"With a reputation like your own, I find it hard to believe that you're surprised you've been tracked down."

"What if I was to tell you that everything you know has been fabricated, that you may be in control of your life, but the world is a pre-programmed television show, that someone has been generous, but cruel enough to let you star in, with no choice otherwise?" Disarm proposed the age old question, each Captain would work on their pitch, something that sounded better than the truth; Take the Blue pill and continue believing the world is round, global warming and hurricanes are the greatest dangers known to man in the next century and if you don't wear a condom you'll contract AIDS... or, take this Red pill, and wake up in electrocurrent carrying gelatinous goo, only to be dropped in a sewer that smells like the rotting flesh of an entire culture, fear drowning because your limbs don't work, wait to be plucked out just in the nick of time, and slip in and out of consciousness for days at a time.

Choice is all we have left, in the World of the Real or the World of the Facade, I just wish the 'good guys' would have laid out the truth a bit more clear. For an entire army of men obsessed with the 'looking glass' analogy, they sure are thrilled to obscure the truth.

However, I cannot complain. I feel far superior to the Blue pills, walking around, working menial jobs, lifting bags of salt and grain at the warehouse only to receive a hernia, which in reality is nothing but code to make life more real, make human's more fragile.

I wonder, if AIDS, and Cancer, if retardation exists in the World of the Real. I've yet to see it. Most might argue survival of the fittest, but I know, deep down, its the Machine's way of placing mortality in front of our eyes, the fear of god in our hearts, the looming disaster of artificial intelligence in our bodies.

"When the armies of the Red pills storm the Matrix, the Machinists, and the Exiles, will all become quickly aware of their mistakes. The peace treaty is a joke, an inside joke, that only the knowledgeable laugh at. We all laugh, Catamaran, we all laugh because we know how fickle and weak the truce is. We all laugh because we've all shed the blood of the enemy, recently. Just before we freed your mind from the chains of that psuedo-society, I shot a Machinist Red pill dead, in an alley, two blocks from your flat. They wanted to let you know of the 'Winning' side. I smiled and unloaded half of a magazine into her chest, letting the recoil carry the aim up into her chin, nostrils, and forehead. While she twitched, bleeding out of her fatal wounds, I stared. I stared on for the poverty of man in the real world. I stared on for the loss of faithful icons of the man of the real world. I stared for my own contempt at my knowledge of this cruel world. I stared because I knew that no matter how brutal, how vicious, how gory, the visual laying at my feet was, it was only code. Green alphanumerics scrolling in front of our eyes. Its the stock market of being. Its the e-bay of atoms. One machinist died, at the cost of your freedom. Every time you question your life, on the outside of the shroud of lies, remember the woman your age, who's life was ended by a machine pistol, in your name."

Disarm paused, and while my eyes were shut tight, I could sense, I could feel Muzzle nodding, following along, raising his fist with each sentence, eating Disarm's words like bread.

"Remember, Catamaran... If she had made it to you before we had... I would not have thought twice before using the entire magazine, letting the recoil carry the bullets from your chest to your forehead... I would not have thought twice about watching your empty, soulless husk bleed out code in that alleyway. My allegiance lies within the cave walls of Zion, and I laugh, because I'm in on the joke. Thank your lucky stars, if they even exist beyond the scorched skies, that you're in on it now, too."

Disarm nodded to himself, happy with the speech he had implanted into my head, turning and walking out of the medical chamber. Muzzle took a second look over my face, and followed, slamming the chamber door shut behind him, locking it. I'm not a prisoner in my freedom, aboard the Hovercraft: Stability.

Muzzle stood above Ricochet's beaten body. The six of us watched as Muzzle took Ricochet apart, piece by piece, like a broken radio. Saddle attempted to intervene, but Muzzle tossed her aside, he wanted nothing more but to go to work on Ricochet. We were sitting in the mess hall, sopping up our protein coleslaw, quietly at first. Ricochet and Disarm broke the silence, falling into a deep debate about the purpose of our mission, pushing out nose as far out from Zion as possible, attempting to reach a broadcast point near the surface.

"This sounds fishy..." Ricochet started in, "Like a complete and total load of Morphean bull**bleep**."

Product was your classic hacker, lanky, indifferent, curious. He was aware every day of his podded life that the world was strange. That he was a prisoner on some level. It made him uncomfortable, it made him an outcast in any environment. Atleast here, he was apart of a crew, atleast here, he was a 'product' of his own choice. Atleast here, he was awake. He could care less about the teachings of Morpheus or the Cypherites, he wanted freedom, at its purest form. Anarchy.

Anchor was a harder situation to explain. Anchor was unreliable in choice, and he tended to flip flop on subjects. Usually, he was die hard for the Morphean way, raising hell against the Evil Empire, against the Machines. However here, he had an uneasy feeling. Anchor was the second strongest member of the crew next to Muzzle, but he had never been interested in challenging him because of such. Anchor was a pale man, as most of us were, with fair blonde hair and a generally good vibe, personality wise.

Saddle and Ricochet were an item. Both with sickly pale skin, black hair, and blue eyes. If I wasn't told differently, I'd assume they were related, loving each other in an incestuous relationship. Perhaps it was their similiarities that would draw them together, a kindred spirit of sorts. Ricochet was a loyal Zion soldier, but that meant to the dead core of issues. He would spit shine a **bleep**shack if Commander Locke ordered it, and he would do it with a smile on his face. Saddle, while being a dedicated pilot for the Zion cause, wasn't as loyal to taking orders as her lover Ricochet was, and she certainly wasn't as zealous as Disarm was for the holy path. She was, at bare base, a freedom fighter.

Fraction was much like Muzzle, dedicated to Disarm's every word, but he didn't seem to giddy at the idea of watching Ricochet recieve the beating of a lifetime. I thought he would move to stop it atleast three different times, but each time he would stare at Disarm's smiling face, and lean back against the wall.

"I want conformation that this was a direct order from the Commander." Ricochet demanded, slamming his fist against the table, spilling our protein slime across the floor.

"You require conformation?" Disarm asked, looking for a reiteration.

"I DEMAND it." Ricochet said coldly.

"Your wish is my command." Disarm replied, calmly.

Ricochet turned his head, letting out a sigh of relief. He had assumed that the conversation would go a different direction. "Thank you."

"Muzzle, I command you to confirm our orders to Ricochet." Disarm said, still with a cold tone and a smile growing on his face.

"Afirmative." Muzzle replied, standing up, shoving Ricochet from his seat. Ricochet fell backwards, slamming the back of his skull against the bulkhead. Before he could open his mouth to protest, or complain about the pain from the initial attack, Muzzle had begun driving his knuckles into Ricochet's face. I felt powerless. Disarm felt like a god. Saddle stood up, screaming out something to the effect of; "Stop it, you dumb **bleep**!" running forward, flinging herself into the fray, only to be pushed backwards, flipping over the table, landing in a heap on the ground behind Disarm. She began to sob loudly as Ricochet was tossed back and forth around the mess hall, her cries almost drowned out by the sound of Muzzle's hamhock-like fists slapping against Ricochet's bruised flesh.

After the first three minutes, I had to turn my head. I could see Product, watching, entertained. Saddle remained on the floor, weeping.

Muzzle stood above Ricochet's broken body, looking at Anchor and I, as if we were interested in taking our turn in line, after Ricochet.

"You have your orders, Soldier. Lay upon the ground, and bleed out your curious nature. When you feel as if you are ready to listen to your Captain with the same ears that you listen to your Commander, who, I remind you, has no juridiction here, on my ship... You may stand again and take your place among my crew." Disarm spoke, so proud, so very proud of himself.

I suddenly felt disgust. I couldn't contain it. I already held Disarm in contempt, for lying to me, for drawing me out into this cold, horrible, scarred existence. Now I had to watch as the men I was being taught to respect, would threaten my mates, as an inadvertant threat upon my own personal body?

"How do you manage, Disarm?" I finally asked, with the stench of disgust wafting from every word I spoke.

"How do I manage what, Catamaran?" he asked, his eyes still locked on the beaten Ricochet, who's blood had began pooling around the side of his face that was pressed against the cold, steel floors. Staring a hundred yards away, completely dismantled physically and mentally, feeling like less of a human being than the ship itself.

"To constantly speak in cursive? Doesn't it get exhausting?" I asked, walking between Muzzle and Disarm towards my quarters, not interesting in the answer.

"Perhaps I should allow Muzzle to answer that question?" Disarm pondered outloud, still watching the silent unraveling of Ricochet's psyche.

"Save it, you can sick your lap dog on the sewer walls, they would probably be more impressed than I am." I said, hoping deep down that Muzzle wouldn't follow without Disarm's orders.

"Catamaran, you need to understand that I am your Cap-*" Disarm spoke, attempting to repremand me, cut off by the slam of the door into my quarters. Things were growing increasingly **bleep**ed by the minute. I was trying to figure out exactly what would happen when the **bleep** finally hit the fan. I knew, Muzzle would have to be handled quickly. As quick as possible. As in... yesterday.