mycursedface: ([Sam] in the darkness I'll find you by)
[personal profile] mycursedface
01100100011011110010000001110000011100100110111101100111011100100110000110110101110011001000000110010001110010011001010110000101101101001000000101111011001100010000001100010011010010110111001100001011100100111100100000000111001101101000011001010110010101110000_

All computer systems get upgraded. Programs become obsolete, or are simply deemed too difficult to use, and they are replaced by newer models. The Matrix is no different; programs lose their usefulness and are subject to deletion. But the programs in the Matrix are sentient, and the trouble with sentience is that it comes hand-in-hand with free will.

Sometimes, obsolete programs choose to live.

011000010110111001110011011101110110010101110010_

Sam can’t decide if he feels comfortable in the Oracle’s waiting room, or profoundly irritated. The children are serious, intense; they calculate and read and play chess and look as if they only know laughter as a definition in the dictionary. On the other hand, he can send coloured lights dancing around the room and get the smiles of students appreciating an artist.

He’d prefer it if they smiled like kids enjoying a show, but at least he taught the girls how to play with those wooden cubes properly.

“These are the other Potentials,” the aide says in her soothing and aggravating voice, “you can wait here.”

He looks up, sees a man who is seeing a room he can’t get believe. The children playing chess, calculating, reading, making wooden cubes float in the air like a baby’s mobile. The kid with the spoons. It’s always the kid with the spoons.

“Do not try and bend the spoon,” the kid is saying, “That’s impossible. Instead, only try to realize the truth.”

“What truth?” The new man asks, holding the spoon in his hacker-pale hands.

“There is no spoon.”

Sam can’t quite muffle his disappointment, but the man seems to try and accept the statement in good faith.

“There is no spoon?”

“Then you will see that it is not the spoon that bends. It is only yourself.”

“Hey, Sam,” comes a soft voice and he looks up with a smile. “Have fun?”

“Beat you had more.”

“I like cooking,” Meda says serenely, slipping her brown fingers through his white ones as he gets to his feet. “And she’s a nice old thing.”

“Irritating. People who see the future are always irritatingly zen.”

I’m not.”

“No, you are. I’m just not irritated by you.”

She sticks her tongue out at him, and the kid with the spoons giggles. Sam fixes the kid with an intense stare.

“And we’ve had the spoon conversation before.”

“There is no spoon,” the kid says.

“There is,” Sam says, “it’s 0111001101110000011011110110111101101110.” But the kid hears letters instead of code, so Sam shakes his head and walks out the door to the jingling of Meda’s bangles.

011110010110010101110011_

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March 2010

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