(no subject)
.S.T.O.R.Y.
Let me tell you a story, Neo.
X month, X day, year 3XXX.
It ends like this:
Boom.
Exciting, isn't it?
Those that were awake see the flash before the shockwaves hit. Those that were asleep -- they wake afterward, when the whole city starts shaking. A few buildings fall. A few fires start. A few dozen unlucky bastards die in the quake.
And then it's over.
No one in the city seems to know what the hell is going on. Earthquake? Maybe, but what about that light? Lightning? Can't be. What about the ground? And if it's not natural, then: bombs? No -- not enough damage. And what was the purpose? The government blames the rebels and the rebels blame the government -- but eventually, everyone stops caring, because nothing seems to have changed.
They were wrong, though: something did change, didn't it, Neo?
After all, you're here.
But I should start from the beginning.
It begins with New York City.
Was there a New York City in your dreams?
Good, then I won't have to explain what we're standing in.
Surprised? Looks different? It's been over a thousand years and four World Wars since your dream-time: what were you expecting? Certainly not that times and tides would somehow make it nicer?
Well. Welcome to the nation of New York City. There are other places still alive, somewhere out there, past all the deadzone: Los Angeles, Tokyo, Paris, London, Moscow. But we don't like outsiders, and they don't like us: we've learned our lesson. Self-sustaining, isolated nations means less chance of another world war. You thought the third one would be the end -- but trust me, we know that the seventh one will be, if it happens.
And as for all the rest of the world, well, there's no value in wasteland, is there, Neo?
But that's there and everywhere else, and we're here -- and from what you tell me about your dream world, this place isn't too much different. Less pretty. Less wealthy. Less pleasant. Less happy. But it's still here. Your cell phones and laptops and fancy cars, all of it. Anything new? Not that I can think of: we were busy rebuilding after killing each other.
Ah. Wait, yes, differences. There are a few. You get so used to it that it doesn't really even register any more, know what I mean? This isn't the United States of -- America, was it? Hasn't been for a while, that thing disbanded centuries ago. Groups rose and fell, governments came and went, you know how it goes...
Prima Luce. Know what that means? You will soon, you'll be hearing it everywhere. First Light. That's what they call themselves. Funny thing is, the name works: they're the first group to stick around, to have a lasting reign. 'Course, that means different things to different people...
Some are glad to have order back: you'll see them supporting the Luce however they can. Others don't care: I suppose they expect the Luce will be gone soon enough just like the rest. And still others? Well... those others are pissed that order has to come with guns and violence and fear and what they call tyranny.
Can't please everyone. You knew that even back in your time, right, Neo?
That third group, the unhappy ones -- I know what you're wondering, and yes, bullseye, Neo. They're the rebels. The Penombra. Twilight. Semidarkness. Some call them terrorists, others call them freedom fighters, others say they don't really exist: it's all a matter of perspective. They're fighting their own little war against the Luce, or so they say. Bombs, assassinations, kidnappings -- it's enough of a problem for the Luce to want to wipe them out. But then, others say that they've been rescued from the bombs, assassinations, and kidnappings of the Luce by the Numbers --
Who are you gonna believe? One? Both? Neither?
But here we are, back to you.
Who are you, Neo? What are you?
Don't know? Don't worry, I do. I know who and what you think you are, Neo. I also know who and what you were in reality, Thomas A. Anderson. Both of them are true, but no one will tell you that.
No one will tell you this, either: you are here because of an accident.
A major accident, involving an attempt to draw magic into this world and the catastrophic failure of it: you see, Mr. Anderson, magic has no place on Earth. And when someone tries to bring it here, all sorts of things go haywire. Rules are broken. Laws are twisted. And the world -- well, it sorts itself out until it's back to normal.
You, unfortunately, were collateral damage.
They pulled you in, and the world couldn't take you: you and your magic and everything else. Twist, goes the fabric of the universe, twist, pull, and flatten again. You can't be here, Neo. You can't be the Savior. You can, however, be Thomas A. Anderson. And so you are, and were, for an entire life that hadn't existed until yesterday, but had existed all along.
Hard to grasp, isn't it, Neo? It's like this: you weren't here, but you have a boss that calls and tells you you're fired for not coming in. You don't remember your life here because you never had one, but other people remember seeing you around, your entire life. You have a new name that you've never heard before, but other people greet you by it when you walk down the street. It's the world, compensating for you existing, because it can't send you back -- that would take magic. Understand?
I know. You want to know. Was the dream real? Yes.
And I know. You want to know this, too. Is the dream real? No.
But there are others who will disagree.
Like that girl that's lived next door to you -- oh, for forever now -- what do the housing records say? Ten years? Doesn't matter: doesn't she look a little familiar, Neo? Sunglasses, black clothing, that short haircut --
Her name's Trina McIntyre.
Why don't you go talk to her sometime, Neo?
Who knows? Maybe you've had the same dreams.
But don't talk too loud and don't talk too much, or other people might hear you. And no one wants to look or sound crazy, do they? Because the Luce have taken to hauling crazy people off into asylums, lately -- especially the ones who have suddenly started raving about different worlds -- public safety, you know. That explosion might have spread some kind of brain disease. And from those asylums, no one ever comes back...
It's almost like they know, isn't it? Almost like they're targeting you types. Rounding you up, and then --
And then what?
And why?
That one, I can't tell you.
But you'll be forgetting all of this, now. None of this happened. In fact, you're not even awake, yet. Your head's still down by your computer screen. But it's time for you to get up and face your new reality.
The dream is over.
Wake up, Neo... _