Disclaimer: Don't own the Matrix in anyway, and you know the rest.


So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
blue skies from pain.
Can you tell a green field
from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

Did they get you to trade
your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
Did you exchange
a walk on part in the war
for a lead-role in a cage?
--Pink Floyd


There was nobody you could find nowadays who hadn't heard of Reagan. He was the biggest movie star in the recent years, and he owned everything you can dream of: money, fame, countless admirers...

How his stardom began somewhat remained to be a mystery. He was not the type you would define as sexy, nor was he a specially talented actor. Nonetheless, he became fastest rising star ever since his debut.

The story was rather a typical Hollywood dream: a college drop out, worked in a bar for quite a few years, until he left for drama school training, and finally moved into a Beverly Hill mansion after a few big box-office hits.

***

A black Limo smoothly drove along the street.

Reagan, in his trademark black jacket, sat at the back of the car. His eye expression was indeterminable behind the shades.

Another long day working on his new action movie. A much more physically demanding movie than any other he had before, he felt as if his body was feeling apart. Yet, the choreographer thought he was a natural, judging from the fact he had never had any experience before.

As the car passed by McNasty, the bar Reagan used to work and was still a frequent customer of, he called the chauffeur to stop. Stepping outside, he told the chauffeur to go home first, "I will stay here for a while, and call ya when I'm done."

He stopped in front it for a moment, and pushed the door open.

None of the people he had worked with was here anymore. In fact, the owner had been changed also soon after Reagan left this place. The previous one was arrested for doing drug business. According to the rumor, the guy's failure was because one of his men left, a man who was able to hack into the LAPD's mainframe to steal the police's plans.

It was still early evening, not many people would be around at this hour. Few youngsters sat at the dark corner, obsessed with their own little world.

No one came for him, which was good and bad. He was getting tired of too enthusiastic fans, but now he was a little disappointed. It wasn't right not being the centre of attention. Only the bartender Jeff saw him, nodded and took his order of a Godfather.

He sat down at the bar and inhaled the familiar blend of sweat, perfume and weeds...

A girl approached the counter. Tall and slender, with icy green eyes. The shiny black leather she wore made a strong contrast with her pale skin, which gave out a soft glow under the dim light. "She's beautiful!" Reagan thought to himself. Yet he swore she was no more than twenty years old, which really came down to the question of how the doorman let her in.

She ordered a Tornado and waited indifferently, as if she had nothing to do with whatever was going on around her. Then her eyes focused on Reagan as he passed her the drink. She took the glass and said quietly, "Thank you, Cypher."

Reagan felt his heart had skipped a beat, and the shaker in his hand dropped...

A metallic click of hitting the counter.

Jeff set his shaker down, and passed Reagan the drink, "Here you go, buddy!"

Reagan gave out a startle. He blankly looked at the bartender for a second, then blinked. He wasn't the bartender anymore. The mysterious girl was gone. Or she was never there to begin with.