut off my sentence mid-thought. "Box 396."
"But that…" I was about to counteract his command before, yet once again, I was cut off.
"Do it now!"
This sudden assertiveness of a situation that confused me beyond belief was frightening to say the least. I quickly jammed the ancient headset back into the cream colored cradle where it rested on usual occasions. As I was walking toward my apartment door, I froze within my steps. What am I doing? I could go to jail if I'm caught! I argued against Neo's demand inside my still twirling mind. I knew it was completely crazy, yet something - that same something, which drew me to my computer's call every waking moment - forced me to continue on. I rationalized this action with any reasonable thought I could fathom at that moment. Neo should know what he's doing. After all, I am just a mere pawn in the hands of my authorities anyways. That sounded half-reasonable enough to allow me to follow that strange lull of my mind to the end of my apartment room. Once I had made it thus far, it seemed that going to the end hall elevator was almost inevitable.
Stepping outside my scattered room into the hall was nothing of an upgrade. This place was definitely anything but first-class, yet it was all my rare income could afford, living alone in the big city. As I entered the rickety old elevator I pushed the first floor button. The doors almost simultaneously closed and the metallic box I was now stuck in began to descend down the shaft, playing the same cheesy, ear-piercing music the entire time. While I stood there, generally in the corner, my skin began to crawl and chills ran up my spine. It was that odd feeling again. From time to time, I would feel that I was being watched - that someone or something was interpreting my entire being. I never understood quite where those feelings came from, but I can sure assert the fact that they were real as my flesh.
Finally, after agonizing moments had passed, I reached the main level and the doors pried themselves open. I then moved across the floor to face rows of mailing boxes. Every number from 1-1000 was accounted for in the countless boxes of steel. As I approached and glared at the dreaded Box 396, I began to doubt what I was planning on executing. Of all the boxes, would it have been such a horrible thing to choose perhaps the box that belonged to me? I began to consider, in all skepticism. Then shaking my head with a shudder and deep breath, I moved farther away from the ominous postage rows.
I shifted swiftly toward the elevator doors and practically smashed in the up button. After waiting a pulverizing amount of uncounted minutes, the doors wrenched open and I stumbled weakly inside. After hammering the fourth floor button for what must have been an eternity, the doors surprisingly sealed shut. Once back on my original level of the complex, I sped to the door of my run-down apartment. I knew something along the lines of foul play had to be going on around this place, but I still had no idea as to what was going on.
I approached the door to my so-called-apartment and tried to door it. To my fair dismay the knob would not budge an inch. It was locked, secured tightly from the inside where I had, in my haste, forgotten to turn the lock. My rage swelled yet again and in the back of my throat I could feel the acid rising from the knots turning over and over within my churning stomach. Why this was all happening to me, and why today I could not tell even myself, but it sure as the sun was going to rise, was happening. Out of my passionate ire came aggressive adrenaline, which moved me to kick the door that now blockaded me from my house. When I did this, the latch of the doorway splintered and what was left of my door swung oddly into the entry of my home.
As I sloppily fell into my apartment, I tripped over a pile of papers. Atop these papers, which now lay scattered in divergent areas on my sleazy tan carpet, was a tax return form. As I looked at it, I realized just how ill I was of this place. I hated the routine-spontaneity, what seemed to me like organized-disorder, of the so-called world. There was something about it - something false that I could no longer lead myself to believe in anymore. I had felt like a rat, trapped in a whirlwind maze - always being watched, hunted. Day after day, night after night I was being analyzed - controlled by an invisible force. I had to discover what that force, which had such power over me was, and this was my only hope.
I moved away from the papers on the floor and nearer the door. As I was about to exeunt from my living room, I caught a glimpse of my kitchen knives. That was it! I needed something to pry the mailbox open with. I searched around madly till I recalled the Swiss Army Knife I always had available in the kitchen drawer. I yanked the drawer open and, rummaging through several junky items until I finally came across the knife. Then grabbing my cell phone I had thrown on my lazy chair the night before, I headed down the hall with a new sense of vigor pumping through my every vein. There was no possible way that I was going to live with the regret of never knowing the truth.
Glancing down to the far end of the hallway I quickly resolved that the hour-consuming elevator was a loathsome idea. Thus, I turned to my left sharply and faced the fire escape exit. It was my fastest trail back down to the postboxes, and I surely wanted this over with as soon as I could salvage the courage to accomplish it. As I took merely a single step out unto the rusty stairs, a white powder fell all about my body. I had not even considered the horrid cold just moments ago. But, still figuring this was a superior idea to the elevator I drug myself on. Ultimately, between the freezing cold and my screaming doubts, I made it to face down Box 396 yet one more time in this eventful evening.
As I began to push open the worthless old door, I was slapped with the sensation of blazing warmth upon my skin: heavenly bliss. Shaking vigorously now, I managed to maneuver my body over toward the rows of steel. I looked conformingly at box 396 and cringed. This was my final chance to alter the rest of my destiny. I knew the actions I was about to perform were not exactly the ones I planned upon doing, nor wanted to do in any way, but I also knew this was the only right thing I could have done. Thus, screaming at my conscience to shut the frell, I reached into the back pocket of my faded blue jeans. There was where I had stuffed my Swiss Army knife, which I was now in dire need of. I looked about cautiously for a moment, and then reached for the lock of the abominable box. I began to scrape my knife about in the minute keyhole and in about 45 seconds flat, I had avenged my fate - I had opened the tiny metal door to reveal a dark, cool void. I blindly reached my hand into this void, and feeling icy metal, I pulled it out. In my hand lay a top-of-the-line shining ebony 8mm, 3-round track precision-silencer Tykanian pistol. Staring at this masterpiece in somewhat of awe, I decided it would be best to shove the gun into my deep front pocket. This I did with no further hesitation, realizing of course this gun was not just illegal in all parts of the world, but more deadly than a madman with a hundred machine guns.
The second I closed the door to box 396, the cell phone clipped loosely to my bedraggled belt began to buzz - the signal of an incoming call. I reached, with great trepidation, to push the green, flashing receive button. Trembling, I began to make an attempt of steadying quivering vocal cords.
"What do you want?" I asked, voice weak and full of anxiety.
"Do you want to know what I need to tell you?" the man on the line responded coolly.
"Do you expect me to say no?" I answered him with a question, my voice stabilizing a bit now.
"I was hoping you would say that," he confirmed. "You must leave," he continued, sounding pressed.
"Why?" I bolted out.
"There is no time to answer futile inquires. Meet me in front of Motel 6 in an hour, exactly!" He demanded, and then abruptly hung up.
I set my phone back against the belt of my pants. It had been a very odd conversation, to say the slightest. Looking about the decaying complex I lived in was rather sickening, so I decided to head for the unreliable elevator. I was in no particular hurry to get anywhere at the moment, so I figured a worthless wait might get some of the nervous energy out of my racked system. Once the disgusting old heap of trash, which its symbolism summed up the entire motif of the place I was forced to call home, arrived with a sick ding I approached it pathetic excuse for doors. I entered its confines and after about 15 minutes - rough estimate - I had finally returned to my original level of the apartment, which adjoined mine. Sauntering slightly down the creaking hall, I arrived at its pathetic door. Swinging it lightly on barely a hinge to the side, I approached my main entrance. I felt a tinge of hunger come over me as I did this, thus I neared the Kitchen counter. Passing by the clock overhead, I thought it would be wise to steal a glance at it: 3:00 a.m. still. I was beginning to think that perhaps I should take it into the shop sometime soon.
I entered the kitchen with a sort of melancholic attitude. The foods I owned, or could afford for that matter, were useless at this time of the morning. I glanced into my shabby cupboards, for one final attempt, but upon finding nothing but noodles and three month old vegetables I had no further concern about, I suddenly thought the pangs of hunger were a better choice. Once I had come upon such a radical decision against my physical health, I heard yet another ill sounding buzz. The twenty year old, cream phone shook vigorously in its tainted cradle yet again. I glanced - glared - at it, wondering whether to answer the call or rip it from the wall and throw it out my singular busted, blackened window. Choosing that in certain the ladder choice was a foul one, I placed the headset against my ear and lips.
"What do you want now?" I practically shouted.
"I guess this is a bad time?" came the sarcastic voice of my employer for Internet hack jobs.
"Sort of Mack," I paused. How would I be able to form a decent collaboration of excuses for the nights odd turn of events? "But, just never mind." I continued, closing the subject firmly.
"Did you get my information yet?" he returned, sounding rather agitated.
"No," I stopped myself. Those odd events were returning to haunt me yet again in this conversation. "My computer was traced and I had to shut down for the night." I excused myself from any further torture of the topic.
"I see." Mack said, a bit more kindly. "Do you now when you can have it by then?"
"No I don't." I snapped. "Frelling piece of junk!" I said, more to myself than to Mack.
"Excuse me, what crawled up your skin?" he counteracted my anger.
"Nothing. Look, I have to go. This is a really bad time." I spat out as quickly as I could form the words on my lips. Then, I swiftly slammed the phone down; this was no time for his sarcastic remarks and there was no way I was about to answer another one of his probing questions. I figure, I thought aloud, he can cram his C.I.A. info where the sun can't shine! I was fed up with his entire superior attitude and was sick and tired of being bossed around by that pathetic government tycoon. It was getting to the point of absurdity, the point where I was beginning to feel I had no more choices left but to obey him. And that was somewhere I never wanted to end up again; but that is a whole other story, which I won't pause the pain of bringing up. Perhaps at another time, in another circumstance I might have been more equipped to bear its hideous face.
Pushing all my former thoughts aside, I quickly grabbed the cell phone. Perhaps the correct time would be evident on its screen. This is turning into Hell! I choked out, realizing I had forgotten to charge the battery the night before. The "low bat" signal taunted me by flashing non-stop and eventually I could stand its laugher no longer. Throwing my hands, defeated, over my head I took a deep breath of oxygen as an attempt to calm my frazzled nerves. Then, realizing that being late would be far more costly than early for my appointment, I decided to head out the doorway.
Remembering the stale coldness of my former excursion, I reached for my black jacket and threw the dying cell phone on the couch. It was futile to carry around a dying piece of electrical equipment anyways. I did one last check of my pocketknife and the pistol as I headed out; a person can never tell when such things will be needed, especially on a night such as that one. I exited the room and walked slowly down the hall. The floor creaked unusually constant as I shifted my body weight from side to side, giving me the odd sensation of somebody following a bit too closely behind me. But, as I suspected, each time I would fling my form around to glance in back of me, there was not a soul in sight but my own. I continued on, the fear increasing with each turn of my head, each dart of my watchful eye. Then, as I glanced back one more time, I noticed the only light that ushered the darkness from this hall was beginning to give out; just a few more moments and it would be gone I assumed.
I finally reached the elevator shaft, which was no comfort to me. The light behind me flickered monotonously for a second or two more until if finally only gave off an eerie humming noise. The dark hall in which I now stood was merely lit by the dim glow of the dirt-glazed elevator button. That light gave me little to no reassurance as I stood in the faulty hall. I began to think that maybe my imagination was getting carried away as I definitely felt another presence in the halls. Perhaps not another attendant of the complex, but it was by all means, another inhabitant. But, after the elevator did not arrive for what must have been over the usual 15-minute wait, I began to think I might not be creating the images of foul play in my mind after all. At that point I allowed for the paranoia to take over my reactions, thus pulling the powerful gun from my jeans pocket. I cocked the gun nervously and pointed it in the main direction opposite myself. At this point I would have sworn my life upon the fact that I was not the only bodily form contained within the shoddy terminal of my apartment. And, if there was something out there to fear, I was going to be ready to meet its match just as soon as it showed its demon form.
Back aboard the Neb:
"I can't seem to get a lock on her and the calls aren't going through!" Tank declared, his tone dropping to the ground.
Neo paced anxiously around the Neb's core, avoiding the various computers, screens, and tech equipment strewn around the deck. Everyone who was present could tell he was deeply concerned. Then, sighing a bit, Trinity came forward and placed a hand on Neo's tense shoulder: an act of comfort.
He made no move to resist, but did not calm himself either. "They'll kill her and you know the will!" he stated, turning agonized eyes on Trinity. Their eyes met for a moment and Trinity knew exactly the dread that he was feeling. She had felt similarly when the agents had captured Neo. But, her pain had hit a little closer to the heart than this. She understood that no words of comfort could help the situation, so she rubbed his back lovingly - gently. Then, abruptly Tank turned to Neo.
"Neo, I have bad news. Those are agents in there!" he alarmed from the Matrix mainframe computers.
"I knew it," Neo shook his head painstakingly. "I knew it!" he suddenly shouted. "I have to go in there. Nytris bring the ship up to broadcast speed. Tank, hook me up!" Neo began ordering instantly. With that, the entire ship moved at lighting speed. When one of the captains on this ship said jump, the crew had no further response than yes sir!
Morpheus, being the Captain equal in command to Neo, turned to where he was setting up the station for his entry. "Are you going to need any help? You know she will be afraid, just as you were," he offered.
"No," Neo returned anxiously, "It'd be better if you could help the others keep me updated. But thank you."
"Of course, I just want her to come home safely, as I know you do too." Morpheus said, a glimmer in his eyes. He knew how difficult it could be to change a built in mind, but there was no one out there like her, and they all knew it. She didn't follow the rules but wouldn't dare be caught breaking them. She was just what they needed. Neo stepped back from Morpheus to look at a towering man behind him. "Let's go Scalper," Neo commanded, his eyes like fiery darts, "We have very little time on our hands."
The tall, stern man gave a nod down to Neo. They both walked briskly and in one fluid bound landed in the chairs. Neo was the first to lay his head back, and then Scalper reluctantly followed him. Even though he looked like a titanium wall, the man did have some feeling. It showed by his lack of willingness to indulge himself with the pain of the steel needle in the nape of his skull. Even once he consented to be plugged in, the cringe through his every bone was as evident as the danger in the situation the Nebuchadnezzer crew now faced. Yet, to ward of the demons, Scalper knew this was something he would have to get used to…eventually.
I was sitting at home, detached from the world, searching for the password to C.I.A. Agent Jonathan Marx. This was nothing of late. I sat at my computer day-in and day-out searching for something I could not explain. I had conformed to a hacker to do precisely that, search. So, I spent all waking hours hovering over a shoddy screen and squalid keyboard. Granted my area was anything but immaculate, with various articles of everything strewn in any direction possible, it did suffice. Reaching my arm around through a pile of whatever was next to me, I found what I was looking for-my Advil bottle. The headaches I acquired during these long, sleepless nights sometimes got to me, thus I had every type of pain reliever dispersed around my cluttered mahogany desktop. By the time I looked up for longer than a second to blink, it was somewhere in the vicinity of 3:00 a.m. I had no true point of reference though, on account of my long broken clock hanging -dangling- on the wall lateral of me, but it must have been the only honest timepiece I owned. Yet still, I held no further desire nor need to fix it.
After scouring numerous files to the point of delirium, I finally stumbled upon a tidbit of information that might actually help in my previously vain hunt. I was about to download the files, when my screen forthwith seemed to shut down. At this, rage mewed up inside of me and I could barely withhold it. My finger slammed down multiple times upon the esc key, and when that did not succeed I pulverized the Ctrl Alt Del keys several times over. Still nothing appeared to be going on, yet my computer remained active. This bewildered me beyond words. It must have been an up and coming black out system the government had designed. Suddenly, something appeared on the faded monitor. It seemed as though my hard drive had somehow fallen folly to a fool's girlish pranks! I sat, quite agitated, as the letters appeared one after another.
The matrix has you, Dragon
I read the message and thought I was definitely hallucinating. I tried again to clear my screen. Then, in spite of fiery emotion ablaze inside my core, I continued to watch as the mysterious letters disseminated across the screen.
pick up the phone…
I was just about flung into shock when the phone buzzed in its holder. What kind of sick escapade was this? I pondered. Fear and flames welled up inside my stomach as I reached numbly for the phone. If this was some type of trace system of the government's I had surely blown it for the final time.
"Who is this?" I was barely able to enunciate as I supported the phone with quivering hands.
"You know who this is," a commanding voice retuned.
"Neo?" I uttered in full disbelief, my hands only quivering most violently.
"Yes. I need to be brief; this line is bugged."
"Whe…when can I meet you?"
"Soon. But right now, you must do exactly as I tell you. Can you do that?"
"Yes, of course. But…"
"Go down stairs!" Neo abruptly cut off my sentence mid-thought. "Box 396."
"But that…" I was about to counteract his command before, yet once again, I was cut off.
"Do it now!"
This sudden assertiveness of a situation that confused me beyond belief was frightening to say the least. I quickly jammed the ancient headset back into the cream colored cradle where it rested on usual occasions. As I was walking toward my apartment door, I froze within my steps. What am I doing? I could go to jail if I'm caught! I argued against Neo's demand inside my still twirling mind. I knew it was completely crazy, yet something - that same something, which drew me to my computer's call every waking moment - forced me to continue on. I rationalized this action with any reasonable thought I could fathom at that moment. Neo should know what he's doing. After all, I am just a mere pawn in the hands of my authorities anyways. That sounded half-reasonable enough to allow me to follow that strange lull of my mind to the end of my apartment room. Once I had made it thus far, it seemed that going to the end hall elevator was almost inevitable.
Stepping outside my scattered room into the hall was nothing of an upgrade. This place was definitely anything but first-class, yet it was all my rare income could afford, living alone in the big city. As I entered the rickety old elevator I pushed the first floor button. The doors almost simultaneously closed and the metallic box I was now stuck in began to descend down the shaft, playing the same cheesy, ear-piercing music the entire time. While I stood there, generally in the corner, my skin began to crawl and chills ran up my spine. It was that odd feeling again. From time to time, I would feel that I was being watched - that someone or something was interpreting my entire being. I never understood quite where those feelings came from, but I can sure assert the fact that they were real as my flesh.
Finally, after agonizing moments had passed, I reached the main level and the doors pried themselves open. I then moved across the floor to face rows of mailing boxes. Every number from 1-1000 was accounted for in the countless boxes of steel. As I approached and glared at the dreaded Box 396, I began to doubt what I was planning on executing. Of all the boxes, would it have been such a horrible thing to choose perhaps the box that belonged to me? I began to consider, in all skepticism. Then shaking my head with a shudder and deep breath, I moved farther away from the ominous postage rows.
I shifted swiftly toward the elevator doors and practically smashed in the up button. After waiting a pulverizing amount of uncounted minutes, the doors wrenched open and I stumbled weakly inside. After hammering the fourth floor button for what must have been an eternity, the doors surprisingly sealed shut. Once back on my original level of the complex, I sped to the door of my run-down apartment. I knew something along the lines of foul play had to be going on around this place, but I still had no idea as to what was going on.
I approached the door to my so-called-apartment and tried to door it. To my fair dismay the knob would not budge an inch. It was locked, secured tightly from the inside where I had, in my haste, forgotten to turn the lock. My rage swelled yet again and in the back of my throat I could feel the acid rising from the knots turning over and over within my churning stomach. Why this was all happening to me, and why today I could not tell even myself, but it sure as the sun was going to rise, was happening. Out of my passionate ire came aggressive adrenaline, which moved me to kick the door that now blockaded me from my house. When I did this, the latch of the doorway splintered and what was left of my door swung oddly into the entry of my home.
As I sloppily fell into my apartment, I tripped over a pile of papers. Atop these papers, which now lay scattered in divergent areas on my sleazy tan carpet, was a tax return form. As I looked at it, I realized just how ill I was of this place. I hated the routine-spontaneity, what seemed to me like organized-disorder, of the so-called world. There was something about it - something false that I could no longer lead myself to believe in anymore. I had felt like a rat, trapped in a whirlwind maze - always being watched, hunted. Day after day, night after night I was being analyzed - controlled by an invisible force. I had to discover what that force, which had such power over me was, and this was my only hope.
I moved away from the papers on the floor and nearer the door. As I was about to exeunt from my living room, I caught a glimpse of my kitchen knives. That was it! I needed something to pry the mailbox open with. I searched around madly till I recalled the Swiss Army Knife I always had available in the kitchen drawer. I yanked the drawer open and, rummaging through several junky items until I finally came across the knife. Then grabbing my cell phone I had thrown on my lazy chair the night before, I headed down the hall with a new sense of vigor pumping through my every vein. There was no possible way that I was going to live with the regret of never knowing the truth.
Glancing down to the far end of the hallway I quickly resolved that the hour-consuming elevator was a loathsome idea. Thus, I turned to my left sharply and faced the fire escape exit. It was my fastest trail back down to the postboxes, and I surely wanted this over with as soon as I could salvage the courage to accomplish it. As I took merely a single step out unto the rusty stairs, a white powder fell all about my body. I had not even considered the horrid cold just moments ago. But, still figuring this was a superior idea to the elevator I drug myself on. Ultimately, between the freezing cold and my screaming doubts, I made it to face down Box 396 yet one more time in this eventful evening.
As I began to push open the worthless old door, I was slapped with the sensation of blazing warmth upon my skin: heavenly bliss. Shaking vigorously now, I managed to maneuver my body over toward the rows of steel. I looked conformingly at box 396 and cringed. This was my final chance to alter the rest of my destiny. I knew the actions I was about to perform were not exactly the ones I planned upon doing, nor wanted to do in any way, but I also knew this was the only right thing I could have done. Thus, screaming at my conscience to shut the frell, I reached into the back pocket of my faded blue jeans. There was where I had stuffed my Swiss Army knife, which I was now in dire need of. I looked about cautiously for a moment, and then reached for the lock of the abominable box. I began to scrape my knife about in the minute keyhole and in about 45 seconds flat, I had avenged my fate - I had opened the tiny metal door to reveal a dark, cool void. I blindly reached my hand into this void, and feeling icy metal, I pulled it out. In my hand lay a top-of-the-line shining ebony 8mm, 3-round track precision-silencer Tykanian pistol. Staring at this masterpiece in somewhat of awe, I decided it would be best to shove the gun into my deep front pocket. This I did with no further hesitation, realizing of course this gun was not just illegal in all parts of the world, but more deadly than a madman with a hundred machine guns.
The second I closed the door to box 396, the cell phone clipped loosely to my bedraggled belt began to buzz - the signal of an incoming call. I reached, with great trepidation, to push the green, flashing receive button. Trembling, I began to make an attempt of steadying quivering vocal cords.
"What do you want?" I asked, voice weak and full of anxiety.
"Do you want to know what I need to tell you?" the man on the line responded coolly.
"Do you expect me to say no?" I answered him with a question, my voice stabilizing a bit now.
"I was hoping you would say that," he confirmed. "You must leave," he continued, sounding pressed.
"Why?" I bolted out.
"There is no time to answer futile inquires. Meet me in front of Motel 6 in an hour, exactly!" He demanded, and then abruptly hung up.
I set my phone back against the belt of my pants. It had been a very odd conversation, to say the slightest. Looking about the decaying complex I lived in was rather sickening, so I decided to head for the unreliable elevator. I was in no particular hurry to get anywhere at the moment, so I figured a worthless wait might get some of the nervous energy out of my racked system. Once the disgusting old heap of trash, which its symbolism summed up the entire motif of the place I was forced to call home, arrived with a sick ding I approached it pathetic excuse for doors. I entered its confines and after about 15 minutes - rough estimate - I had finally returned to my original level of the apartment, which adjoined mine. Sauntering slightly down the creaking hall, I arrived at its pathetic door. Swinging it lightly on barely a hinge to the side, I approached my main entrance. I felt a tinge of hunger come over me as I did this, thus I neared the Kitchen counter. Passing by the clock overhead, I thought it would be wise to steal a glance at it: 3:00 a.m. still. I was beginning to think that perhaps I should take it into the shop sometime soon.
I entered the kitchen with a sort of melancholic attitude. The foods I owned, or could afford for that matter, were useless at this time of the morning. I glanced into my shabby cupboards, for one final attempt, but upon finding nothing but noodles and three month old vegetables I had no further concern about, I suddenly thought the pangs of hunger were a better choice. Once I had come upon such a radical decision against my physical health, I heard yet another ill sounding buzz. The twenty year old, cream phone shook vigorously in its tainted cradle yet again. I glanced - glared - at it, wondering whether to answer the call or rip it from the wall and throw it out my singular busted, blackened window. Choosing that in certain the ladder choice was a foul one, I placed the headset against my ear and lips.
"What do you want now?" I practically shouted.
"I guess this is a bad time?" came the sarcastic voice of my employer for Internet hack jobs.
"Sort of Mack," I paused. How would I be able to form a decent collaboration of excuses for the nights odd turn of events? "But, just never mind." I continued, closing the subject firmly.
"Did you get my information yet?" he returned, sounding rather agitated.
"No," I stopped myself. Those odd events were returning to haunt me yet again in this conversation. "My computer was traced and I had to shut down for the night." I excused myself from any further torture of the topic.
"I see." Mack said, a bit more kindly. "Do you now when you can have it by then?"
"No I don't." I snapped. "Frelling piece of junk!" I said, more to myself than to Mack.
"Excuse me, what crawled up your skin?" he counteracted my anger.
"Nothing. Look, I have to go. This is a really bad time." I spat out as quickly as I could form the words on my lips. Then, I swiftly slammed the phone down; this was no time for his sarcastic remarks and there was no way I was about to answer another one of his probing questions. I figure, I thought aloud, he can cram his C.I.A. info where the sun can't shine! I was fed up with his entire superior attitude and was sick and tired of being bossed around by that pathetic government tycoon. It was getting to the point of absurdity, the point where I was beginning to feel I had no more choices left but to obey him. And that was somewhere I never wanted to end up again; but that is a whole other story, which I won't pause the pain of bringing up. Perhaps at another time, in another circumstance I might have been more equipped to bear its hideous face.
Pushing all my former thoughts aside, I quickly grabbed the cell phone. Perhaps the correct time would be evident on its screen. This is turning into Hell! I choked out, realizing I had forgotten to charge the battery the night before. The "low bat" signal taunted me by flashing non-stop and eventually I could stand its laugher no longer. Throwing my hands, defeated, over my head I took a deep breath of oxygen as an attempt to calm my frazzled nerves. Then, realizing that being late would be far more costly than early for my appointment, I decided to head out the doorway.
Remembering the stale coldness of my former excursion, I reached for my black jacket and threw the dying cell phone on the couch. It was futile to carry around a dying piece of electrical equipment anyways. I did one last check of my pocketknife and the pistol as I headed out; a person can never tell when such things will be needed, especially on a night such as that one. I exited the room and walked slowly down the hall. The floor creaked unusually constant as I shifted my body weight from side to side, giving me the odd sensation of somebody following a bit too closely behind me. But, as I suspected, each time I would fling my form around to glance in back of me, there was not a soul in sight but my own. I continued on, the fear increasing with each turn of my head, each dart of my watchful eye. Then, as I glanced back one more time, I noticed the only light that ushered the darkness from this hall was beginning to give out; just a few more moments and it would be gone I assumed.
I finally reached the elevator shaft, which was no comfort to me. The light behind me flickered monotonously for a second or two more until if finally only gave off an eerie humming noise. The dark hall in which I now stood was merely lit by the dim glow of the dirt-glazed elevator button. That light gave me little to no reassurance as I stood in the faulty hall. I began to think that maybe my imagination was getting carried away as I definitely felt another presence in the halls. Perhaps not another attendant of the complex, but it was by all means, another inhabitant. But, after the elevator did not arrive for what must have been over the usual 15-minute wait, I began to think I might not be creating the images of foul play in my mind after all. At that point I allowed for the paranoia to take over my reactions, thus pulling the powerful gun from my jeans pocket. I cocked the gun nervously and pointed it in the main direction opposite myself. At this point I would have sworn my life upon the fact that I was not the only bodily form contained within the shoddy terminal of my apartment. And, if there was something out there to fear, I was going to be ready to meet its match just as soon as it showed its demon form.
Back aboard the Neb:
"I can't seem to get a lock on her and the calls aren't going through!" Tank declared, his tone dropping to the ground.
Neo paced anxiously around the Neb's core, avoiding the various computers, screens, and tech equipment strewn around the deck. Everyone who was present could tell he was deeply concerned. Then, sighing a bit, Trinity came forward and placed a hand on Neo's tense shoulder: an act of comfort.
He made no move to resist, but did not calm himself either. "They'll kill her and you know the will!" he stated, turning agonized eyes on Trinity. Their eyes met for a moment and Trinity knew exactly the dread that he was feeling. She had felt similarly when the agents had captured Neo. But, her pain had hit a little closer to the heart than this. She understood that no words of comfort could help the situation, so she rubbed his back lovingly - gently. Then, abruptly Tank turned to Neo.
"Neo, I have bad news. Those are agents in there!" he alarmed from the Matrix mainframe computers.
"I knew it," Neo shook his head painstakingly. "I knew it!" he suddenly shouted. "I have to go in there. Nytris bring the ship up to broadcast speed. Tank, hook me up!" Neo began ordering instantly. With that, the entire ship moved at lighting speed. When one of the captains on this ship said jump, the crew had no further response than yes sir!
Morpheus, being the Captain equal in command to Neo, turned to where he was setting up the station for his entry. "Are you going to need any help? You know she will be afraid, just as you were," he offered.
"No," Neo returned anxiously, "It'd be better if you could help the others keep me updated. But thank you."
"Of course, I just want her to come home safely, as I know you do too." Morpheus said, a glimmer in his eyes. He knew how difficult it could be to change a built in mind, but there was no one out there like her, and they all knew it. She didn't follow the rules but wouldn't dare be caught breaking them. She was just what they needed. Neo stepped back from Morpheus to look at a towering man behind him. "Let's go Scalper," Neo commanded, his eyes like fiery darts, "We have very little time on our hands."
The tall, stern man gave a nod down to Neo. They both walked briskly and in one fluid bound landed in the chairs. Neo was the first to lay his head back, and then Scalper reluctantly followed him. Even though he looked like a titanium wall, the man did have some feeling. It showed by his lack of willingness to indulge himself with the pain of the steel needle in the nape of his skull. Even once he consented to be plugged in, the cringe through his every bone was as evident as the danger in the situation the Nebuchadnezzer crew now faced. Yet, to ward of the demons, Scalper knew this was something he would have to get used to…eventually.