Matrix Reassignment
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Matrix: Residual Self-Image free porn video
Matrix: Residual Self-Image
By Lynn Lefey
I walk from the stage, alive with the sound of eighty
thousand cheering fans. I glisten with sweat from the
exertion of the performance. I've done my two encores; I'm
done for the evening.
The backstage area is alive with life. Roadies, reporters,
groupies, performers... and the last thing I expected to
see. I gravitate to the man, painfully professional in his
black suit. He has the short, immaculate haircut and dark
glasses marking him as an agent.
"Agent Johnson," he introduces himself. I ignore the throng
and escort him into my trailer.
"What can I do for the agency?" I ask, once we've entered
my trailer.
He makes a short circuit around the room, sweeping for
bugs. From inside his jacket, he produces an envelope. I
slide the photo out, and my mouth goes sour.
"Do you remember who this man is?" he asks in his
professional, nearly mechanical tone.
"Woden. The man who stole my life..." I trail off.
"Yes. He is in the city. We want you to find him for us,"
he leans forward as he speaks.
"I haven't acted as an operative for the agency in...
years. I don't know how well I could get into his circle.
Everyone knows who I am," I explain.
"You know how to change your look. You know how he
operates. Your family deserves this... you deserve this,"
he almost whispers.
I slide open my closet. I stare at half a million dollars
worth of wardrobe. Nothing to wear. I smile. I slide on the
red on white motorcycle riding suit and boots that had been
my signature before I hit it big. I press a little button
in the back of the closet, and a concealed compartment
slides open. I slip into the body harness, slip the Mac-10
into place, slide the katana into place across my back. I
stop for a minute, then strap a Cold Steel tanto to my leg,
and push three frag grenades into place on the harness.
"I can't believe I'm getting back into this game," I admit.
"Your country needs you," he says flatly.
I show no expression.
"The memory of your family needs you," he says, and half
smiles at my furrowing brow.
I slide on the wrap-around gargoyle shades, and turn.
"Dead or alive?" I ask.
"Dead or alive," he confirms, "but there would be much less
cost to the taxpayers in trial expense if he were dead."
...
The ninja motorcycle fires up quietly. I rev it up and tear
out of the stadium parking lot. International rock star,
agency operative, licensed to kill. It's an exciting life,
I guess, but the pain that gave me this driving spirit
haunts me. Nightmares haunt me, and I am driven to achieve
a goal I can't define, and can't describe.
I swerve through traffic, with nimble precision. The years
of training by the agency after... the incident, they're
all just a blur. I remember the skills. They're second
nature, but remembering the long hours of training is
harder. I chalk it up to the emotional stress I was under
at the time.
I pull into an alley behind LOX. 'Liquid Oxygen' is a
trendy techno-hang with lots of neon. I intend to shoot it
up, pretty severely. I check my Mac-10 and my ammo. Two
hundred rounds. I should have brought a backup.
I move to the side door. I check it for alarms. Satisfied,
I mule kick it, buckling it off its hinges. Sometimes I'm
still amazed at the neuro-enhancements I gained through the
agency. It's barely a light workout getting into the top
offices. I don't even draw a knife. Six bouncers are going
need some serious ice packs and BenGay though.
I step into the office of DeGrego, some suave euro-trash
asshole. We've crossed paths before.
"Oh my God! Siren! It has been a long time, please, come
sit down... tell me how you've been!" he says in his
muddled accent.
I've felt that he either fakes the accent or moved around a
lot in Europe growing up. Either way, it makes me somehow
instinctively distrust him. The coke lines on his desk, and
the two vapid bimbos didn't raise my opinion of him in the
least.
"Soo... what brings a big star like you to my humble
establishment?" he smiles, wiping his nose.
"I hear Woden is in town. Where is he?" I demand.
His face hardens at the name.
"I cannot say," he lies.
I draw my Mac on him.
"Can you say now?" I ask icily.
"Shit! If I tell you, his people will turn me into a
fucking smear!" he says near tears.
"That's the future. This is the present. Do you want to be
a smear now, or a smear later?" I ask.
"You have no idea what you're doing," he protests, but he
sees the look in my eye. "Goddamn you! He might be doing a
meeting with someone at Burrow's Park tonight. That's all I
know,"
I press the muzzle of my silencer against his forehead.
"Damn it! That's all I know!" he screams.
I turn to leave.
"Stupid fucking whore," he says when he thinks I'm out of
earshot.
...
The motorcycle makes good time. I arrive at the little
metropolitan park. Office buildings surround the small
patch of green. I walk down a few paths, checking the place
out.
My little Jenna used to love places like this. I look at
the jungle gym. I shut off my emotions. Maybe I'll do the
emotional healing later. There is a solitary black woman
sitting on a bench under a streetlight. She throws
breadcrumbs to pigeons.
"Scuse me. Are you someone I know?" she asks.
I shrug.
"You on a bear hunt?" she adds. She has a kind voice, like
a grandmother.
"A woman's gotta protect herself at night," I reply, a note
of humor in my voice.
"You've lost someone," she states.
"I have," I admit.
She's either astute, or a great cold-reader.
"It's not who you think. You've lost yourself, honey," she
points with her middle and index finger toward me, between
draws from a cigarette.
I sigh. "I guess, in a way I have."
"So, why did you do that?" she persists.
I shrug, "My life was stolen from me by a very bad man. My
daughter... my husband. Worse, this man, this monster
messed with my head, made me believe a bunch of really
messed up stuff. I'm talking Charles Manson stuff. A wound
like that doesn't heal easily," I confess to the nameless
woman.
"That's a good story," she says.
A subtle tone in her voice says she doesn't believe me.
"Yeah, well... it's my life, whether I like it or not," I
tell her.
"I think it's the life you could accept," she retorts.
"So, I engineered my life to be this messed up?" I ask
rhetorically.
"You engineered some of it. The agency did the rest," she
says gently.
"What the hell..." I begin. On reflex, I stand up and wheel
my gun on her.
"Oh, son of a BITCH! You're Woden's appointment!" I find
myself cursing.
"Maybe she is, Siren. Maybe she isn't," the voice comes
from over my shoulder.
...
The tall man stands a few yards away. He is huge, maybe
seven feet tall. He wears dark slacks, and a button-up
white shirt with no collar. He's wrapped in a London Fog
rain coat. There is most likely an arsenal of weapons under
it. Like me, he wears sunglasses.
A piece of eighties rock pops into my head, "I wear my
sunglasses at night, so I can..." I truncate it forcibly.
"Woden..." I hiss.
"Tiresias," he returns.
My look of incomprehension must show.
"Sorry. You're going by Siren now, aren't you?" he says
lightly.
"I'm here to bring you to justice, Woden. I will give you
the option of surrendering. If you do, I'll bring you in
alive," I tell him with authority.
"What? You mean you don't plan to shoot me in the back,
like last time?" he asks coldly.
"What the hell are you talking about?" I ask.
Perhaps he's stalling for some reason. It doesn't matter.
I've hit the signal on my GPS. The agents should be here
soon. The longer he talks, the more likely we are to catch
him.
"I freed you, but you couldn't take it. I've never seen
someone whose residual self-image was so different from
their physical form. I guess no one had ever freed a
transsexual before," he says.
"What?" I ask again, but it has no force to it.
"You gave us up. You gave us up to the agents... all of us.
Surge, Crypto, Baud... all dead. Our ship... the Icharus,
destroyed. You were reinserted, and I was left to live in
the aftermath of your betrayal," he says in a smooth voice
barely masking his pain.
"No..." I begin to protest.
He looks down. "I'm afraid so. Well, you got what you
wanted, I guess. You're a beautiful woman, adored by
millions. You're life is perfect, I expect," he says
bitterly.
"Hardly. You killed my family. You think I'd ever forget
something like that?" I begin to feel my force of will come
alive once more.
It is cut cold by his subtle gesture, a soft shaking of his
head.
"No, Tiresias. They put that memory into you, to give you a
reason to hate me, I suppose. The funny thing... even after
you did what you did. Even while I lay with a bullet lodged
in my spine... I still couldn't bring myself to hate you.
You killed my crew, the only family I'll ever know, and you
destroyed my life, but I don't hate you," he lamented.
I see the approaching forms, the men in their immaculate
suits approaching.
"You will," I say, as the smile spreads across my lips.
"Mr. Meuler. We have some unfinished business," The agent
says smoothly, emotionlessly.
I back away, watching. With this chapter closed, maybe now
I can find happiness.
Sherry
- 10.09.2022
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