Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me. They are all property of
the Wachowski brothers and Warner Bros.
I might not get the chance to update as often, as budget season is upon me and I've just gotten terribly busy at work. I didn't mean to make it this long, but the characters kind of got out of hand. And just in case you think this is all too weird, I assure you I know what I'm writing about, and I'll tie it all up quite nicely in the not-too-distant end. The world of the Matrix, nevertheless, is a world where anything is possible..
Chapter 6: The White Prince
Rated PG-13.
'And how long did you say we have been married?'
He was sitting at a table laden with bread and fruit, in a balcony overlooking a city that felt as alien to him as his wife. The setting sun was bathing the flat-topped white houses with a glistening rose-colored hue. Between them, he could see paved streets, plazas with fountains and congregations of colorful people going about their business everywhere; women carrying bread baskets on their heads, traders tending to donkeys that pulled two-wheeled carts filled with brickbats. Further still, the land sloped downwards to meet the cerulean blue of the ocean, which was dotted with sailboats and rafts.
It all looked terribly interesting, but terribly...simulated somehow. He would have to explore the city later, feel and touch it for himself. Not that his senses have always been accurate.
(They have failed you for most of your life. Consider the possibility they may be lying to you now.)
The flashes of (?) intuition in his head were getting alarming. He wondered if he had taken more of a fall than they had reckoned, and part of his brain was now permanently scarred.
He was wondering why he was so skeptical, but everything felt weird, especially his memories, as patchwork as they were. He couldn't quite describe it, but even the colors felt wrong to him, as though they had gone through multiple dyes just to get that extra loudness that was so jarring to him.
The beautiful woman sitting in front of him, watching him eat, was nevertheless very real. She appeared outwardly calm and composed, but he could tell she was nervous by the fluttering of her eyelashes and the surreptitious twitching of her hands.
'Don't you remember, Neo? The day we met?'
He searched for the memories, and they were there. In a hazy little cloud. 'I was visiting this city for the first time, after a really long sea voyage. I was standing in the Great Hall, looking up at the throne, and you were sitting there. I thought you were the..'
He was going to say 'the most beautiful woman he had ever seen', but somehow he knew that felt wrong. He wasn't sure of many things right now, but he was very sure of this. He had never been one to be attracted to physical beauty for beauty's sake alone. Somehow, his wife's obvious attributes struck him as bizzare..he never thought he would ever marry someone who looked like that. She would have been too gorgeous for the likes of him, and he would have been running scared for the rest of his life, wondering when she would wake up to the fact he just wasn't good enough.
(You've always been self-deprecating. You never truly believed in what you can do.)
'You were visiting with your brother,' his wife said. What was her name again? Persephone. 'I was supposed to be betrothed to him. He was your father's eldest, the heir to the Red Kingdom. Our marriage was supposed to have sealed an alliance. But when I saw you, standing by your brother's side...'
'We were drawn to each other -'
'- As though we'd known each other all our lives -'
'And so we got married,' he finished, as if by rote.
It all seemed terribly scripted somehow. Though he was sure it had happened to him. Not in this context though. In another time, another place. With someone else who lurked in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness, a vague incorporeal figure that refused to take shape.
He even remembered the wedding day. His brother had been none too pleased; he had been looking for a trophy wife, and who better than the White Queen herself, with her own queendom as a very expansive dowry. The wedding had been exactly 6 months after they had met, though the whole thing had turned downright political, and he had already made himself at home in Persephone's bed the very night they had met
(though that's something you would not normally do, shy as you are where women are concerned)
and everyone had come to accept that it was the next best thing that could happen, for really, how can you thwart true love, corny as though that may sound?
The wedding was like a image of crystal clarity in his mind, like a
(video recording?)
swirl of white lace, chiffon silk and candelabra, with endless goblets of wine being toasted, and maidens in snow-colored garments with white flowers in their braided hair. And the honor guard turned out in their full regalia, with golden breastplates and white cloaks, brandishing swords that gleamed silver in the dazzling light -
'That was two years ago,' he added.
'Yes. We've been married for two years.'
He sat there, looking at her, wondering if she could discern that he was feeling a little off. Because really, she was like a stranger to him, and it would hurt her to know that. He couldn't remember anything else about her besides the throne room incident, the wedding and a sort of understanding in between happened (sans actual images he could grasp in his mind). Did she have any brothers or sisters? Was white her favorite color, because he couldn't recall seeing her in anything but white? On which side of the bed did she prefer to sleep, the left or the right? What did she like to do in her free time? Did it involve him?
There were so many things he had forgotten
(didn't know)
about her that he was alarmed.
What on Earth did she do as a Queen anyway? And if he was her consort, what in the heck was he supposed to do?
He had absolutely no idea at all.
*
It had been so easy really.
Back in the boudoir, when he was asleep after their bout of lovemaking, she had come to him, her lips lined with coral peach lipstick.and the traces of a program to render a person unconscious, tailored to match his specific coded imprint. She had kissed him, long and deeply; and he had stirred, murmuring Trinity's name. There was always significance in her kisses; she had always used them sparingly, though he was never to know that. She kissed him again, full-mouthed, just to be sure she had left her program on his digital self; and he had sunk gradually but surely into a coma.
'Neo, I'm so sorry..but you'll thank me one day for doing this. You really will.'
There was a line from The Snow Queen, that fey but nightmarish fairytale from Hans Christian Andersen, where the title subject tells little Kai, whom she has kidnapped, 'I'd better not kiss you anymore, or I might kiss you to death.' This particular program too was lethal if used in overdose. So she had made sure his breathing was regular, while lovingly stroking the hair off his forehead, before proceeding to enact the second part of her plan.
It had been so easy as well to insert the second stream of code into his veins via a traditional intravenous cannula. There were other modes of delivery, but this was the fastest and the best, and she had to be sure. She had systematically wiped out all his memories, every shred of them - Trinity, Morpheus, being unplugged, Zion, his life as The One and his prior existence as Thomas Anderson, his nightmares, his dreams - all memories, good and bad.
He was like a clean artist's canvas for her to paint in when she had finished. Pristine, pure and snowy white; like a Galatea waiting to be moulded by her Pygmalion. After all, his body in this Matrix and in any construct was completely code, even if he was The One. It was so easy to manipulate code, especially if you were wife to The Merovingian, and had access to every digital trick in the book.
While looking at his newborn, amnesiac body, she felt a surge of an emotion so inexplicable she could only liken it to that of a mother for her child. Which was discomfiting because she wanted to be his lover more than anything else. But truly, what woman - in the entire history of womankind - had not subconsciously dreamt of this, especially if the man she desired belonged to somebody else?
There were rules however to playing God. Like with everything else.
She could only give him new memories, she would have no idea if his old ones were completely scourged until the program rebooted itself and ran inside him.
She could not give him personality traits. He was a sum of his real past and his own chromosomes - the twin building blocks of personality - and not the past she manufactured for him. That she could not erase.
She could not program his thought patterns, or his reactions. Neither could she determine his situational behavior, his tendencies and his preferences. She could not program him to like the color green, if he didn't like it in the first place.
She could not alter his likeness. Not that she wanted to in the first place. He was a very handsome man. The Maker had crafted him adoringly, if there was a Maker - made even more appealing because he didn't seem to be conscious of his own beauty most of the time.
She could however delete all memories of what he had learnt from school, from his parents, from his work, and from being The One. She could make him forget he had ever learnt how to see and manipulate code, though he would always retain his abilities - all of them. He just would never know he had them, like the subservient serf - oppressed by his landlords - who never knew he had it in him to start a revolution.
She could not program his soul. She didn't want to. It was part of what made him so attractive.
She had selected a simulation program that incorporated an ancient Mediterranean culture and elements of literary fantasy throughout the ages. Once it ran, however, she would have no control over its events and the people that populated it. They would all develop their own personalities to shape their own destinies. She could only ensure it was forever set on peacetime mode.
I'm not doing any harm, she consoled herself, guiltily thinking of Trinity. A worthy adversary, if she ever knew one. And don't you see, Trinity, this is the best thing anyone could ever give him. If you loved him you would understand. Because the one who was the One was doomed to early deletion, whatever path he chose. It was his purpose, which he would find out soon enough when he connected with the Architect. This way, however, she could give him a life, one he could never have if he had stayed with Trinity and fulfilled his quest as The One.
Though you know that's inevitable anyhow..
I'm giving him a life. The life he deserves.
This is a good thing. Honest.
And I love him, from what I have assimilated from him when we made love. I will love him even more when we have had the chance to live our lives together. When he has had the chance to love me in return.
Which of course led to the question she had been dreading, but knew it would inevitably be answered anyway.
Can you program love?
TBC
I might not get the chance to update as often, as budget season is upon me and I've just gotten terribly busy at work. I didn't mean to make it this long, but the characters kind of got out of hand. And just in case you think this is all too weird, I assure you I know what I'm writing about, and I'll tie it all up quite nicely in the not-too-distant end. The world of the Matrix, nevertheless, is a world where anything is possible..
Chapter 6: The White Prince
Rated PG-13.
'And how long did you say we have been married?'
He was sitting at a table laden with bread and fruit, in a balcony overlooking a city that felt as alien to him as his wife. The setting sun was bathing the flat-topped white houses with a glistening rose-colored hue. Between them, he could see paved streets, plazas with fountains and congregations of colorful people going about their business everywhere; women carrying bread baskets on their heads, traders tending to donkeys that pulled two-wheeled carts filled with brickbats. Further still, the land sloped downwards to meet the cerulean blue of the ocean, which was dotted with sailboats and rafts.
It all looked terribly interesting, but terribly...simulated somehow. He would have to explore the city later, feel and touch it for himself. Not that his senses have always been accurate.
(They have failed you for most of your life. Consider the possibility they may be lying to you now.)
The flashes of (?) intuition in his head were getting alarming. He wondered if he had taken more of a fall than they had reckoned, and part of his brain was now permanently scarred.
He was wondering why he was so skeptical, but everything felt weird, especially his memories, as patchwork as they were. He couldn't quite describe it, but even the colors felt wrong to him, as though they had gone through multiple dyes just to get that extra loudness that was so jarring to him.
The beautiful woman sitting in front of him, watching him eat, was nevertheless very real. She appeared outwardly calm and composed, but he could tell she was nervous by the fluttering of her eyelashes and the surreptitious twitching of her hands.
'Don't you remember, Neo? The day we met?'
He searched for the memories, and they were there. In a hazy little cloud. 'I was visiting this city for the first time, after a really long sea voyage. I was standing in the Great Hall, looking up at the throne, and you were sitting there. I thought you were the..'
He was going to say 'the most beautiful woman he had ever seen', but somehow he knew that felt wrong. He wasn't sure of many things right now, but he was very sure of this. He had never been one to be attracted to physical beauty for beauty's sake alone. Somehow, his wife's obvious attributes struck him as bizzare..he never thought he would ever marry someone who looked like that. She would have been too gorgeous for the likes of him, and he would have been running scared for the rest of his life, wondering when she would wake up to the fact he just wasn't good enough.
(You've always been self-deprecating. You never truly believed in what you can do.)
'You were visiting with your brother,' his wife said. What was her name again? Persephone. 'I was supposed to be betrothed to him. He was your father's eldest, the heir to the Red Kingdom. Our marriage was supposed to have sealed an alliance. But when I saw you, standing by your brother's side...'
'We were drawn to each other -'
'- As though we'd known each other all our lives -'
'And so we got married,' he finished, as if by rote.
It all seemed terribly scripted somehow. Though he was sure it had happened to him. Not in this context though. In another time, another place. With someone else who lurked in the shadowy recesses of his consciousness, a vague incorporeal figure that refused to take shape.
He even remembered the wedding day. His brother had been none too pleased; he had been looking for a trophy wife, and who better than the White Queen herself, with her own queendom as a very expansive dowry. The wedding had been exactly 6 months after they had met, though the whole thing had turned downright political, and he had already made himself at home in Persephone's bed the very night they had met
(though that's something you would not normally do, shy as you are where women are concerned)
and everyone had come to accept that it was the next best thing that could happen, for really, how can you thwart true love, corny as though that may sound?
The wedding was like a image of crystal clarity in his mind, like a
(video recording?)
swirl of white lace, chiffon silk and candelabra, with endless goblets of wine being toasted, and maidens in snow-colored garments with white flowers in their braided hair. And the honor guard turned out in their full regalia, with golden breastplates and white cloaks, brandishing swords that gleamed silver in the dazzling light -
'That was two years ago,' he added.
'Yes. We've been married for two years.'
He sat there, looking at her, wondering if she could discern that he was feeling a little off. Because really, she was like a stranger to him, and it would hurt her to know that. He couldn't remember anything else about her besides the throne room incident, the wedding and a sort of understanding in between happened (sans actual images he could grasp in his mind). Did she have any brothers or sisters? Was white her favorite color, because he couldn't recall seeing her in anything but white? On which side of the bed did she prefer to sleep, the left or the right? What did she like to do in her free time? Did it involve him?
There were so many things he had forgotten
(didn't know)
about her that he was alarmed.
What on Earth did she do as a Queen anyway? And if he was her consort, what in the heck was he supposed to do?
He had absolutely no idea at all.
*
It had been so easy really.
Back in the boudoir, when he was asleep after their bout of lovemaking, she had come to him, her lips lined with coral peach lipstick.and the traces of a program to render a person unconscious, tailored to match his specific coded imprint. She had kissed him, long and deeply; and he had stirred, murmuring Trinity's name. There was always significance in her kisses; she had always used them sparingly, though he was never to know that. She kissed him again, full-mouthed, just to be sure she had left her program on his digital self; and he had sunk gradually but surely into a coma.
'Neo, I'm so sorry..but you'll thank me one day for doing this. You really will.'
There was a line from The Snow Queen, that fey but nightmarish fairytale from Hans Christian Andersen, where the title subject tells little Kai, whom she has kidnapped, 'I'd better not kiss you anymore, or I might kiss you to death.' This particular program too was lethal if used in overdose. So she had made sure his breathing was regular, while lovingly stroking the hair off his forehead, before proceeding to enact the second part of her plan.
It had been so easy as well to insert the second stream of code into his veins via a traditional intravenous cannula. There were other modes of delivery, but this was the fastest and the best, and she had to be sure. She had systematically wiped out all his memories, every shred of them - Trinity, Morpheus, being unplugged, Zion, his life as The One and his prior existence as Thomas Anderson, his nightmares, his dreams - all memories, good and bad.
He was like a clean artist's canvas for her to paint in when she had finished. Pristine, pure and snowy white; like a Galatea waiting to be moulded by her Pygmalion. After all, his body in this Matrix and in any construct was completely code, even if he was The One. It was so easy to manipulate code, especially if you were wife to The Merovingian, and had access to every digital trick in the book.
While looking at his newborn, amnesiac body, she felt a surge of an emotion so inexplicable she could only liken it to that of a mother for her child. Which was discomfiting because she wanted to be his lover more than anything else. But truly, what woman - in the entire history of womankind - had not subconsciously dreamt of this, especially if the man she desired belonged to somebody else?
There were rules however to playing God. Like with everything else.
She could only give him new memories, she would have no idea if his old ones were completely scourged until the program rebooted itself and ran inside him.
She could not give him personality traits. He was a sum of his real past and his own chromosomes - the twin building blocks of personality - and not the past she manufactured for him. That she could not erase.
She could not program his thought patterns, or his reactions. Neither could she determine his situational behavior, his tendencies and his preferences. She could not program him to like the color green, if he didn't like it in the first place.
She could not alter his likeness. Not that she wanted to in the first place. He was a very handsome man. The Maker had crafted him adoringly, if there was a Maker - made even more appealing because he didn't seem to be conscious of his own beauty most of the time.
She could however delete all memories of what he had learnt from school, from his parents, from his work, and from being The One. She could make him forget he had ever learnt how to see and manipulate code, though he would always retain his abilities - all of them. He just would never know he had them, like the subservient serf - oppressed by his landlords - who never knew he had it in him to start a revolution.
She could not program his soul. She didn't want to. It was part of what made him so attractive.
She had selected a simulation program that incorporated an ancient Mediterranean culture and elements of literary fantasy throughout the ages. Once it ran, however, she would have no control over its events and the people that populated it. They would all develop their own personalities to shape their own destinies. She could only ensure it was forever set on peacetime mode.
I'm not doing any harm, she consoled herself, guiltily thinking of Trinity. A worthy adversary, if she ever knew one. And don't you see, Trinity, this is the best thing anyone could ever give him. If you loved him you would understand. Because the one who was the One was doomed to early deletion, whatever path he chose. It was his purpose, which he would find out soon enough when he connected with the Architect. This way, however, she could give him a life, one he could never have if he had stayed with Trinity and fulfilled his quest as The One.
Though you know that's inevitable anyhow..
I'm giving him a life. The life he deserves.
This is a good thing. Honest.
And I love him, from what I have assimilated from him when we made love. I will love him even more when we have had the chance to live our lives together. When he has had the chance to love me in return.
Which of course led to the question she had been dreading, but knew it would inevitably be answered anyway.
Can you program love?
TBC
