Wake to a Nightmare.

**PBlade** · 01/29/2007 15:44:16

Timeframe. Post Morpheus' death. Pre-Unlimit

"You do not take things from the Merovingian and get away with it, whelp!"

A swift knee marched mechanically into Peter's chest, like an unfurling piston. His eyes bulged as he bent inwards onto it, his mouth wide, waiting for the scream that never came. He slumped forwards but found the knee gone, dropping instead into a highly polished boot. His head snapped back, his body followed. Lifted off his knees, he flipped backwards in midair before crashing into the desk, reeling pencils and stationary equipment across the clutterred office.

He was at the brink. At the point where one is not dead, but certainly wishes they were. His gut was on fire, and his jaw was devastated. He had a bullet wound in each of his lower thighs, and each one of his fingers had been broken. He was hoping the next move would either be a shot to the head, or something equally fatal. 'Just make it quick' he begged internally.

His attacker stepped forward to where he was sprawled across the table. He was dressed gothically, with high leather boots covering half of his leather pants, and a multi belted shirt hidden underneath a long trenchcoat. His face was chalk white, with blue veins pushing against the paper thin skin, reaching up past his dead lips and bloodshot eyes before tunnelling again around his hairline. His hair was slicked back and tied neatly into a small ponytail at the back, giving him a gentleman's flair, despite the rest of his attire.

He grabbed Peter by the back of the neck and hoisted him up like a bed owner holds a puppy, staring into the dome of his head. The gaze was not returned, the 'pet' too exhausted and resigned to death to care.

"This is the end, child." His voice was clipped, with the hint of slight impedement, caused by a set of teeth being too big for the mouth. His fangs. "The Frenchman does not forget child, and he always exacts his revenge"

His mouth opened into a garish half smile, preparing to bite. He leaned in on the broken man and his mouth gaped wider as he approached the neck. He was never able to begin the feast. His grip on the man slacked, letting him fall back to the table. A slight wheeze indicated he was not dead.

The attacker, on the other hand, certainly was. A small hole in the back of his head indicated the assault, and the eyeball sized hole on his forehead indicated the success. The wound smoked slightly as the man turned a dead grey from head to foot, before falling and breaking to pieces as he fell against the desk.

PBlade flicked open the case of his revolver, checking the ammunition. 5 more silver bullets were nestled against thier casings. He nudged it back in and holstered the gun with a spin. He nodded to either side of him, and his teammates spread out across the room, sweeping for any tracking devices or more opposition. PBlade moved straight forward, however, to where the body of Peter lay on his side, the slight rise and fall of his chest continuing proof that he was still hanging on. His head wobbled slightly and his eyes opened an incriment, a slit of dilated pupil peeing through. He mumbled a breath of nonsense, puncutated with a question mark, before giving up on speech.

"Peter Stewart, I presume?" PBlade said with a grin, leaning forward to scoop him up, "The name's PBlade, and I have to say, I think your parents made an excellent choice when naming you..."

TBC...

**PBlade** · 01/29/2007 15:44:39

Timeframe: Current events

He was amazed that he was allowed to see her. Being in a position of authority within the Zion military did have its perks.

PBlade stepped through the breach, stopping to close the door behind him. Continuing onwards towards the lift, he passed a sultry looking man and woman, both swathed in leather trenchcoats, hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Zion Operatives, PBlade thought to himself. Factionless. Placed by Locke to guard the Oracle. Times were tough indeed.

He pivoted on his foot as he stopped infront of the lift. He didn't press the button, he didn't have the chance. The clanking of the metal doors began thudded into the dank hallway before rolling aside to reveal two more Operatives within, leaning nonchalantly against the back wall of the elevator. They stirred as he entered, moving to bring themselves to the salute. He waved the formality away.

"Stow it, gents. I'm here to see her."

An eyebrow raised above one of the stylish glasses. "So soon, Commander?" Inquired Swift, his curiosity piqued. The other, Bellows, glanced over at him before bringing his attention back to the faction leader. PBlade had placed them there himself, under Locke's order, despite his objection that his Operatives were thin on the ground and needed elsewhere. The Commander had been adamant PBlade not disobey this order, despite his lack of belief in the Oracle's 'fairytales'. Bellows piped up.

"About him?" His voice was curious, but dark.

"Yes" PBlade pushed the tails of his long trenchcoat aside, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Goin' up"

The elevator ride was short and uneventful. Locke had ordered the Operatives to avoid conversation and keep their mind on the current objective, so the 3 men exchanged no words, despite their familiarity, other than the two guards acknowleding their Commander's status checks. As he left them in the lift they attempted to come to the salute again, but he hunched his shoulders as he moved away, telling them both to F*ck off in a clear murmer.

The door to the Oracle's apartment glided open as usual, her attendant waiting as always. She looked different, though. Worn out, belleagured. Current events were taking their toll on everyone, especially those closest to the epicenter.

'PBlade' Her voice was as tired as her appearance. She smiled a weak smile and shuffled aside to let him. He tried his best to keep cheery as he entered, "I assume she's been expecting me?" he said, breathing a laugh at the end.

There was no response. The attendant only moved onwards and away, she knew PBlade knew where the Oracle would be. He stepped through the hall, his brow furrowing, and into the living area. Usually full of sunshine, the room was darker and seemed somehow desaturated. Usually Sati's cheery smile welcomed him, along with Seraph's watchful gaze. Watchful, but trusting - PBlade had proven himself to Seraph before.

You do not truly know someone until you fight them...

This time, however, the room was empty. PBlade hurried through, avoiding depression and into the kitchen. The Oracle was there, in the corner, staring into middle distance, a cigarrette lodged firmly between her fingers. PBlade remarked to himself that she appeared to be almost hiding in the corner, away from everything.

"You know..." he started, "Those things'll kill you..."

"PBlade" Her eyes widened as she looked up at the man. Was she surprised to see him? The look was only momentary, as she looked back out across the kitchen, her eyes glazing over once more. "You're here about him..."

PBlade pulled out a chair and slowly brought himself down upon it. "Yes..."

TBC...

**PBlade** · 02/12/2007 10:59:20

Timeframe: Directly following the extraction

The Hovercraft Nagamitsu shuddered cautiously through the tunnels of the real world, lightning cascading down her spine, an electric shiver. Even the ship was nervous about the new crewman with them.

Aboard the ship, things moved just as cautiously, an edge of doubt tinged everyone's thoughts, even the Captain's. They had awaked the child from an existance that was going to end one way the other, they chose the other. The fact that he and the Captain shared the same name was a passing co-incidence now. Previously it had driven PBlade to find him, under the Oracle's direction, but now PBlade's every thought was focused on what to do with him now. His words when they had pulled him from the Machine sewers had cast a shadow of trepidation across the crew.

"Where am I?" he had breathed, "Am I dead?"

PBlade had smirked, "Far from it" - Perhaps too smug.

"Well I should be" The newly awakened had hissed, before losing conciousness.

The crew had been working on him for days now, regaining his strength vicariously, through a strenuous process of acupuncture, jacking him into controlled constructs, and psychological rehabilitation. He remained unconcious throughout all of this and still was. His case was unorthadox, to say the least. He had been given no choice in his awakening, as otherwise, the man would have surely died. There were already subversive mutterings among the crew and the faction that PBlade had made the wrong decision to awaken him: Everybody should be offerred the choice of the lie of the truth, and even of life or death. But PBlade had forfeit that right and decided for him.

Even the Captain himself didn't defend himself against the subliminal dissaproval that he knew was going on. He was himself unsure of whether it was the right choice.

He patted Aleixandre, who was piloting, on the shoulder and headed out of the cockpit, through the bowels of the ship to the medical bay. A ladder rung or two later, he stepped into the bay. Its architecture was the same as every other room in the ship, but the bright lights and equipment gave the room a reassuring sense of sterility.

"How is he?" PBlade murmured, barely audible. In such a room, however, the only other sound is the comforting beep of the life monitor. Fortunately, that beep was still sounding off like a metronome of life.

Nercos looked up from his station, the routine of life disturbed by the Captain's question. He stood and moved over to where the man lay in his incubator. "He's making progress. I'd say you came down at the right time, Captain."

"What do you mean?"

PBlade stepped forward to the bed, craning to get a better look at him. He was no longer bald, small, stubble like hair was sprouting from his cranium, along with real stubble growing around his jawline. He was naked apart from a thin blanket--for want of a more appropriate word--covering him from the waist down. His torso and arms looked supple and tender from where hundreds of acupuncture needles had been removed, tiny scabs indicating where one or two had been removed less than gracefully. The muscle rebuilding process had already finished, and so small, but fast growing, muscles pushed visibly against his arms and chest.

PBlade was broken from his investigation by a low groan. Nercos smiled. "The perfect time, I'd say. He's waking up" He was right, the man's eyes flutterred minutely before prising open. He instantly closed them again when a seep of light hit his retina. He let out a barely audible hiss,

"My eyes... why do they hurt so much?"

The Captain looked to the medic, then back to the man. "You've... You've never used them before" - The man made no answer. PBlade came around the incubator to look over the man's face. "But that is irrelevant at this moment. As is the fact you wish you were dead..."

The man sighed insignificantly.

"You have no name here. Peter Stewart is dead, you understand? We.... You... need a name here, and we don't know what to call you."

"Terracus!" The man's head hovered an inch above his pillow and his eyes bulged for a moment. His strength gone, he fell back against the incubator, breathing heavily. Breathing once more the name he had chosen.

"Terracus..."

TBC...

**PBlade**

The hall surrounded him. Empty, he sat in company. Not another body moved about the chamber, but two souls occupied that room.

Terracus sat alone, indeed. No physical body to comfort him, but the other soul infront of him. Elegant, beautiful, sleek. She was waiting for him, and he was all but ready to give himself to her. All but ready, save one thing.

His eyelids drew closed, flutterring momentarily, the catarpillar becoming the butterfly.

'Make me remember' he whispered into thin air. His eyes widened again. He was ready. His arms rose in front of him, a brief, loving creak and light knock later, and his hands touched down on his beauty. His fingers brushed against the silky ivory, his nails gently tempting the black keys, his hands positioning themselves along the bow of his vessel. He stopped, stationary, unmoving, for a moment. Everything was still. His anguish and his bitter resentment drew through him, and he began to play.

The moment of silence was broken, and Terracus' hands took flight over the board of the piano. His feet began movement underneath, rising and falling against pedals, elongating and killing notes short. Power of life and death over sound at his command. His only weapon was himself, as he saved and killed the tune.

He didn't know what he was playing. He didn't know if it was beautiful or abysmal--It had been programmed into hs mind, it was more than likely flawless. Sublime--and he didn't care, he played all the same. His fingers flitterred and his hands danced across and over each other, flickering against keys instantly before darting away; a chaste affection withdrawn and returned in an instant.

Terracus was lost in the concerto, he failed to realise his single audience. PBlade viewed him above, watching his fingers dart and flit over the keys, producing a composition that PBlade could only describe as 'Astounding' - Terracus evidently had his entire being into this piece, and PBlade would have been moved if otherwise disposed. But no.

This was a construct. This wasn't real. The music wasn't real, the notes weren't real. Any emotion he felt for the tune was not real.

As if stirred by PBlade's self admittance, Terracus abruptly stopped, on a low note. His feet dropped and the final, dark note of the piece absorbing into the room, swallowed by the acoustics and spat back out, it lasted for a good ten seconds before Terracus stood up, embarrased. The note drew out and died. The song was over.

'PBlade...' He had nothing to say.

'Well played. You did this as a bluepill?' The Captain called down. His voice calm, but impacting.

'Thank you.... Yes... I was never that good, though.'

'Indeed. This place... can do that'

Silence. Terracus admired his feet. PBlade sighed an exasperated sigh,

'You hate it here, don't you? The real. You hate knowing the lie.'

'Yes' His answer was instant and full of conviction, he looked back up at the Captain, still avoiding his eyes, 'I wish I was still as ignorant as the rest'

PBlade avoided the argument, 'Well you're not, and now you have a job to do. There's a mission dossier for you. Get ready and get into the Matrix. I'll give you more orders when you get in there.'

Terracus spat a mumbled acknowledgement before heading for the door, and the way back to the Hovercraft. As he approached it, PBlade called him back. He turned to his Captain, his face dull and uncaring.

'The piece' he head jerked minutely back at the piano, 'What was it called'

In that moment, the butterfly became the moth, and Terracus met PBlade's gaze, with cold, dead, gray eyes staring into his superior's red orbs.

'The Heart Asks Pleasure First'

TBC...

**PBlade**

Two tidy holes punctuated the full stop on the Cypherites life. He slumped back against the wall before sliding into a sitting position on the floor, his arms limp, his head lolling to one side. Two thin, crimson ribbons trailed him from the wall, marking his journey to the end. His eyes glazed over, and a wheeze escaped his lips as his existence ceased.

Terracus watched it all down the barrel of his pistol. Rising smoke from the point of the gun warping his vision, creating a dreamlike scene of what was, essentially, murder. Confident that his target ceased to be, he finally dropped the weapon and holstered it. He took a deep breath and surveyed the corpse. That man, his target, was doing a job that was exactly the same as his, a carbon copy assassination job. The only difference was that the targets were different, and the ones giving the orders were different, and stubborn for different reasons.

The meddler let out a final, rattling gasp—a final grasp for life, falling from the precipice—his face losing saturation and his eyes rolling up into his head and glazing over. Terracus turned away from him and moved on down the corridor. His thoughts snapped back momentarily to the limp husk he left behind, before his steely gaze focused on the approaching door, and the room behind that held his final target. He was striding now, determined, or desperate, to be done with this mission, so he could rescind into himself back in the real, and dream of what he had.

He pushed aside the door with a nonchalant sweep of his arm, bringing himself face to face with his target’s pistol. He ducked out of reflex, and the gunshot rang out down the corridor, the bullet whizzing past the lifeless heap and embedding in a far wall. He brought himself back up, his fist rising to disarm his opponent, but he found the gun, and attached arm, already removed from him path. Bringing his legs up as he rose, he moved into a jumping kick, again colliding with thin-air, as the masked stepped away.

Landing in a crouch once more, his hand dropped to his boots, and pulled out his pistol. He sprung back to his feet and brought the gun to bear. There was a satisfying thud as the barrel came to rest again cheek, and a juxtaposed sense of dismay as he felt cold steel against his forehead. Standoff.

Finally ceasing the flurry of combat, the two took a moment of stare each other down. Terracus felt a gaze burning into him as he checked his opponent down. Surprisingly, he had been matched by a woman. Her face was hidden, characteristically, by a rag, and her eyes behind dark, mirror-reflective glasses. Her hair flowed over her head and flared out as it reached the nape of her neck. One of the lenses of her glasses was hidden by a sweeping fringe, jet black, like the rest of her hair.

The two were panting. Sweat beading up on their respective foreheads. She breathed a laugh. ‘Am I to know the name of the man who I am about to kill?’ Impressed? Something was tugging at the corners of her bandana, was it a smile?

‘Only if the favor is to be returned’ He said, a smile blossoming on his exhausted features. His frown relaxed, ‘Terracus. And you?’

She definitely did smile beneath her rag this time, he was sure, and the pistol wavered slightly.

‘Opiate…’

---

Timeframe: Current events

'How will it end? I have to know...'

'You know I can't tell you that, PBlade. That's been decided, but not understood. But I can tell you when.'

PBlade nearly doubled over as he leant across the table to hear her, his red eyes bulging 'When'

The Oracle took a drag of her cigarette, a long one, slowly looking into his fiery spheres.

'Soon'

To be Concluded...