Author's Notes: This story came about as a result of reading Baudrillard's Simulation and Simulcra in class. It's a highly confusing theory, and the fact that it's translated from French probably doesn't help, but it is utterly fascinating. I imagine the brothers definitely were inspired by it when writing the movies, but I had to respond.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Matrix, it belongs to the wonderful Wachowski brothers. As well, the theories of Baudrillard and the Simulcra belong to himself.
Morpheus says we're free.
Baudrillard says we're not.
Trinity is dead and Neo is blind, but they tell us that the machines are letting people go if they want to, and we can start to rebuild reality.
I wonder if anyone ever told them reality is not reality and that the machines are living in a simulation of their own?
What's the machine's simulcra? They've put humans in the Star Wars bacta tanks to turn us into batteries, but to what purpose? To survive? They're machines. There are better sources of power than human nine volts. For god's sake, it takes 98 percent of the energy the humans create just to keep the human generator plants going! Impressive system, machines. You reap a grand total of 2 percent of our human energy. Congratulations.
Coal would be a better source of power. Oil. Peat. Methane. Carbon. For god's sake, refining the smog we once pumped the atmosphere full of would be more efficient and would lead to a clearer atmosphere!
So, what? Revenge?
Honestly.
It's as much a false reality as the Matrix ever was.
I wonder if, somewhere, machines lay curled up, plugs directly into their cerebral cortexes, or their motherboards, or something, playing this false and miserable reality into their brains. The first Matrix failed because it was too perfect. Let me tell you, this reality is certainly not perfect.
This reality is miserable. It's loathsome, and dangerous, and dirty as all hell.
And no one questions it.
I asked Morpheus once, why no one questioned the validity of our "real world". Why no one asked if this reality wasn't just as fake as the last. He laughed, without humour, and told me that a reality this miserable couldn't be fake.
Simulcra.
That's the human condition, I suppose. The more miserable things are, the more we're horrified, and the more we believe it. It's like we can't believe that things can be good, so if we're miserable, there we are. It must be real.
Machines are agents. Agents are machines.
Did no one else notice the connection?
Our computer screens aren't like the ones in the Matrix were, they're green symbols cascading down black screens, and once it made no sense to me. I read it now, as easily as breathing, which makes me wonder if they information is still being crammed into my brain the same way the tube down my throat used to breathe for me. Is there still a tube somewhere, mechanically bellowing my lungs? Am I truly free, or am I still curled, fetal like and twitching, in a bubble of organic fluid?
There are symbols in our black and green coding raining screens that don't fit. It's like a puzzle, all linked and locked together perfectly, except for a piece or two, pieces that dwarf all the other pieces.
I point to those, for Neo, who can still see code even without his eyes.
Explain those, I demand.
He shrugs, it's code.
Code.
Simulcra.
It's just wishful thinking, Morpheus tells me. Maybe you just couldn't handle reality. We thought you were young enough, to understand. Maybe we were wrong.
Simulcra.
They call me Baudrillard. I have come to tell you that you're right.
It's the question that drives us.
What is the Simulcra?
No blue pill, this time.
Red pill. Gag it down. Mirror screaming up the body to turn the simulation into digital screams.
Drop into a hell worse than the one before.
Welcome to the Desert of the Real.
The Real.
Yeah, right.
Simulcra upon simulcra upon simulcra.