Author's Notes:
I'll try and keep this short. Please read my bio before reviewing. It's short, I promise, but I'd like you to read it just so you have an idea of what I'm about.
This takes place 3 years after the end of The Matrix: Revolutions. There will be many canon characters in it, including the Twins, the Merovingian, and Persephone. Have patience, they're coming.
Now, on to what you came here to read.
He still remembers the night the Agents came for him.
He was only a child; 8 years old. He was deep within a sound slumber, dreaming of a strange place where people lived under the earth and a machine city loomed amongst an ever-dark sky. The sharp rapport of gunfire pierced his sleep. He awakened immediately, a few drops of sweat beading on his forehead. He sat up in bed, his head turned towards the door. Another shot rang out, accompanied by a wail that chilled him to the bone. He recognized the cry as his mother's, though even now he doesn't know how—perhaps it was the instinctual affinity a child has for the woman who birthed him. He had never heard her scream in such a way. Pain, suffering, fear—all of these echoed through the hallway with her cries. And then, another shot, and she was silent.
He stood up, his legs feeling numb and stiff as wood underneath him. He didn't know where he was going—to run, perhaps, run as fast and as far as he could, to escape the nightmare that was unfolding in the next room. He went to the window, hurriedly working at the latches. A few seconds' fumbling ensued, the difficulty of the task magnified by the sounds of footsteps. The door next to his creaked open, and he knew that whatever it was had entered his sister's room.
He managed to unlock the window, and pushed it open. Cold night air flooded his face. In the next room, he heard talking. He couldn't make out the words, but it sounded as if there were men in there, demanding something of his little sister. He heard her crying, and longed to go to her...but he knew, somehow, that to stop now and give up his escape would surely mean his death. He swung one leg over the windowsill, and then the other, tumbling out into his mother's garden. Quickly righting himself, he fled. He heard the door open as he sprinted out over the lawn, and the sound of shouting. He knew they would give chase, and this made him run faster.
The grass was cool and tickled his bare feet as he fled his home, cutting across the neighbor's yard. In the distance, he heard a thump behind him—his pursuers had figured out his escape route, and intended to follow him. He kept running, hearing his gasps for breath ringing out sharply against the silence of the darkness.
Then he heard it—another gunshot. His world exploded in pain, and he fell onto the grass. A sticky, warm liquid started to pool under him—it felt as if he were lying in a steadily expanding puddle of syrup. Agony wracked his small body, centered in a small hole in the middle of his chest. His every breath caused a sharp ache to shoot through him.
Three men appeared over him. They were all dressed in black suits, with black sunglasses. They were all holding guns. One had spatters of a dark liquid on his suit—he assumed it was blood, though he couldn't see the color in the moonlight.
"He will die," one of the men said, and the boy began to cry. He did not want to die, here, all alone. The men ignored his tears.
"Then we are finished here," another man said.
"Yes," said the third man. The three of them left his field of vision; he could hear their soft footsteps recede. He closed his eyes, frightened tears continuing to spill down his face. The pain continued to throb within him, as if it were a living thing gnawing at his body.
After a moment, he heard another voice.
"Open your eyes, boy, and look at me."
It was a man, his speech thick with a heavy French accent. The boy did as he was told, still sniffling. Before him stood a well-dressed, older man. There were other men behind him, but he could not see them.
"Do you want to die, boy?" the man demanded. The boy took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to speak. He coughed, and felt something bubble up at his lips. Nevertheless, he forced out a single word.
"No," the boy whispered. The man smiled.
"Excellent," he said, and gestured to the men behind him. The boy fell into another slumber then, this one deeper than the one from which he had so recently been awakened, and filled with laughing demons, their eyes hidden behind black sunglasses.
He awakened later—he felt as if it were much later. He could feel a soft mattress underneath him and warm covers around his body. He felt no pain, and was grateful.
He opened his eyes and looked around. The room was white—so much so that it almost hurt his eyes, staring at his surroundings. His covers were no exception. To the side of the bed he was laying in was a chair with some clothing folded neatly upon it and a note.
He sat up, pushing aside the sheets and blankets. Looking down at himself, he could see that he was naked except for some bandages wrapped around his chest. The bandages were stained with dried blood. The boy took the note off the clothing and read it to himself.
"When you are awake, put on the clothing you have been given and tell the guard at the door that you are to be brought to me immediately."
The note was signed "The Merovingian". The boy did not recognize the name, but knew an order when he was given one. He put on the clothing, as the note had told him. A black dress shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of black dress shoes. The clothing fit him well—better than anything he had ever worn before, in fact. The articles felt as if they were tailored specifically to his frame.
He finished tying the shoes, and went to the door. Opening it, he was confronted by a man in a white suit and green tie. He wore sunglasses, like the men who had tried to kill the boy.
"The Merovingian wants to see me immediately," the boy said, presenting the note as evidence. The man nodded. The boy exited, shutting the door behind him. He was glad to be rid of the white room.
The man started walking, motioning for the boy to follow him. He did so, his eyes darting around to look at the surroundings. Art hung from the walls, spaced at various intervals. The walls themselves were made of marble, as was the ceiling. The floor underneath his feet was composed of alternating black and white tiles. The boy was very impressed, and a little intimidated.
They reached a large, wooden door. The man stopped, and opened the door for the boy. He walked inside, hearing the door close loudly behind him. He was now in a small office, carpeted in burgundy and lined on all sides with shelves filled with books. At the edge of the room sat a desk, behind which was the man who had asked him if he had wanted to live. Across from the man were three chairs, two of which were occupied. The boy could only see the backs of the two men who sat in the chairs, but from what he could tell they were identical—the same white dreadlocks, white trenchcoats and identical stiff-backed posture. Each casually held a lit cigarette in their similar, pale hands.
"Ah, he is awake! Sit, sit," the man behind the desk said, gesturing to the empty chair. The boy did as he was told, staring at the man behind the desk and trying to ignore the stares of the two men seated next to him.
"Welcome," the Frenchman said, gesturing about him grandiosely, "to my home."
"Thank you for saving my life," the boy said quietly, the intimidation and awe he had felt in the hallway rising with every moment he remained in this place.
"Nonsense. Now, then, boy, the first order of business. I regret to inform you that your parents and your sister are dead." Despite the gruesome news, the man sounded fairly cheerful. The two men beside the boy chuckled.
The boy stared at the man, uncomprehending. Slowly, realization began to dawn on him. "They—they all—"
"Yes, and you would have joined them had I not gotten to you in time." The man smirked, seeming to preen with his accomplishment. "Now, then, boy, I will give you a choice. You said that you did not wish to die. Do you still hold to this?"
The boy nodded, the numbness that was the herald of shock beginning to steal over him. His mother...his father...his sister...dead, all dead. This couldn't be. This had to be a nightmare, and any minute he would wake up in his bed. Wouldn't he?
"Wonderful. Now, boy, there is a price to be paid for your life. You are now mine, to do with as I wish."
The boy stared at him. "Y—yours? What do you want with me?"
The Merovingian's smile widened. "Simply put, you will be my servant. I will reward you well if you succeed, and if you fail..." He let the sentence hang unfinished in the air for a moment. The two men sitting next to the boy shuddered in unison.
"But I am sure you shall not fail," the Merovingian said, smoothly finishing his sentence. "Now, then, boy, first you shall be trained." He gestured to the men across from him. "Meet the Twins."
The boy turned to face the two pale men. They smirked back at him, their pale faces alight with cruelty. The sunglasses they wore only served to make them more menacing. It shielded their eyes—the only windows to the souls of these ghostly men. They looked less than human because of this.
"We have been ordered..." the first one said.
"...to oversee your training." The second one ended his brother's sentence. Both had quiet, silky voices with British accents.
"We are looking forward to it."
"Indeed we are."
The boy shrank back against his chair, shivering. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone with the two freakish men, who were currently eyeing him like a scientist would view a new and rather fascinating bug under the microscope.
"Splendid." The Merovingian stood, as did the twins. The boy followed suit, guessing it was expected of him. "Then I will give you into the Twins' capable hands."
"Come along," one of the twins said. The other grabbed the boy by the arm, half-leading, half-pulling him with them.
"We will explain the rules of the Merovingian's chateau to you," the man leading said as they exited the study.
"First, no discussion of your past life will be tolerated." The man gripping the boy's arm tightened his hold, making the boy cry out in pain.
"Second, show no signs of weakness." The man leading turned a corner as he continued to speak.
"Third. Do not attempt to leave the chateau without permission. Fourth, do not speak with the Merovingian or his wife unless spoken to. And last, you will do as we say without question."
As the leading twin stopped speaking, his brother chimed in. "Failure to comply with these rules will result in...discipline." He grabbed the boy by the hair, pulling his face upward painfully. "And believe us when we say we would love nothing more." Seemingly out of nowhere, a pearl-handled razor appeared in the man's hand. He traced the boy's jawline with the blade, raising a shallow cut in the pale flesh. The boy swallowed hard, and nodded.
Seeming satisfied, the man pocketed the razor and returned to dragging the boy along behind his brother. The twins were silent for the rest of the trip, until they came to a door.
"We have been told to rename you if you prove yourself worthy," the man who had been leading said.
"If you are a failure, we have been ordered to eliminate you," the man with a tight grip on the boy's arm said.
"We advise you not to fail." The first man opened the door, revealing a small room with a bed, a dresser, and a small adjoining bathroom.
"Your training begins tomorrow," the second said, roughly shoving the boy into the room. The door slammed, and the boy heard the key turn in the lock. He rushed to the door, trying to open it, but found to his dismay that it locked from the outside. He slumped to the ground.
He felt as if he should cry. His family was all dead, and he was trapped in a bizarre prison at the mercy of men who cared nothing for his welfare. At that moment, he wished bitterly that he had answered no to the Frenchman, and had surrendered to the darkness that had been threatening him. At least that oblivion had seemed a freedom from suffering. This place, on the contrary, was thick with the stench of sorrow and pain to come.
Unheeded, a single tear slipped from the boy's eye. It slid quickly down his cheek, falling in silence to the carpet. There, the miniscule wet spot bore mute witness to a pain that would never be allowed to surface.
I'll try and keep this short. Please read my bio before reviewing. It's short, I promise, but I'd like you to read it just so you have an idea of what I'm about.
This takes place 3 years after the end of The Matrix: Revolutions. There will be many canon characters in it, including the Twins, the Merovingian, and Persephone. Have patience, they're coming.
Now, on to what you came here to read.
He still remembers the night the Agents came for him.
He was only a child; 8 years old. He was deep within a sound slumber, dreaming of a strange place where people lived under the earth and a machine city loomed amongst an ever-dark sky. The sharp rapport of gunfire pierced his sleep. He awakened immediately, a few drops of sweat beading on his forehead. He sat up in bed, his head turned towards the door. Another shot rang out, accompanied by a wail that chilled him to the bone. He recognized the cry as his mother's, though even now he doesn't know how—perhaps it was the instinctual affinity a child has for the woman who birthed him. He had never heard her scream in such a way. Pain, suffering, fear—all of these echoed through the hallway with her cries. And then, another shot, and she was silent.
He stood up, his legs feeling numb and stiff as wood underneath him. He didn't know where he was going—to run, perhaps, run as fast and as far as he could, to escape the nightmare that was unfolding in the next room. He went to the window, hurriedly working at the latches. A few seconds' fumbling ensued, the difficulty of the task magnified by the sounds of footsteps. The door next to his creaked open, and he knew that whatever it was had entered his sister's room.
He managed to unlock the window, and pushed it open. Cold night air flooded his face. In the next room, he heard talking. He couldn't make out the words, but it sounded as if there were men in there, demanding something of his little sister. He heard her crying, and longed to go to her...but he knew, somehow, that to stop now and give up his escape would surely mean his death. He swung one leg over the windowsill, and then the other, tumbling out into his mother's garden. Quickly righting himself, he fled. He heard the door open as he sprinted out over the lawn, and the sound of shouting. He knew they would give chase, and this made him run faster.
The grass was cool and tickled his bare feet as he fled his home, cutting across the neighbor's yard. In the distance, he heard a thump behind him—his pursuers had figured out his escape route, and intended to follow him. He kept running, hearing his gasps for breath ringing out sharply against the silence of the darkness.
Then he heard it—another gunshot. His world exploded in pain, and he fell onto the grass. A sticky, warm liquid started to pool under him—it felt as if he were lying in a steadily expanding puddle of syrup. Agony wracked his small body, centered in a small hole in the middle of his chest. His every breath caused a sharp ache to shoot through him.
Three men appeared over him. They were all dressed in black suits, with black sunglasses. They were all holding guns. One had spatters of a dark liquid on his suit—he assumed it was blood, though he couldn't see the color in the moonlight.
"He will die," one of the men said, and the boy began to cry. He did not want to die, here, all alone. The men ignored his tears.
"Then we are finished here," another man said.
"Yes," said the third man. The three of them left his field of vision; he could hear their soft footsteps recede. He closed his eyes, frightened tears continuing to spill down his face. The pain continued to throb within him, as if it were a living thing gnawing at his body.
After a moment, he heard another voice.
"Open your eyes, boy, and look at me."
It was a man, his speech thick with a heavy French accent. The boy did as he was told, still sniffling. Before him stood a well-dressed, older man. There were other men behind him, but he could not see them.
"Do you want to die, boy?" the man demanded. The boy took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to speak. He coughed, and felt something bubble up at his lips. Nevertheless, he forced out a single word.
"No," the boy whispered. The man smiled.
"Excellent," he said, and gestured to the men behind him. The boy fell into another slumber then, this one deeper than the one from which he had so recently been awakened, and filled with laughing demons, their eyes hidden behind black sunglasses.
He awakened later—he felt as if it were much later. He could feel a soft mattress underneath him and warm covers around his body. He felt no pain, and was grateful.
He opened his eyes and looked around. The room was white—so much so that it almost hurt his eyes, staring at his surroundings. His covers were no exception. To the side of the bed he was laying in was a chair with some clothing folded neatly upon it and a note.
He sat up, pushing aside the sheets and blankets. Looking down at himself, he could see that he was naked except for some bandages wrapped around his chest. The bandages were stained with dried blood. The boy took the note off the clothing and read it to himself.
"When you are awake, put on the clothing you have been given and tell the guard at the door that you are to be brought to me immediately."
The note was signed "The Merovingian". The boy did not recognize the name, but knew an order when he was given one. He put on the clothing, as the note had told him. A black dress shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of black dress shoes. The clothing fit him well—better than anything he had ever worn before, in fact. The articles felt as if they were tailored specifically to his frame.
He finished tying the shoes, and went to the door. Opening it, he was confronted by a man in a white suit and green tie. He wore sunglasses, like the men who had tried to kill the boy.
"The Merovingian wants to see me immediately," the boy said, presenting the note as evidence. The man nodded. The boy exited, shutting the door behind him. He was glad to be rid of the white room.
The man started walking, motioning for the boy to follow him. He did so, his eyes darting around to look at the surroundings. Art hung from the walls, spaced at various intervals. The walls themselves were made of marble, as was the ceiling. The floor underneath his feet was composed of alternating black and white tiles. The boy was very impressed, and a little intimidated.
They reached a large, wooden door. The man stopped, and opened the door for the boy. He walked inside, hearing the door close loudly behind him. He was now in a small office, carpeted in burgundy and lined on all sides with shelves filled with books. At the edge of the room sat a desk, behind which was the man who had asked him if he had wanted to live. Across from the man were three chairs, two of which were occupied. The boy could only see the backs of the two men who sat in the chairs, but from what he could tell they were identical—the same white dreadlocks, white trenchcoats and identical stiff-backed posture. Each casually held a lit cigarette in their similar, pale hands.
"Ah, he is awake! Sit, sit," the man behind the desk said, gesturing to the empty chair. The boy did as he was told, staring at the man behind the desk and trying to ignore the stares of the two men seated next to him.
"Welcome," the Frenchman said, gesturing about him grandiosely, "to my home."
"Thank you for saving my life," the boy said quietly, the intimidation and awe he had felt in the hallway rising with every moment he remained in this place.
"Nonsense. Now, then, boy, the first order of business. I regret to inform you that your parents and your sister are dead." Despite the gruesome news, the man sounded fairly cheerful. The two men beside the boy chuckled.
The boy stared at the man, uncomprehending. Slowly, realization began to dawn on him. "They—they all—"
"Yes, and you would have joined them had I not gotten to you in time." The man smirked, seeming to preen with his accomplishment. "Now, then, boy, I will give you a choice. You said that you did not wish to die. Do you still hold to this?"
The boy nodded, the numbness that was the herald of shock beginning to steal over him. His mother...his father...his sister...dead, all dead. This couldn't be. This had to be a nightmare, and any minute he would wake up in his bed. Wouldn't he?
"Wonderful. Now, boy, there is a price to be paid for your life. You are now mine, to do with as I wish."
The boy stared at him. "Y—yours? What do you want with me?"
The Merovingian's smile widened. "Simply put, you will be my servant. I will reward you well if you succeed, and if you fail..." He let the sentence hang unfinished in the air for a moment. The two men sitting next to the boy shuddered in unison.
"But I am sure you shall not fail," the Merovingian said, smoothly finishing his sentence. "Now, then, boy, first you shall be trained." He gestured to the men across from him. "Meet the Twins."
The boy turned to face the two pale men. They smirked back at him, their pale faces alight with cruelty. The sunglasses they wore only served to make them more menacing. It shielded their eyes—the only windows to the souls of these ghostly men. They looked less than human because of this.
"We have been ordered..." the first one said.
"...to oversee your training." The second one ended his brother's sentence. Both had quiet, silky voices with British accents.
"We are looking forward to it."
"Indeed we are."
The boy shrank back against his chair, shivering. The last thing he wanted was to be left alone with the two freakish men, who were currently eyeing him like a scientist would view a new and rather fascinating bug under the microscope.
"Splendid." The Merovingian stood, as did the twins. The boy followed suit, guessing it was expected of him. "Then I will give you into the Twins' capable hands."
"Come along," one of the twins said. The other grabbed the boy by the arm, half-leading, half-pulling him with them.
"We will explain the rules of the Merovingian's chateau to you," the man leading said as they exited the study.
"First, no discussion of your past life will be tolerated." The man gripping the boy's arm tightened his hold, making the boy cry out in pain.
"Second, show no signs of weakness." The man leading turned a corner as he continued to speak.
"Third. Do not attempt to leave the chateau without permission. Fourth, do not speak with the Merovingian or his wife unless spoken to. And last, you will do as we say without question."
As the leading twin stopped speaking, his brother chimed in. "Failure to comply with these rules will result in...discipline." He grabbed the boy by the hair, pulling his face upward painfully. "And believe us when we say we would love nothing more." Seemingly out of nowhere, a pearl-handled razor appeared in the man's hand. He traced the boy's jawline with the blade, raising a shallow cut in the pale flesh. The boy swallowed hard, and nodded.
Seeming satisfied, the man pocketed the razor and returned to dragging the boy along behind his brother. The twins were silent for the rest of the trip, until they came to a door.
"We have been told to rename you if you prove yourself worthy," the man who had been leading said.
"If you are a failure, we have been ordered to eliminate you," the man with a tight grip on the boy's arm said.
"We advise you not to fail." The first man opened the door, revealing a small room with a bed, a dresser, and a small adjoining bathroom.
"Your training begins tomorrow," the second said, roughly shoving the boy into the room. The door slammed, and the boy heard the key turn in the lock. He rushed to the door, trying to open it, but found to his dismay that it locked from the outside. He slumped to the ground.
He felt as if he should cry. His family was all dead, and he was trapped in a bizarre prison at the mercy of men who cared nothing for his welfare. At that moment, he wished bitterly that he had answered no to the Frenchman, and had surrendered to the darkness that had been threatening him. At least that oblivion had seemed a freedom from suffering. This place, on the contrary, was thick with the stench of sorrow and pain to come.
Unheeded, a single tear slipped from the boy's eye. It slid quickly down his cheek, falling in silence to the carpet. There, the miniscule wet spot bore mute witness to a pain that would never be allowed to surface.