Escaping The Matrix:
by Cloud00, genuine child of Zion.
Part I – Trapped in the rabbit hole.
The phone rang.
The same familiar tone and saviour in which every exit provided as it echoed through the hall. But always the same risk of whether it can be reached in time.
Ghost crept through the shadows, back against the pillar. He gazed out from behind it, scanning the length of the empty opera hall. Nothing; but looks are always deceiving. He was near the back of the hall, upon the balcony which encircled the theatre space. He looked up at the exquisite design above the stage's open curtains; millions of exotic flowers of indescribable shades carved into the wood, subtly catching the moon. He sighed. How could the machines have imagined up something so beautiful? The moon was full and shone through the glass domed ceiling, its light refracting in the perfect crystals of the chandelier which suspended around it like a delicate ray of heaven sending down its angels. He hoped that such divine beings were guiding him. He bounded across the balcony above the rows of seats below, leaving nothing but the soft sound of his heels upon the mahogany floor as he moved from each pillar to the next, gazing out every time. He could never be too careful; not this time.
The phone still rang. He could see it stuck upon the wall, back-stage left.
He had to focus. He would have to make his move now.
He stepped out of the pillar's shadow, took one step upon the balcony rail and leapt for the stage. The phone rang in his mind as he sailed effortlessly through the air with unrivalled agility, arms outstretched, ready to land into a roll on the stage's cold, splintered surface. Zion was only a few metres within reach, ringing into his soul. He could already feel the warmth of his bed, the sludgy yet irresistible taste of the only food the real world could provide. A smile blessed his lips.
A shot was fired.
Ghost froze, landing hard on the aisle, far from the stage, shattering the silence completely.
'Shit,' he whispered.
He rose to his feet, peering behind him to behold a single bullet embedded in the now cracked wooden design he loved so much.
'Who could have guessed we shared the same fascination for the opera?' said a malevolent, yet supremely sophisticated, voice.
Ghost turned back.
A tall figure stood at the door at the top of the grand stairs, looking down upon the lowly. His hair was pristinely combed and his suit fitted him well as the gun he held high in his right hand was reflected in his sunglasses.
'Smith,' Ghost muttered.
'I particularly enjoyed La Boheme,' he stated mockingly, taking upon a patronising tone, 'didn't you?' He smiled wickedly. 'And, oh look, you've wasted my last bullet. I never would have thought that I'd miss.'
Ghost glared at him from behind his shades with deepened despise. Neither spoke as emptiness consumed them both. Ghost took up a stance, extreme grace showing once more. Smith smiled. He took one step towards Ghost as the rebel suddenly reached into his suit, dragging out twin P229-S' and began unloading clips at the ex-Agent. Smith smiled once more, nothing surprising him. But Ghost could see nothing ahead save but a blur of Smith's body as the monster managed to dodge every single bullet aimed at him, almost as if they wanted to avoid him. Ghost's guns clicked as his ammo was depleted and the many images of Smith became one again, not even a single hair out of place. He casually glanced behind him as the doorframe from whence he stood lay shattered and ruined.
'I sincerely hope you're going to pay for that,' he said, with a constant, malicious grin; the grin of inevitable victory.
Sweat now beaded Ghost's brow as he heard the phone continuing to ring loudly behind him.
'Oh, and you may want to pick that up, it is extremely rude to screen.'
At these words, Ghost threw his guns to the floor, turned on his heel and ran. With each stride he knew he was taking either a step towards life or demise. He reached the stage, focused and somersaulted onto it, a light whir of air sounding as his body flipped across the hall. He sprinted for the phone, palm outstretched, reaching for the receiver.
It rang once.
His breath was racing, as was his mind, but he told himself he would have to focus if he wished to live through this.
It rang twice.
Smith may have been presently unarmed but he still possessed countless other methods of killing a person. Ghost knew this all too well.
It rang again.
He closed in on the phone, his hand just taking hold of the receiver. Yes, he made it!
But it suddenly exploded in his hand. Ghost retracted. The receiver fell to the ground. He slowly looked back at the entrance, breath now off the scale, almost afraid of what he may see: Smith remained standing, pistol held aloft, smoke trailing from the barrel and a devious smile at the other end.
'Oops, guess I lied.'
Ghost held his shuddering hand. Though it may not have been of any use against Smith, he would no longer be able to fire a weapon straight. He peered down at the receiver, wires splayed everywhere in an electric surge; dead, as he would be within a simple matter of minutes...
To be continued . . . maybe.