#55 - Happy New Year
A year since he woke up. Since his rebirth or his second birth or his first birth or after his first death, depending on how he's thinking about it at the time. A year since he was shown the Matrix as it truly is, a big gleaming metal spike that they shove into your brain so that suddenly you're living in a xeroxed world, made of ones and zeroes and ten-gazillion people that at any moment can turn into black suited sunglass wearing weird talking bastards and try to kill you and everything you love. A year since he learned that the entire human race are just batteries for deadly robot intelligences, except a few hundred survivors who scrape together a day to day living in between kicking machine ass, or at least whatever it is machines have instead of asses. Exhaust pipes or something. A year. And what has he gained from this knowledge? Everything he knew was a lie. Most of the first friends he maid on arrival are dead, or were traitors and are also dead. There's a good chance the prophecy was just a misunderstanding of history and that everyone is going to die horribly and then everything will just start all over again, an endless cycle of dashed hopes and slaughtered semi-innocents. It's all really fucking depressing when he thinks about it, so he doesn't bother, because, hey, at least now he's an international super-powered terrorist who gets to screw a really hot chick. It's not a bad life, after all.