disclaimer: i don't own the matrix, and anything you don't recognize as true is false.
Marcus rubbed his shoulders against the cold, clutching his long coat under his neck. He'd already pulled his poor hat too low on his head in a feeble attempt to cover his ears. With every breath, an icy puff appeared in front of his face like a sinister cotton ball.
Like all nights, it was dark, and like all winters, it was very cold, but unlike most streets, the lamps on this one had mostly gone out. Every footfall stood prominent against the near silence. The drunks and crackheads were, for the most part, passed out where they sat and afforded him no trouble. So far, only one man had approached him for money, but Marcus had sidestepped him and continued on his merry way. He had information to deliver.
Ten minutes later, Marcus stood under an ancient apartment building, too old to have normal people living in it but too new to have been condemned. There were dusty and tattered silk plants in the grimy windows, and no one waited at the desk, although a new silver bell stood next to an old rotary phone. With a sigh, he stepped into the building; it was the rendezvous point. Laughing to himself, he tried the elevators, thinking all the while about the word rendezvous. Back in highschool, he'd taken French with Monsieur Devereux. Marcus shook the reverie away; the elevators were broken, and he'd have to take the stairs.
As he ascended, the memory returned, and he found himself laughing silently. Rendezvous was a bastardization of the command rendez-vous, present yourself. How he remembered that after nearly fifteen years was crazy. The thought, and the smile on his face, flickered and died when he reached 3B. Behind the door was his buyer, a shady man, but there was no helping it. Marcus knocked twice, firmly, and began humming "New York, New York." Someone pulled back the chain, and the deadbolt, stepping back into the darkness.
There were no lights on in the room, and it was bare, or as much as Marcus could see. Whoever had opened the door, closed it, and darkness swallowed them both. The other man fumbled with his lighter for a moment before a single flame blazed to life, sending a halo of light around the two men; the man held the lighter so his face remained in stark shadows. Marcus had no idea how he did it, but he had, and once the man forced him into a chair, the lighter flipped shut. Again in darkness, Marcus sighed. All this caution because he was such a dangerous man. Oh, yes. Even in the dark, Marcus rolled his eyes. The information was hot, but not that hot.
A second light appeared, but it was only a bare bulb that barely lit the area around the portable card table before Marcus. Across the table, Marcus' buyer laughed softly.
"'Ello, Marcus," the man said in a heavy Slavic accent. "You 'ave my information, yes?"
Marcus grinned. "Aye," he replied. "You have my fee, yes?"
"Of course."
"Good," Marcus said. He took a deep breath, and asked, "Where do you want me to begin?"
"Vhere do you wahnt to begin?" the other asked, mockery barely veiled.
"Hmph." Marcus glared, but began, "Genesis. We'll start there. The first movie was only the beginning of an epic the brothers had been toying with since they were kids. When Warner Brothers okayed the sequels, they wanted it to rival Star Wars."
"Yes. I know all this."
"Good, because the next bit is important. They weren't expecting the ending to be so… harsh. It was too real for the Americans."
"Yes."
"Americans like their happy endings."
"Yes."
"There wasn't a happy ending."
"Yes, yes. Tell me what I want to know."
"Warner Brothers is making them write more."
"Really?"
"Aye. They have to write at least one more movie that is, if not a continuation, at least based in the same world."
"Of course."
"I've got four possible plots. They're on," Marcus said, pulling a disk from the depths of his coat, "this disk. If the public gets a hold of that, they'll stop production."
"This will never see the light of day. You don't need to worry, my friend. These secrets are safe."
"There's more. Warner Brothers has been keeping tabs of most related internet sites, just to check their hit counters and things. Part of the reason they're doing it is to check the fan base." Marcus paused. "The hits are dropping like flies. They're expecting the DVD release of the last movie to up the scales, but…"
"But…?"
"But the hits are dropping too fast. Nobody's writing those silly spin-off stories anymore. People aren't rushing to eBay to purchase related items…"
"What's your point, Marcus?" the man asked, a smile dancing across his lips.
"The point is, the fandom is dying. Unless something major happens, the fandom will die. Warner Brothers won't be able to sell much after the fandom dies, so they want to promise the kiddies that the fandom is still worth something."
The man frowned. "What are they doing?" he asked.
"An online mmrpg. Do you know what that is?"
"Yes. It is an online game with several thousand players interacting all at once. If the fandom is dying, as you say, this won't help much," the man said, almost pleased He leaned back in his chair to stroke his ridiculous goatee, and Marcus noticed he was wearing sunglasses.
"No. It won't," Marcus agreed, but he was inwardly wondering. The man was supposed to be some major fan or something. Who else would pay him 3 million to find out about some movie trilogy that had already been finished?
"What else?"
"That's it. If the online game fails, which it will, they'll cancel the next movie. The brothers aren't happy about it anyways."
"What are you saying?" he asked.
"I'm saying that the fan base is deteriorating, and the next movie will never see the light of day. The game will be shut down by August, at the latest, and by next year, no one will remember what the Matrix is. It'll be a distant nightmare, and the kiddies will go back to drooling over cheap comedy. Does that satisfy you?" Marcus finished with a yell. This man was irritating.
"Yes, Mr. Brennan, it does."
Marcus sputtered. They shouldn't have known his real name. "How did you…?"
The man smiled wickedly, and someone from behind him pressed something hard and cold against his neck. It was a gun.
"Thank you, Mr. Brennan. You have been most helpful," the man said, his grin growing wider and even more vicious.
"What's going on? Who are you?"
He asked, mockingly, "Why, Mr. Brennan, don't you recognize me?"
Marcus shook his head. Who were these people?
"I have no reason to answer your last questions, Brennan, but I can't resist. I am Pinball Wizard. We work for the Frenchman, and he wants this next movie stopped. Bad publicity, you know."
"What are you talking about?" Marcus demanded. Then, it dawned on him. "You're some kind of deluded fanboy, aren't you? Aren't you?!"
Pinball Wizard glared. "Shoot him."
Marcus said one last thing before the bullet severed his spinal column.
"Fanboys suck."