Surviving the Hovercraft: Stability (( Backstory Series ))

Surviving the Hovercraft: Stability
Part 1: the Rites of Assimilation

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

Disarm spoke with a certain conviction that would make a murderer drop his own blade. The Hovercraft Captains are always the talented speakers. It makes the assimilation process go much more smoothly. At this very moment, I ponder the difference between us and them. The more I learn about the split sides of the spectrum, I begin to think that the Exiles are the innocent ones. Zion is no different from the Machinists. Clever euphemisms shadowing the real premise that the entire world up until their interference has been a lie and they are here to save the day; that I should be pleased and thankful to be able to join the cause, and someday trick another packet surfer to quit what, in retrospect, was paradise compared to what I have grown to know now.

"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.

After I was 'rescued' from the sewers, and I spent a week laying on an infirmary table, as my joints learned the world from outside of the pod, I would wake up for moments of the day. Many of these moments, Disarm and Muzzle would be standing over me, Disarm preaching his word, the word of Zion, filling my semi conscious head with propaganda. Not that its incorrect, its just sugarcoated towards disaster. Making things sound grim to sound nice. Its all relative in the real world.

"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.

Surviving the Hovercraft: Stability
Part 2: Confirmation of the Orders

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**."

Lord, Ricochet could have danced around the topic a bit, but instead he dropped an M bomb on the table. Disarm looked as offended as I had seen him in two weeks of travel. Muzzle sat beside Disarm, his icon. Muzzle stood at a solid 6'4", towering above the rest of our crew. Easily the strongest member of our party, he played mule whenever we had to load up the ship or apply a patch on the ship's exterior. He was quiet however, he liked to be led, to be directed. When we would broadcast, and enter the Matrix, Muzzle played as more of a hound than a crewman. He enjoyed the view, and the control, that Disarm could spout out. I personally found myself siding with Ricochet here at the table, from the looks of it, Saddle and Anchor felt the same way. Product seemed indifferent, as always. His sly grin played on his lips as he watched the carnage. Product was perfectly comfortable just being alive, being on the outside.

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.

Surviving the Hovercraft: Stability
Part 3: Reprobate's Resume



Between the walls of the Bastion and the walls of my sabbatical from
the crew's cause, I couldn't tell what was more stiffling. It had been
three days since Ricochet or I had spoken to any other members of the
crew. Ricochet's motives were much different however. He felt as if he
had been violated, raped, by Muzzle's intrusive fists. I felt as if my
morals had been violated, or raped, by the entire crew, by the
Stability. The irony of it all made my stomach churn.

I could hear, during all hours of the night, Ricochet crying out. Its
awfully hard to get a good nights rest with broken rips, a broken face,
and a broken heart. I wondered how long it had been since Saddle and
Ricochet had made love. She had been sleeping alone from the beating. I
hadn't done much research into the issue to figure out weather or not
the demasculination of Ricochet had made a difference to her, or if she
was giving him his own valid space.

Finally, hours into the third day, Anchor opened up the door to my
chamber, stepping inside, glancing behind him, then closing and locking
the door.

"We have a very... serious... problem." Anchor said, curious if I would even reply.

"I'm well aware of our situation." I muttered back, coldly, facing the bulkhead, not Anchor.

"What the hell are we going to do?" Anchor asked again, leaning against
the bulkhead. "What happened was completely savage. Who is going to be
next? We are on this ship because we ask questions. Now we are having
our own people beaten senseless to make examples?" Anchor's emotions
were finally starting to flare.

"Well..." I began... "Either we cut the legs off of the monster, or we
cut its head off." This was the first time I had thought about it like
that. The Stability had a large crew, comprised of capible and
intelligent crewman. Our problems were that we had Disarm, the
wordsmith, and his muscle, Muffle. Saddle and Ricochet were probably
through with Disarm's orders, and I know that Anchor and I certainly
were. Product could care less, but Fraction would be the wildcard. He
looked unhappy with the situation that arose three days ago, but he was
still like a son to Disarm, and I had doubts about his alignment.

Disarm was one of Zion's steadiest arrows, and to remove him from play
would overall, be a big mistake. The truth was, Muzzle was the only
replacable factor in the equation.

"The only way to do this... is to put Disarm in his place." I finished.

Anchor looked at me for a moment, I sat up, staring back at him. "You
know what we have to do." I stated, coldly, yet again. Like the air
around us, I had lost my warmth.

As Anchor began to think of something to reply with, debating his
options, debating his morals, the wheel on the door to my chamber spun,
the door swung open, the stench of the protein meal filling up the
room, as well as the large shadow filling up the room from the back lit
door way.

"What 'DO' we have to do?" Muzzle asked, furrowing his brow, gripping a metal bowl full of protein meal in his right hand.

WE... have to defuse this situation.