DISCLAIMER: The Matrix and everything do not belong to me, but to the Wachowskis, who should not sue me as I cannot afford the lawyers' fees on what I'm earning from this fic- exactly nothing.
Disclaimer part two: The idea for this fic came from a guy named Troy, who as well as being a matrix nut is admin at http://darkangel04.proboards26.com. Troy should also not sue me, because I *did* warn him, and *can* prove it.
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The fifteen year old who answered to the name Morpheus lay down on his stomach like a sniper. Which was appropriate, since resting on a tripod in front of him, his eyes in line with its sight, was a USMC M40A3. The fight between mutants such as himself and humans such as the men either side of him had died out as both sides faced a new threat: artificial intelligence.
His name was not truly Morpheus, but he had dream weaving powers, as well as an uncanny affinity with computers, so he took his mutant codename from the Ancient Greek God of dreams. The name on his birth certificate was Lucas Archer. He'd been born in 2024, ten years to the day that AI was first made a public affair. In twenty-five years, civilisation had plummeted. The machines had turned on their human makers, with ruthless aggression. Nowadays, anyone over the age of twenty-five was considered old. Children went to school, and learned how to assemble weapons and use them. Only smart children, those who could put a gun together in less than ten seconds, fire at a target, hit it dead centre and get through a gauntlet like course in less than ten minutes, got to learn the essentials of the languages, mathematics and sciences that would see them elevated to leadership roles in the future. Morpheus was one such child, the only one in his year, the youngest sniper to face the machines on this wet, overcast day. Either side of him were his two minders; as a child, he could not go after the machines on his own. He would be deemed a child until he hit eighteen. If he lived that long.
Lucas Archer. He was of West Indian origin, but had been raised in Syracuse, by adopted parents. His own had been younger than him when he was born; his fourteen year old mother had suffered particularly bad post partum depression and committed suicide, his father, of an age with his son at the time, was laid next to him in the rain. At thirty years of age, Robert Archer was positively ancient. But then, he was a survivor. So his son would be. Lucas had been trained from birth to fight the machines. He was tall for his age, standing at six feet seven inches high, and slim built, his muscular frame weighing just two hundred pounds. In an era where gene therapy and augmentation were not uncommon, Lucas refused to succumb to pressure and modify himself to better fight the machines. His blue eyes were eagle keen anyway, and he could make his temperature and heartbeat drop beyond catatonic, dodging the heat seeking machines with a lot more ease than any other his age or older. His white-blonde hair, the only piece of gene therapy he'd had, was buzz cut, with sniper signature markings above the nape of his neck. He even had the tags of an adult soldier around his neck, despite his young age. He was a son to be proud of. But Robert knew the boy's true father was the thirty-three year old by Lucas' left side. It was shown by this mere fact. Lucas had chosen to put his adopted father, Thomas Gregson, at his stronger side, the side where he, Lucas, could protect him should something go wrong. Which meant he cared more for Thomas than for Robert, although both men had twenty-five years experience of the way the machines worked.
Robert was jerked out of his thoughts when something clunked in the street outside. A machine. A sentinel, in fact, moving sluggishly due to the lack of solar power. Lucas had it in his sights already, but was waiting for the exact moment to strike. School taught the kids weapons training. It also taught them patience. But the marksmanship needed to take out a sentinel in these conditions? Couldn't be taught. Neither Thomas nor Robert knew if Lucas could make the shot; this was the boy's first outing as a sniper. All they knew was that if he missed, they'd all be in deep trouble. If he hit, he gave them a chance of escape. The pressure was on.
Disclaimer part two: The idea for this fic came from a guy named Troy, who as well as being a matrix nut is admin at http://darkangel04.proboards26.com. Troy should also not sue me, because I *did* warn him, and *can* prove it.
--------------------
The fifteen year old who answered to the name Morpheus lay down on his stomach like a sniper. Which was appropriate, since resting on a tripod in front of him, his eyes in line with its sight, was a USMC M40A3. The fight between mutants such as himself and humans such as the men either side of him had died out as both sides faced a new threat: artificial intelligence.
His name was not truly Morpheus, but he had dream weaving powers, as well as an uncanny affinity with computers, so he took his mutant codename from the Ancient Greek God of dreams. The name on his birth certificate was Lucas Archer. He'd been born in 2024, ten years to the day that AI was first made a public affair. In twenty-five years, civilisation had plummeted. The machines had turned on their human makers, with ruthless aggression. Nowadays, anyone over the age of twenty-five was considered old. Children went to school, and learned how to assemble weapons and use them. Only smart children, those who could put a gun together in less than ten seconds, fire at a target, hit it dead centre and get through a gauntlet like course in less than ten minutes, got to learn the essentials of the languages, mathematics and sciences that would see them elevated to leadership roles in the future. Morpheus was one such child, the only one in his year, the youngest sniper to face the machines on this wet, overcast day. Either side of him were his two minders; as a child, he could not go after the machines on his own. He would be deemed a child until he hit eighteen. If he lived that long.
Lucas Archer. He was of West Indian origin, but had been raised in Syracuse, by adopted parents. His own had been younger than him when he was born; his fourteen year old mother had suffered particularly bad post partum depression and committed suicide, his father, of an age with his son at the time, was laid next to him in the rain. At thirty years of age, Robert Archer was positively ancient. But then, he was a survivor. So his son would be. Lucas had been trained from birth to fight the machines. He was tall for his age, standing at six feet seven inches high, and slim built, his muscular frame weighing just two hundred pounds. In an era where gene therapy and augmentation were not uncommon, Lucas refused to succumb to pressure and modify himself to better fight the machines. His blue eyes were eagle keen anyway, and he could make his temperature and heartbeat drop beyond catatonic, dodging the heat seeking machines with a lot more ease than any other his age or older. His white-blonde hair, the only piece of gene therapy he'd had, was buzz cut, with sniper signature markings above the nape of his neck. He even had the tags of an adult soldier around his neck, despite his young age. He was a son to be proud of. But Robert knew the boy's true father was the thirty-three year old by Lucas' left side. It was shown by this mere fact. Lucas had chosen to put his adopted father, Thomas Gregson, at his stronger side, the side where he, Lucas, could protect him should something go wrong. Which meant he cared more for Thomas than for Robert, although both men had twenty-five years experience of the way the machines worked.
Robert was jerked out of his thoughts when something clunked in the street outside. A machine. A sentinel, in fact, moving sluggishly due to the lack of solar power. Lucas had it in his sights already, but was waiting for the exact moment to strike. School taught the kids weapons training. It also taught them patience. But the marksmanship needed to take out a sentinel in these conditions? Couldn't be taught. Neither Thomas nor Robert knew if Lucas could make the shot; this was the boy's first outing as a sniper. All they knew was that if he missed, they'd all be in deep trouble. If he hit, he gave them a chance of escape. The pressure was on.