Light.
White light, searing, so brightly he felt as though his eyes would burn right in their sockets.
Was he dead? (Was he ever truly alive?)
Within seconds his eyes acclimatised to the world around him; he had felt this sensation only once before - when he was torn from his slumber out into the "real" world for the very first time. He hadn't thought about that day in a long time. How long ago was that now?
He recognised the sounds, the oh so familiar sound of pedestrian life; of unknowing shells scurrying around, convinced that what they're doing holds some meaning, some purpose. If they only knew.
What was his purpose? Where was his meaning? His head seared with pain, and as he clasped it in his trembling hands he could feel that it was saturated with a cold sweat... was this real? Was he really here?
He stumbled backwards, sinking into a slump on a cold, wet bench, clambering to find his train of thought, to remember how he got here, how he ended up back in this place; but the memories escaped him, all he could see was a dark, dank room; four miserable grey walls, the deafening silence screaming in his ears. Where was this place?
His breathing grew more panicked with each second that passed, he fought to remember even the simplest detail, the simplest memory of this world, until out of the corner of his eye he saw that oh-so familiar green glow of the phone booth hardline. As quick as a flash he rose to his feet, grabbed it, and was gone.
Zia... he had spent so much time here when he first entered this world, though he had long since forgotten why. Funny, he thought to himself - though it clearly wasn't - he could remember so much of his time as a freshly awoken redpill, right though to his fateful exit from the system; the violence, the deception, the tragedy - yet he remembered very little afterwards... only that room, that tiny, grey room.
His jacket pockets bulged with a collection of tools and devices, most of which he had no recollection of how to use - however one in particular rang a bell. Fiddling with the knobs and levers, he began scanning for RSI frequencies, in the desperate hope that he could find someone, just one person, who could give him answers.
Minutes passed... then hours... he sighed a heavy sigh, all but giving up hope on locating anyone whose signal he recognised - every face he passed in the street, or encountered at the various access hardlines throughout the sprawling city seemed unfamiliar.. until.. who was this? With his thumb he wiped away the grime and dust from the scanner screen, squinting his still reddened eyes, wearily attempting to interpret the RSI codes...
He remembered this name... he could not place why or how, but he remembered it nonetheless - was he friend or foe? Would he remember him at all? Only one way to find out...
>-- Is this the RSI known as "Starschwar"?
.....................................................
He opened his eyes, had he been asleep? He didn't remember.... he hadn't jacked out or... had he ever experienced sleep while in this world? Dazed, he attempted to clear the fog which engulfed his mind; still reeling from meeting with Cpt. Starschwar only a few hours ago... was it hours? Days? Longer?
Those halls, brilliant white - so pristine, so clear - he had vague memories of enduring a rather painful evacuation from that very same place several years ago, but this time is was different - there was no sense of danger, no noise or panic - just him, and Star.
Was everything he said true? Had this world really gone to hell in a handbasket? The Oracle - dead? Surely... surely not... He had listened in stunned silence as Starschwar relayed the tale of all that had happened in this world since his last memory of it; of Oligarchs and Biological something Interfaces; the rise and fall of figures whose names were previously - to him - of little consequence; and... most staggering of all, the fall of the Masked and the revelation that reinsertion was, and had forever been, a lie.
Surely that wasn't true... it couldn't be.... while the madness that had shrouded him throughout his pursuit of reinsertion had long since faded, he still believed in the simple and somewhat innocent ideal of returning to a peaceful dream - yet here he was being told that the dream was merely a myth. Most surprising of all, he thought to himself, was that he wasn't really surprised. In fact, he could barely untangle how exactly he felt about all of this, how he felt about anything - none of this seemed real... and not in the sense that this Matrix itself isn't real, but that... his head hurt...
Why did he recoil when Star had shown him those prison cells? Is that where he had been? Were those the same four grey walls he saw every time he closed his eyes? Surely they weren't, but something about that place struck a nerve, and he couldn't figure out why.
One thing he was sure of, however, was that he could feel the change in the air... something was different in this place... something was... wrong... he just didn't know what, or where his place was in all of this.
Sitting up in his makeshift bed... so he had been sleeping?... he realised the room was in complete darkness; stumbling to his feet he tried to feel his way to a wall, to a lightswitch or even a door, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. Finally he felt a cold steel handle in his palm, and he almost tripped on his own feet as he left the room.
On a small table outside the door, several of his personal effects were laid out purposefully - almost too well organised. He didn't remember doing this, though there was a lot of didn't remember these days. He clumsily grabbed onto his data recorder, disturbing the perfect arrangement of devices on the table-top, and he slouched down into a seated position against the wall, pressing 'Record' as he did so.
##### DATA RECORDING INITIALIZED#####
##### PACKET IDENT: MDM0806-001#####
##### MESSAGE STARTS #############
> To many, my name will be unfamiliar. I hold
little hope in being remembered at all, in fact I
barely remember myself.
> But for those of you who know of me, I offer
myself at your mercy. I've done some terrible
things... unforgivable things... but I stand here
in this world, unashamed to admit that I am
afraid.
> I am afraid because I do not know why
I am here .
> I am afraid because I simply do not
understand how to function in this place
> I am afraid because I do not know myself
> So to anyone who sees fit to show me pity...
> To show me the way...
> I am looking for answers...
> I am looking for your help.
> Please. Help me to see.
##### MESSAGE ENDS #####
##### RECORDING COMPLETED #####
