Mind Games.

PBlade opened his eyes and found himself staring into the vast black expanse that surrounded him. There was no light, not even at his feet. If it wasn't for the solid feeling beneath him, he would have beleived himself floating in this... 'void'. He daren't move incase he was standing on the only surface.

He looked around himself, but the lack of anything whatsoever to focus on, his glances only served to disorientate him, causing "travel" sickness. He closed his eyes again, the orange of his upper eyelid finally giving him something to focus. A medium for his senses, at last.

'Where the hell am I' The thought had been flailing around his mind since he had 'awoken' to his place, accompanied by 'How did I get here?'. Both questions, as of yet, had been given no answer.

One last try. He opened his eyes once again, immediately closing them again, nearly blinded by the surpise of the stark, bright light that stung at his retinas. He slowly prised them back open, curiosity driving him, wanting to know where he had suddenly arrived, bolstering his pain threshold.

He squinted and looked around. He was outside, a familiar location, even at breif first glance. He remembered it well from his life as both a red and blue pill. The music from the nearby club; Messiah, crept from the open door - the fact is was so widely ajar raised questions to PBlade - the dull thud of the bass creating an almost noticable vibration in the walls around.

He was in Cheslea, he realised, if only from the club. Chelsea North Central, to be exact, he thought smugly. He could tell that by the hardli -

'What?! Where the hell is the Hardline??' His concern was well founded; Where the Hardline should have been - tucked into the indented corner of the Downtown Public Library - was a veiw of the dull gray, Edwardian wall, the bright green that had come to be the single greatest sight for many operatives, was gone, as was the box to which it belonged.

"A bit perplexing. Eh, PBlade?"

He was inclined to agree, but still curious to see the face of the vaguely familiar voice. Coming about, the knowledge came flooding back. Long flowing yosamaki trenchcoat, dazzling white button line matching his hair, spiked up and back perfectly. Thin, rectangular glasses perched just below the bridge of his nose so that he peered at PBlade half through them, and half over them. Some slight, tasteful stubble surrounded a trademark cheery half smile, half smirk. Stood there, a commanding presence as always, it could only be one man.

LostProphet.

"LostProphet??" PBlade was shocked, and with good readon: LostProphet had been murdered - twice, he had discovered, and was definitely well and truly deceased. "You're... you're looking good" he stammered, "for a corpse" he had to break a smile.

LostProphe tallowed himself a short laugh before PBlade brought up the point, "This can't be reality" his tone darkened, "You are dead, I saw your body" he hesitated, recalling a past memory,"both of them."

Prophet's happy demeanor did not fade, "This is the Matrix, PB. Nothing is 'real'" he allowed himself another laugh before going on, "but you're quite right" he continued, still with a smile on his face,"this is most definitely not real in the way that you or I would describe it" he paused and spluterred a small cough, "All of this" he said, spreading his arms, which had previously been behind his back, in all all encompassing gesture, "is in your mind" the arms circled around and joined, pointing at PBlade like a child with an imaginary gun, "which explains how I can be here, and why..." his arms shifted to a point past PBlade, "there is no hardline."

"OK" PBlade was slotting the peices together, "I can understand how you are here, but why? What's the purpose of all this?"

LostProphet's expression did not fade. If anything, it became more prominent, "Don't you remember? You went and confronted that Agent about your face, with no consent from anybody" the arms flicked back to point at him again, PBlade shifted his eyes,he tutted his dissproval, "terribly despicable act there, mate. Anyway, you had a bit of a funny turn, thanks to all of that scarring on your brain" his head cocked sideways a fraction, "Good job I remember that, eh? And because i'm a part of your memory it means you remember as well!" At this he positively beamed. Even in moments of eccentricity, PBlade though, he spoke an annoying amount of logic.

PBlade's brow creased, "So...what does this al mean?" - the logistics were under control, but the deeper meaning needed clarification yet.

"Well, you've probably noticed that you can't wake up or anything preferable like that. You're in a coma, PBlade, and i'm the visual representation of the part of your brain trying to help you to get out of his mess."

He wanted to ask "Why you?" but, being inside his own brain, the answer came quickly.

It came from LP, "Apparantly, i'm the one person or thing you associate most with logic and sense, so i'm the perfect choice, really... Quite touching, really." he chuckled to himself, more embarrasment than actual amusement.

A sharp intake of breath between clenched teeth ended the warm moment, "I should wanr you, they think you've gone a bit loopy again after that little turn, so I may end up having a few funny turns as well." he shrugged, obviously not taking the situation as seriously as PBlade. Or perhaps it was the humorous part of his brain as well, this PBlade wasn't feeling too jovial.

Prophet's smile finally dropped, a sombre expression where it was, "Remeber, PBlade, I may represent sense to you, but you've got to regain contro of your mind and your body youself" He stepped forwards, and with his pretend gun, he jabbed PBlade in the ribs, hard enough to hurt, "So!" he exclaimed, the smile returning, "Are we ready?"

The small pain seemed to be getting worse, but he put it aside, "Yes."

"Good" LostProphet boomed, and, taking a step, back, he aimed at PBlade with his make beleive gun and fired, "bang!"

Then the darkness fell again.

TBC...

nformation flowed down the monitor aboard the Nagamitsu. Rolling and flowing, seemingly carefree, but in actuality with precise order and unparalleled direction. Every movement with purpose, every action with definition.

Every action but one.

One strand, out of the hundreds of millions of strands of code, was not in understanding of its situation, its purpose. One out the million flickered and stuttered, it faded and returned, not sure if it was exist in this virtual world or not.

Direwolf, the ships most active operative and acting Captain in PBlade's absence, watched the rogue strand stagger around the screen. There had been no visible glitch, no stammer in the code since the Assassin's 'reign'. This was no Assassin, no anomaly, though. It was much more erratic. It wasn't powerful, it was desperate, confused. And Direwolf knew exactly what it was.

It was PBlade.



When the darkness finally faded, a different location confronted PBlade. Far from the comforts of Chelsea, they now found themselves in a run down house, if it could be called that. Definitely not fit for living, yet somebody was. Paper was piled high around the room; on windowsills, tables, chairs, any available space had paper stacked on it, covered in illegible scrawl. Wherever there was space between the reams, grime, muck and bacteria grew and festered. The Matrix had a 'natural' green hue to it, but this room was positively virulent.

The Wallpaper was brown--not from design, from age--and curling in the corners. Where there was paper, that is. Some areas of the wall were patchy at best, and others were just barren. From a door within the chaos surrounding, a figure--a man--emerged.

PBlade's throat went tight. He knew this place, and he knew that man.

The newcomer moved around the piles of paper and to the room’s single armchair. Or rather, the shell of an armchair. Covering had been ripped off in places in great chunks, the pieces that remained looking grey, *CENSORED* and worn. The man was no different.

As he fell back into the chair, light from the window illuminated his face; His eyes were sunk and sullen, large grey rings arcing under them. His skin was pale and sickly and his hair, a light brown, was messy, disorganized and patchy, draping chaotically around his ears and forehead. Apart from his disheveled appearance, he also seemed deeply disturbed. His eyes, sunken as they were, darted around the room with no real direction, an indication of severe paranoia. His face twitched violently, the personification of his collapsed mentality and his hands, gripped tightly to the fading patching of the armchair, shook relentlessly.

Yes, PBlade did indeed know the man. He moved his hand to his mouth to hide the shock and the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew this man well...

This man was him.

TBC.

PBlade looked down at the man he was once was, wretching on his hands and knees a few feet from him, a small puddle of bile and vomit seeping around his hands. He was not sympathetic to the sight, only a distant hatred filled his veins, hatred at himself as his previously smothered past rushed to meet him.

They were standing in the main hall of the house, and it was no better than anywhere else; There were no reams of paper--unlike the 'living' room--giving the grime and disease free domininion to grow and infect wherever it chose. A small table lay broken and unbalanced on three legs near the door, a few feet from the shell of a man PBlade had been. Adorning it was a desaturated and crusted stain that looked unnvervingly like blood.

The reason the former PBlade was hunched in pain, however, became perfectly clear immediately.

From the door to the sitting room, PBlade would usually find himself confronting the ascending bannister of the staircase, and this was indeed the case. The problem, however, was that it was upside down.

Books and papers that were left on the stairs remained fixed, as if glued, to the stair they had been placed upon, unmoved, unrelenting against what should have been gravities pull. From the floor--or what PBlade was standing on, floor or ceiling--there was no way of getting onto the stairs, and looking to the top, or rather the bottom, of them, there appeared to be no exit. At the far end of the corridor, a door lay ajar, revealing a brick wall where entrance should have been. Paintings hung from windows. Windows were in roofs. The roof was everywhere.

"It's a glitch, isn't it?" LostProphet was peicing things together for PBlade, as always.

He gave a single nod, he knew this memory well. Looking over to himself, he saw that he was not touching the floor, his hands, knees and, unfortunately, vomit, hovering and pooling an inch or so above the ground.

Yes, PBlade remembered this meemory well. It was the beginning of the end of his life, and he knew exactly what happened next.

He watched himself stagger back to his feet, wiping his mouth, regaining what senses he had when the door burst off its hinges, pouring light into the relatively dark vestibule. The rush of air knocked him off his feet, the other two men inside throwing their hands up to shield themselves against the incoming light and dust as the assailants entered.

"Mr. Stewart, you are wanted for questioning" The Agent's silhouetted figure stood against the light, as the broken man peered through squinted eyes at him.

"B-B-ut.." he stammered.

The Agent's hand gripped his wrist, and he knew he wasn't escaping;

"There will be no argument, Mr. Stewart, now let us go."

The two men to either side of him looked around and placed their hands to their ears, listening and nodding, but making no sound. And with that, the 3 men took the former PBlade in their charge and hurried away from the building.

TBC..

Nice! Keep going!

This demands more

Verge broke out of the back alley and into the street. It was deserted as he had expected. The system had broken this area down and made it all but uninhabitable after the incident with the glitch. The glitch had wiped itself from the database of the Matrix, along with the original code structure for it, so the Machines had taken a section of another district, made it derelict and placed it here, so somewhere out there in the rest of the virtual world, there was a street almost exactly like this one.

Verge slowed to a trot and then came to a standstill. Phone out, his Operator was on the line in an instant.

'The rest of the crew are converging on your location, Captain. The glitch is long gone, but the signal is definitely still there'

Verge mutterred his acknowledgement and hung up. On the move again, he moved in on the location that he had been given. A derelict house that had been the source of the glitch nearly seven years ago.

The house was in very much the same state as back then; Broken glass, door off a hinge and ajar, and through the breach, reams of paper and books strewn across floors, tables and chairs. A sight of utter poverty.

Three successive 'thuds' signalled the arrival of the rest of his mission team. They drew up alongside him, drawing their own conclusions about the building in front of them. They allowed themselves a few moments respite, before stepping forward to investigate.

They reached as far as the batered gate when a call came from behind them. A commanding call to stop. Turning, the Machinist team came face to face with the Children of Zion search team.

Direwolf stepped forward, flanked by Fondo and Psudo. 'Sorry, but this is our jurisdiction' his voice was stern, a non negotiable air about him, 'Step aside and let us find out Commander.'

Verge was equally as stubborn, 'That is not permitted, Zionite. We are investigating a potential threat to the system. Any ill harboured against the Matrix will be dealt with by Operatives of the system.' His fists clenched and his crew took a step back towards him 'Stand down, or we will be forced to deal with the situation as we see fit.'

Direwolf growled and stepped forward again, his hands finding his holsters. Psudo scrabbled for his phone, calling for backup, whilst Fondo dropped into a defensive stance, finding knives and guns stashed away in his clothing. 'You are dealing with a member of our faction, tin head! We can't let you just erase him. Get the f*ck out the way!'

The scene was set for the act to begin, and the man lying deep within the code thought it almost time for his stage debut.

The man stepped onto the concrete from nowhere, apparantly. His highly polished, black shoes 'clocked' against the pavement as he began moving. He tugged on the bottom of gray his avero waistcoat, tucked beneath a knee length gray duster coat, an equally gray pair of slacks completing the borgeouis ensemble. He straightened his tie next and continued his journey as he continued, allowing himself a laugh as he recalled the events so far.

Within moments, he arrived at the scene of the incident, where the two cliqués of Operatives were standing off. He chuckled again, before breaking the stalemate. His words draw all their attention.

'The perfect equation of amusement, gentlemen. Thank you.'

Both groups turned to the man, but it was the Machinists who spoke first, Verge stepping forward.

'And you are?'

He breathed a laugh through his nostrils, 'I am the one who has been overseeing this operation. I am the one who removed this glitch back when it primarily reared it's morose features. I am the one who will see it put right now.' He paused, allowing his words to sink in, 'I am not the Architect.'

Verge didn't seem surprised, 'That doesn't surprise me. That old fart is... well... old. You're not'

He was right, this new man was quite young. Mid thirties, one would assume. By appearance at least, It was anyone's guess as to how old any of the Machines were, let alone the prime program.

'Indeed.' His voice was similar, though, 'The Architect has no time for mathematical trivialities of this nature, his purpose is tailored to much more important equations. I am an inferior program, an ... apprentice ... to employ a human colloquialism. Which means that this situation verges on the insignificant, which makes it all so ...' He smirked again, and raised his eyebrows, ' Laughable.'

Verge furrowed his brow. 'Insignificant? Laughable?? What the hell!? We were called by 01 to sort out this mess before it got out of hand, explain that.'

'Gullable humans.' The apprentice seemed to be finding the situation more and more hilarious with each passing moment. 'Your psyche is so primitive, it is a nod to your other traits that you have managed to survive so far. Vis a vie, deceit. It is a trait that we have adapted in order to tame your ferocious spirit and to subdue an entire race. Truly, you belong to us'

He voice fell suddenly stern, 'Now, Operatives, eliminate these Zionite Operatives and secure the area, I will make sure that the code is not damaged.'

Verge stood aghast for a moment before he turned back to his crew, mutterring the words they had all been waiting for.


PBlade wheeled on LostProphet, or the image of him, with exhausted anger burning. He was perspired, and looked ill.

'You. You're the problem here!"

LostProphet's expression remained a pleasant smile, although it looked masochistic with the change of perspective. 'Why, PBlade?' His voice was unnaturally calm, 'What's the problem with me?'

'Why are you bringing me to these places? It's not ... it's not ...' His vision blurred, was he truly losing his mind? 'Logical.'

The netural smile faded, an a snarl grew across LostProphet's face. 'Perhaps you really have gone so insane, PBlade, that you've figured out the truth.' He stepped forward, alongside the staggerring PBlade, and threw his arm up into the weakened man's upper torso. There was a great expulsion of air as PBlade swung over it and crashed to the floor, an inch above the actual ground. He coughed and splutterred, gazing up at LostProphet through watered, stinging eyes.

'You're good, i'll give you that' This was no longer LostProphet, this was a wolf in sheep's clothing. 'I am not the logical manifestation of your mind, although I had you fooled for a while, eh?'

He wandered away from PBlade's downed body, and gazed out the door that the Agent's had taken the bluepill. 'No, no, PBlade.' He turned back, and peered at him over his spectacles, 'I'm the malfunction.'

Moments later, he was back alongside PBlade, a swift kick to the stomach finally drawing blood from the batterred Operative, coughed from between blood stained teeth. 'I'm what makes all this crazy stuff, happen, PBlade. I'm the insanity, i'm the maniac in you, and i'm about to go away. But you're coming with me.' He stopped down and leant in close to his ear.

'We both die here today' and with that, the sweet nothing became a headbutt.

Would it really end this way? Would his own mind mentally implode, destroying him? After fighting so hard for Zion and his beliefs, after fighting with and for his faction, would he die this way? Would he vanish without a scream, and with a whimper. This was his mind, how could he lose to it?

No. He couldn't lose to it. He wouldn't lose to it. He refused.

Denial spawns many things. Ignorance can be the bearer of rewards, and refusal, in this instance, could bestow victory.

LostProphet came in for another kick to the ribs with speed unparallelled. His polished shoe came into contact with a pair of hands, centering a hunched body. He looked down in shock and mild fear at the body of PBlade, resolute and determined in the face of adversity.

A flick of the wrist. The foot became the propellor, rotating and taking the ret of the body with it. LostProphet was flung around before coming down hard on the invisible floor. There was a gasp of pain from his previous dominator as he sprawled on the ground, trying to draw himself up. He managed to turn himself to face PBlade. He was no longer huddled on the floor, he was stood, legs a small distance apart, his face obscured by the gleaming barrel of his Westek.

And that was the last thing that LostProphet saw.