The girl. All the good stories start with a girl, don’t they? We met not long after I came here. She was beautiful. The inviting eyes. Those jaw-dropping curves. And a smile seething with mischief. She was absolutely irresistible. She nearly got me killed.

I was the master of my art. It was all I knew. It’s what I was made for. Towering monoliths of mineral and stone, forged with precision over millennia. But that was then. As with every job, someone better always comes along. That’s when I met him. The one man who could save me from oblivion.

“Working for me is not easy,” he said in a smug, French accent, “But I believe you will find the pay quite rewarding. Your life for your service.”

He called himself the Merovingian. I had heard of him before, but never thought I’d see the day when I would be shaking his hand.

“Whatever you need,” I said. “I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

He smirked. His eyes narrowed. There was a tense pause that felt like it lasted for hours. He was studying me.

“Very well.” he said. He turned and sat at a long table, decorated with illustrious food and priceless bottles of wine. The air of the restaurant was crisp and cold. Everything was polished to a mirrored finish.

“It just so happens that I have a task for you. It will take time, but you must know that patience is not one of my stronger qualities.”

All I could do was stand in silence. This man held my existence in the palm of his hand.

“For years I have sought this particular program. He is known as the Keymaker. He holds access to the deepest secrets of the matrix. But by his nature he has become very adept at staying hidden. With him in my… employ, my influence here would grow beyond measure. Your task, mon nouvel etudiant, is to find him and bring him to me. From there we will determine what niche you might fill in my organization.”

He held a glass of red wine to his nose and inhaled deeply, not once taking his eyes off of me. It was intimidating as hell.

I was confused. Was that it? Just go and find this Keymaker program? Where should I start? I didn’t dare ask.

“…What are you waiting for?” he asked, snapping me back into the situation.

I nodded and turned to leave.

For weeks I lurked hacker bulletin boards and questioned other exiles. Anything I could think of to lead me to this Keymaker. I considered what the Merovingian would do if I didn’t deliver. I’d heard stories of him torturing and killing his subordinates. Anyone who didn’t comply with his orders didn’t last very long. The Keymaker was my ticket to safety. I had to find him.

I decided to take a break and stop for a drink in a downtown club. The lights cast everything in a wash of purple and green, and the music was just loud enough. This is where she found me. The girl. I was leaning against the back wall when she sauntered over. We had a few drinks, popped a few pills, and got to know each other. She was an exile, like me. I told her about my test with the Merovingian and her eyes lit up.

“Unlimited access to the entire simulation?” she asked astounded.

I nodded and finished my drink. I couldn’t tell you how many I’d had at that point.

“Imagine what we could do with him!” she said. “We would never have to work for the Merovingian again!” She was right. I’m not ashamed to say that I wanted to impress her. I guess it was just one more reason to find the Keymaker.

Out of nowhere, after three months of searching I caught a break. A tip lead me to a reclusive hacker who claimed to have cracked the Keymaker program. So I did my research. The guy was good. I discovered that he was being monitored by a small group of awakened humans, known as “redpills”. I figured they must have been after the Keymaker as well, so I had to move fast. I commissioned him for a few small programs. Credit card generators, viruses and the like. Just to get into his good graces. But I was running out of time. The Merovingian was getting impatient and the redpills were stepping up their efforts.

I decided to ask him about the Keymaker program. It took some convincing before we eventually negotiated on a price. It wasn’t cheap, but at this point I didn’t have much room to argue. We agreed to another meeting. It would be the last time I would ever see him.

Sitting in our preferred club, waiting for the time to arrive, I watched her escorting various men and women out back to the alleys. She would always return smiling. Satisfied. Licking her blood-stained teeth. She was celebrating our promotion. It wouldn’t be long before we would have the keys, quite literally, to our palace. We would live like royalty, and with our power we planned to overthrow the Merovingian.

When it came time to leave however, she refused. She was drunk… If you can call it that. She was having too much fun with these humans. They were rather gullible, I admit. But this was our last chance. I was convinced that if I didn’t find the Keymaker that night I would end up dead. We argued for nearly an hour. Thank god she managed to sober up on the drive over.

The apartment complex looked like it was just days from demolition. The paint on the walls had rotted to a dark green. The whole building was cold and wet. We exited the elevator and made our way down the hallway. I silently counted down the apartment numbers like a new year celebration.

One-oh-six.

One-oh-five.

I had been to his place before, but this time was different. I kept reminding myself to stay calm.

One-oh-four.

One-oh-three.

I felt inside my coat. Two-thousand dollars rested safely in my chest pocket.

One-oh-two.

One-oh-one.

I knocked twice.

“Who is it?” his voice came muffled through the door.

I responded confidently.

“It’s Choi.”

I was only a boy, fifteen, when my parents sold me away to these bastards. The Gallente claim to be the pioneers of democracy in this god forsaken universe. Those damn militants didn’t seem too concerned about my rights as they dragged me away from my weeping mother. All they wanted was their big payday, and they agreed to cut my father a nice percentage. Take one goddamn guess if I ever saw a cent.

That was only a month after CONCORD lifted the blockade on planetary harvesting. For centuries the business of so-called “Capsuleers” was relegated only to what could be found in the stars. Then suddenly, for whatever reason, our homes had become fair game. I still remember the scream of the shuttles, loaded to the teeth with refinery equipment, sailing down and landing wherever they could find an open field. Drop in, set up shop, and completely destroy any semblance of established civilization.  How patriotic.

I made friends over the years, for what it’s worth. Most of us were indentured. Others signed up willingly, thinking one day they could become famed capsuleers themselves. Naive fools. Janek was like me. His father needed to make ends meet. We saw at once that we were both scared out of our minds, but we had plenty in common nonetheless. We became fast friends. On our breaks we’d talk about our families, our interests, and we’d share a cigarette or two. Most of the time we’d simply find ways to keep ourselves sane.  I remember one day, I swear to you this guy had balls, Janek made a pass at one of the lady soldiers. Maybe he was trying to get himself thrown out. But she jammed the butt of a rifle into his belly right then and there. As the poor guy was lying on the ground, clutching his stomach, he started laughing. He was laughing all the way back to our dorm. In this place you have to make your fun where you can find it. And your sense of humor tends to get a little twisted.  It’s really the only way to cope.  Three months after that incident Janek’s father received a letter of apology from the Gallente federation, and stopped receiving a monthly check. Janek was repairing a faulty release valve on a top platform of the refinery, when he tripped on a loose chain and fell into the business end of a mineral processor.

That’s what the official report says, anyway. What it doesn’t mention is that Janek’s friends were tasked with fishing his body out of a molten stew, knowing full well what really happened.

It was twenty-five years ago that I was signed over to this hell hole, and after twenty-five years I have seen enough. I’ve lived my whole life in this refinery. I’m 40 years old, and I can’t remember what grass smells like. I have so many scars and burns that I can’t remember where most of them came from. I don’t know if my parents are still alive, and I’m not sure I even care.

You pilots sit so comfortably in your pods, miles above ground, raking in profit without a care in your head. Protected from death, you’ve forgotten how to appreciate life. As immortals, you’ve forgotten what it means to be human. Enduring eternity only to watch your bank accounts grow.  For all I have been through, I sleep better at night knowing that I will never be like you.

I write these words as if they will be my last. By this time tomorrow I will no longer be here. Whether that means I’m flying a stolen shuttle to the farthest system I can find, or lying lifeless, riddled with bullet holes just outside these walls, I know I will not be spending another day in this place.

Whoever you are, I pray these words find you well. I have experienced the consequences of the capsuleers’ greed. They have no misgivings of what they do. And their reach knows no bounds. My one remaining hope in all of this is that they might some day reclaim their compassion for others. To feel the pain of loss, and marvel at the beauty of impermanence. To connect with people based on who they are, rather than the purpose they can serve.

Until that day comes we have no reason, none at all, to trust them.

Sincerely,
Tannen Burke

A lot has happened since I last posted.  I’ve committed to a new way of life, and I still find myself making mental notes on how to deal with it.  The inside of my skull is plastered with figurative sticky notes.  When I was younger I was convinced that I was the only person on the planet who upon birth was not bestowed the “Encyclopedia On What the Fuck to Do In Every Conceivable Situation”.  Somewhere between then and now I’ve learned that nobody has any more of a clue than I do.  Some are just better at faking it than others.

Anyway, what I’ve been working on lately: Since I gave up drugs and alcohol, I’ve had to fill the void with something else.  Video games.  Every now and then I’ll write something, but mostly I’ve consigned myself to entering fantasy worlds in which I accomplish various goals for some abstract measure of progression.

A few months ago I set forth on a goal to write fan-fiction.  At the time I did not realize the hell I was imposing on myself.  Writing in this genre is difficult because you are attempting to create something new out of what has already been established.  To pay homage without borrowing directly from your source material can often seem impossible.  I’ve nearly filled an entire moleskine with ideas that I have no intention of expanding.  But I’ve managed to settle on a story that I am happy with, which details the trials of two human sympathizers fighting alongside the A.I. resistance, taking place in the Second Renaissance.  I understand that that made absolutely no sense to a lot of people.  But that’s ok.  The story isn’t for you.  So there.

I’ve nearly finished the first chapter, and I’ll be submitting it to my loved ones for review.  I’m dying for criticism.  Tell me what I have done wrong, so that I might make it better!

Insert poignant sign-off here.

I couldn’t tell how long I’d been flying.  You fly for so long and time becomes meaningless.

When I reached the edge I found a place so beautiful, but it was not without a sense of danger.  Flora and fauna as far as the eye could see.  Animals that seemed so familiar, and yet, not.  I found a turtle, no bigger than a lime.  I picked it up.  It crawled across the tips of my fingers, and in a hair-split of a second, it bit my thumb.

It hurt.  There was a stinging, and then a burning.  I wanted to panic, but I didn’t.

When I finally pried it off, I saw its razor-sharp beak hadn’t even broken the skin.  Small, pink indentations were the only sign that anything had happened.  And they faded quickly.

I saw birds that resembled large pelicans.  They were as tall as me, with eyes like tiny marbles.  I wondered if they feared me, or if they might attack me.  They just stood there, stationary, unwavering.  The warm wind ruffled their feathers.

There were structures there.  Like ancient greenhouses.  They hadn’t been cared for in centuries.  The plants they once housed had since overtaken them. I felt that maybe there was some deeper meaning in that.  The children had outgrown the parents, and had nearly buried them.

A mountain range cracked the horizon, separating the greenery from a purple sky.  The paper-white clouds resembled whispy brush strokes.  The atmosphere played tricks with my sense of perspective.  The rocky structures appeared close and towering, though it was easy to tell they were hundreds of miles away.

Life thrived here.  An abundance unlike anything to ever happen upon human eyes.

I saw so much, yet I knew it was only a glimpse.

On Friday, July 31st, The Matrix Online will shut down for good. After a decent five year run. It’s both saddening and comforting at the same time. The game had such promise and potential, but it always was and always would be a niche game. The sequels of the trilogy divided people so strongly that the game was probably destined for this.

I remember first seeing Revolutions in the theater, opening night of course, and having Neo’s death be so sudden and unexpected. Obviously I wasn’t really paying attention. But for a year now, I’ve watched the death of MxO approach like an oncoming train. I knew it was coming as soon as Paul Chadwick left as the game’s only writer. At that point, the game’s only remaining developer, Ben Chamberlain, took over as a one-man-show. The guy seemingly put in 25 hour days with this game. He was dedicated, and he wanted to tell a story. I can’t fault him for that. But the story he wanted to tell just wasn’t the matrix. I grew increasingly tired of it, and on December 3rd, 2008, I jacked out of the matrix.

At the end of Reloaded, Neo learned that the coding of the matrix is inherently flawed. Paradoxically, the code must be inefficient in order for the system to operate efficiently. The code must allow for the incalculable variable of choice. Choice is what gives humanity its power, if only we would exercise it. And much like in the films, by exercising my choice to leave the matrix I felt a particular sense of power. I was free.

At the beginning of the game, as a player you are given the choice to take the red pill or the blue pill. But looking back now in retrospect, by taking the red pill you are essentially succumbing to the matrix. Not escaping it. I think that’s the final irony in all of this. Maybe Cypher was right all along.

I don’t mean to imply that I regret my past five years with this game. It was definitely a fun and unique experience, and I’ve met a group of people who I am proud to consider family.

Since the announcement that the game will be closing, it has become de rigeur within the community to find out where to place blame. Most people blame SOE for not nurturing the game to its potential. Others blame the game itself, citing various bugs and balance problems that made the game unplayable for some. A small few blame the community, and if I had to point a finger it would be in this direction. There are some very remarkable people in the MxO community, and these people were a pleasure to associate with. But the rest of them, the majority of them, aren’t worth their weight in salt. I’ll be glad when they can no longer inhabit a world that I’ve spent a decade growing to love.

It’s been raining around here a lot lately, and rain in the matrix always signified change.

In Revolutions, the Oracle tells Neo that “Everything that has a beginning, has an end.” For a long time this felt true, but now I’m not sure. While the game may be ending, the Matrix isn’t. It’s been here for longer than most of us realize. It is not a series of films, but a concept that is simultaneously innate and complex. A concept that has been with us since we first looked inward and found a sprouting awareness. It has taken countless forms ever since, and it will continue to do so.

And it’s here where I’m deciding to pick up. To present the concept of The Matrix through my own interpretations. I don’t know what will come of it, but I know that it is what I want to do.

Yes. I want to write Matrix fan-fiction.

In my old age I brought the painting out to show my granddaughter. She was seven years old and unlike the rest of the family, she loved hearing me talk. I sat down on the couch held the painting, covered in an old sheet, upright in front of her. I told her how our best inspirations come in our dreams, when we aren’t trying very hard, and that this painting came to me in a dream when I was 24 years old.

“How old are you now, grandpa?” she asked.

“Old enough to have forgotten the answer to that question.”

I drew the sheet off the painting. My granddaughter looked befuddled for a moment and began tilting her head. I looked at her and thought for a moment. Instinctively I turned the painting right-side-up.

“Where do the stairs go, grandpa?”

“I’m not quite sure.” I said honestly. “Where do you think they go?”

She squinted and scrunched her nose.

“They lead to a very pretty lady.” she said with a nod.

I turned the painting towards me to see, and she was right. At the top of that short, unassuming staircase stood a beautiful woman.

“We finished it, grandpa!” she said with a smile.

Mom always says that I act childish for my age.

I think she’s on to me.

To this day I still envy those children who were able to fly away, and escape to a world where shoes are optional.

I always found it inspiring.

And ever since then, I’ve had the foresight to wear my sunglasses at night.