"Look, see those birds? At some point a program was written to govern them. A program was written to watch over the trees, and the wind, the sunrise, and sunset. There are programs running all over the place. The ones doing their job, doing what they were meant to do, are invisible. You'd never even know they were here. But the other ones, well, we hear about them all the time…Every time you've heard someone say they saw a ghost, or an angel. Every story you've ever heard about vampires, werewolves, or aliens is the system assimilating some program that's doing something they're not supposed to be doing."
Prologue: Exiled
"Miss Johnson, welcome back."
The Agent stood over the fallen rebel, blocking the path of escape to the phone. He was illuminated by the sharp glare of the headlights behind him, and to the unfortunate rebel it seemed as if the Agent was darkness incarnate.
The rebel struggled to her feet. The Agent hit her and sent her flying backwards. She twisted in the air, landing feet first on the ground. The Agent lifted the gun from its holster.
"I'm going to enjoy watching you die, Miss Johnson…"
He fired. She dove to the left, rolling down into the basement of a nearby building. The Agent dove after her, shooting the window out of the way. She dashed up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.
He ran straight into the door, knocking it off its hinges. The rebel looked back and swore, beginning to run faster. He pulled the trigger twice, sending two bullets flying past the rebel, another miss.
The rebel kicked the front door of the building open. She ran out into the alley. The Agent mentally cursed.
I should have seen this coming…
The phone was ringing. The rebel dove forward and grabbed the receiver. The Agent fired at point-blank range. The bullet streaked forward…
…and hit the phone receiver as it fell towards the ground.
She was gone.
Agent Matthews stood in the top floor of the Mainframe Building, by the window, overlooking the megacity that was the Matrix. His head was cocked slightly to the side, as if he was listening to instructions from an unseen being.
"We do not have the space, time, or resources left to deal with redundant programs anymore."
"Yes," answered Matthews, "But this Agent has potential. It is possessed with a most irrational hatred for all things human – it could be a great asset."
"There is no space. Delete the program."
"You are correct, as always," sighed Matthews. He keyed the intercom. "Agent Thompson report to Room 101. That is all."
Programs do not dream. They cannot feel at all. They know no hope, no desire, no love.
No fear.
If programs did dream, Room 101 would be the stuff of their nightmares. The room was stepped in secrecy, for only a select few of the most powerful and elite programs knew exactly what went on inside. All the others knew was that a program that went there never returned the same.
Some were reduced to quivering hunks of code, becomingly paranoid as their threat software deteriorated. Others went insane – like the program that had become the Merovingian – as their logic and reasoning software broke down.
Still more never returned at all. Thompson knew little about the room, but he knew he was not going there.
Thompson walked briskly to the elevator. Once inside, he hit the garage button. The elevator started down. The elevator music, created by a flawed conductor routine, flowed from the speakers. Thompson glanced up at them in irritation, straightening his glasses before the elevator reached its destination.
The elevator doors slid open with a ding as the elevator reached the garage. He exited the elevator before the doors had finished opening all the way, walking over to a desk and placing his hands on it. He leaned forward to speak with the guard.
"I need to use the fastest car you have," Thompson told the guard.
"Can I see your orders?"
"Sure," the Agent said, pulling a gun and putting it on the man's forehead. Thompson pressed the gun to him hard, leaving a small reddish ring of bruised skin. The guard shivered, gulped, and handed the Agent a set of keys. He pointed to a car.
"There, that's the best one we have."
"You have been most helpful," said Thompson, not hesitating to shoot the human. He walked over to the car and opened the driver's side door, sliding behind the wheel. The car pulled out of its space and roared out of the garage.
They had all heard of him. They were told he had gone insane when he had been scheduled for deactivation. He had entered the Mainframe – forbidden to all except the Architect, the Motherboard, and the Guardian – and deactivated his own code, severing his connection. Then he had fled the Matrix, stealing a copy of the source code that designed the fake reality.
His name was the Merovingian.
Thompson drove. The car was fast and well-balanced, a product of superior programming. As he turned onto the mountain road, he could sense the goal was near. Thompson pulled up in front of the area the programs knew only as the "rabbit hole," the area where the Exiles lived.
He walked towards the door, which swung open before he reached it. At the door were two albino men with long dreadlocks.
"Come in," they said simultaneously. "He's been expecting you."
He had used the stolen code to create for himself an area within the Matrix that was unbound by the laws of the Motherboard. He had set his kingdom up as a haven for those programs rejected by the machine world.
He had created a beautiful house and attracted many strange and powerful programs to him. He had all he needed. But his "thirst" could not be quenched – his thirst for power.
Thompson found the Merovingian sitting at a desk in his office. He rose to greet the Agent, and they shook hands.
The Merovingian knew why he had come. "I would be glad to accept you into my realm," the Merovingian said. "But first I must apologize for a nasty bit of business we must get out of the way."
"What would that be?"
"I must test you."
Three of the Merovingian's henchmen entered the room.
Fighting, of course, is an Agent's element. It is what they are created to do. Thompson attacked the first man, barreling into him and knocking him over. The second man swung his fist at the Agent, but he blocked the blow with ease, twisting the man's arm behind his back and pushing up with lightening speed. There was a cracking sound.
The third man circled around Thompson, sizing his opponent up. He hopped onto his right foot and attacked with his left, hoping to fool the fighter.
Thompson blocked the kick, but the man reversed his route of attack, leaping into the air off his right foot and bringing it around to hit Thompson. He staggered backwards, catching himself on the Merovingian's desk.
The minion leapt high into the air. Thompson lifted off the ground, bracing himself on the desk, and caught the attacker with his feet. He flipped over the desk, sending the attacker flying into the wall. The man fell and lay still.
Programs, of course, cannot feel fatigue or pain either. This makes them ideal warriors. They can be written as the most intelligent observers, becoming stronger every time they fight, and learning from their enemies.
Barely anyone survives an Agent the first time.
No one survives twice.
Agents have no emotions. They cannot lose their head in a battle, lose their "cool." But some programs can come awfully close to emotions, and it is always the same emotion they feel.
Hatred. Hatred for the humans.
The Merovingian's slightly mocking applause filled the room. "Well done." Thompson glared at the Exile.
"Was that necessary?" he asked.
"Yes," the Merovingian replied. Taking a glass of wine from his desk, he walked over and handed the drink to Thompson.
"Drink this program. It will sever your connection to the Mainframe. The process will change you, however. And it may be "painful.""
Thompson shrugged, a purely human gesture, and drank the liquid. It was almost like fire as it made its way down the Agent's throat. He gasped.
The world dissolved into coding. The Merovingian became a spiraling yellow code. The Chateau was green. And in the middle of it all was Thompson – a bright red. He felt a ripping sensation as the connection to the Mainframe was severed.
Thompson's body dissolved. In his place stood a female, very human in appearance, still dressed like an Agent. Her hair was blonde and short – kind of choppy. The newly freed Exile smiled.
"What is your name?" the Merovingian asked.
"Huh?"
"Your name," he repeated impatiently. "Like the unplugged humans, we, too, must choose new names upon freedom."
The program thought for a moment.
"Resistance Exterminator Version V," she said. "But you can call me Revv."
She opened the doors of the Merovingian's office and walked into the world of the Chateau.