It was a quiet night, or at least, quiet to his ears. The city ran around him, a pulsing, throbing organsim seeming on its death bed, the only protection from a winters chill, clean and white that rested on a sill outside, a thin peice of glass.
Or was it?
The question rolled through his mind, like the taste of red wine, had he known it, alluring and deadly to his sences.
"I can feel it, and touch it." He spoke, savoring the feeling of the warmth against his skin, but again, that stray thought ran through his mind. Was anything real? Was he real? Was the writing on his computer, a deep green, cut of emeralds and portrayed across the velvet black of his screen, really real? Mabey none of it was, or mabey all of it was, he could not tell. Time would tell, if it could. He tasted the wine once more, his lips pursed in thought as the city moved below him, and a new feeling rose within him, and it was the most dangerous to he; Contempt. Contempt for the igggnorant below him, contempt for those who knew, and for those not yet here. His glasses, sleek shades of black, pressed against his temples, and this feeling too he withdrew into, but if only for a moment. He savored his life, or what it was equivalent to, and walked toward the door. It was open, not suprisingly, and he stepped out into the cold, surroundined by the heat of men and the cold of this world he choose to accept, if only for now. He hated it, hated the words, hated the city around him, and glared at it through his glasses. It was a sad thing to see, so many unaware of the way they lived, or at least, thought they did, so very unaware of him and his kind as they were to the others; his enemies, who stalked among the masses, always a step ahead, or worse, just a step behind. He knew they were out there, he had known since his first memories, if you could call it that. He also knew, should memory fail to appease his growing sence of anger, the words...
Tracing call...4674987
"Did you find him?"
"Yes. He is with us now."
"Are you sure he is the one?"
"Yes. We have seen his powers."
"Then our search is over."
"Yes."
Line Disconnected...

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Sorry for cutting it off there, but I didn't have anything else. It was just brought up from searching the site aimlessly, but I plan to right more, eventually. Please, the phone talk was not supposed to be directly related to the Neo speach, but mabey of a mistake and predesessor

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Wow... That's amazing. Nice work.

Thanks for the compliment. I'm trying to figure out how to write a story that is longer then a post is allowed, but I just can't seem to make a story based on the Matrix... at least, not right now.

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Practice makes perfect, or so I am told. If you are unable to write a Fan fiction about the Matrix, then write a fan fic about something else, and then get your feel for it, and come back when you are ready to make one, If you want ideas on how to make a matrix fan fic, then check out this entire area, and you will find your inspiration, or you can do what all of us did, look inside yourslef for inspiration, for it is waiting for you to unleash it. I hope you dont discontinue this story, it is so cool for a start.

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(Here continues my story)
...The words, he thought, almost an unspoken command, that cut at his insides and gored him, if such a thing were possible within this construct, within this hollow prison that was his choice, his problem, and in the most ultimate of sences, his sollution. The thing that would take him, and absorb him and feed off him until he was no more then another mindless speck within it, another mindless Martyr to a cause he felt nothing but anger towards. But then, who's fault was it really? The fault of those who ran, cowering behind the jack ins to their "real world"? A world they claimed was so much more to them then this, this Matrix was to him? And why, he asked himself, why? Why did they persist, persist in trying to awaken those who needed it, or accidentally letting those like him stumble upon it, with no way to them, and no way out of a world they now needed fear, who's ghosts dressed like buissness men, who stalked the streets and could not be avoided by those who ran? Was this a price he was willing to pay, when so much could be loved and lost? No, he felt not. It could not be, should not be allowed to happen, especially to the young like he, to those already without hope, to those who felt, just sometimes, that the world was a crueler joke then most. He bit down heavily upon his lip, and wondered then, if that might be the cause. That these people who lived within the real world found, or more accuratley, prayed upon those as did their counterparts. He would not know, unless he started asking questions.
The right ones.
* * *
It had been months before he had found the signal again, sorting through masses of abject feelings while the cold winter, like a blanket over a world that did not exist, seemed to trap him, to still within him a feeling of rapt terror, a feeling of such great fear and Darkness he nearly cried out for those emeralds to cross his screen again. He gave up the streets, whom it seemed to him were stalked by men who wished his life, his paranoyed attitude reflected in the room around him. It had not always been so, not since that first meeting with the men in black, who's eyes, windows to whatever scrap of soul might dwell below them be, were hidden behind shades so much like his own. The mans questing arm had sought to grip his, catching him by the coat and startling him out of thoughts he had yet to finish.
"We know what you are doing, Mr. Tepper" The voice had rasped so near to his ear.
"And we suggest you choose your friends more carefully, and realize how well off you, and your family is as well." The man had then let him go, disapearing into a crowd,but Jonathan still shook, recalling the strength the man had so carelessly wasted to stop his panic from letting him run. He had days left, mabey less. They knew where he lived, and they could find him just as quickly.
The phone rang.
Once, twice, a third time before a quivering hand took it slowly off the hook, forgotten was the recordings his answering machine stole.
"Are you alone?" A low voice asked, startling the half awake man and filling his mind with nothing more then images of the suited men on the other side.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice portraying the cold sweat that broke upon his brow.
"I want you to open the window, and look outside." Jonathan hesitated, every insinct telling him to hang up the phone, and return to his normal life. He drew back the curtains, and looked down. There sat two things, a car and an old telephone booth. Both casting a dark, ominous feel.
"Go to the telephone booth. wait there." A single click signified the conversations end. Jonathan drew himself up, and steadied himself. He turned to the door...

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I stand by my previous statement

... and stopped, his hand clasping the cool copper of the dooors nob. It was strange then, he thought, of how many things he would be giving up with that simple action. memories, unbidden demons that rattled their separate chains, gave him sinsight to his question; His family, his health care; Good teeth too, though this was more a lazy, half joke like those made by men who knew themselves to die, and he did laugh, a brief, chortling sound that sounded more of anxiety then mirth.
The nob turned, Jonathan watching it frozen fear. It was locked, he knew, but who was turning it, for truly, his hand had slipped off the hand, an action due to sweat and shaking laughter. Then the voice told him who.
"Mr. Tepper, it is important you let us in." said the voice of him. The voice of the crowd man, the voice that embodied all of Jonathan's fears. He cowered away from it, sitting beside the discared phone and shaking, both in his body, and his soul. The door stopped rattling then, giving Jonathan some hope, until he saw it; In the mirror, where his daughter had slept and played with friends and dolls alike, sat a body. A mans body, dressed in a suit and watching his reflection through tinted glasses. He screamed, and scrabbled at the windows locked bolts, the silent man sitting up and turning to the doorway. There was a click, and the window shot open. Cold winds cut through Jonathans body, and he turned to look through the mirror.
Nothing.
The blowing of the winds filled the silent house with a sort of anxious noise best left for dead ears, or the brave of heart, and for now, Jonathan was neither. He heard steps, and a feeling came over him; A feeling of depth and anger and twisting hatred, and he grabbed the old mirror, spun to face the hallway, and brought it down upon the dark figure with a vigor unlike any man had seen, at least in this world he knew to be a lie. Truly, had police seen his actions, they woul have said he moved as fast as any mn they had ever seen, but then, there were no witnessess, only the silent figure who seemed to shrink back to the size of a child. He realized what he had done, and unlocked his door.
And waited.
* * *
The door swung softly open, a voice calling into the gloom, seeming a sacrilige in the darkness within. She called once more, before he did. He was exact in his search, his body racked with a new feeling to him, for none had escaped him until late. Anger, this was anger, he thought, and almost smiled until, until the blinking red light in the darkness gave him reason to frown.
It was the tape recorder.
He knew how to run these things, he thought, or knew, he could not tell, and pressed the tarnished green button. The recording, the open window, and the unlocked door fuffilled his reasons. He stepped out then, and searched for another, for Mr. Tepper or anyone who saw him through his eyes. He smiled, and stepped out. There was the brief sensation of something, something more then darkness but less then the sweet tange of the world he was created in, and stood up once more, pulling off the tattered old blanket he had been in. There it was. The telephone booth, and someone even within it. He strode toward it, clearing his throat more on habit then need. It was onlt until then, stepping off the street, did he sence it; The wrongness, the sence that this person was not really there at all. There was a light, coming from the car to his right. He frowned, and turned to face it.
He was the lucky one, when they hit what had been him. He merley moved away, while they only had but one life.
Many of them less now, taking into consideration the street lamp behind him.
* * *
Jonathan had half crawled, half carried himself to the subway station, holding in his hat the two pills; A red, and its nearley exact double, the blue one. The note had made little sence to him, half of it telling him to get on the second cart of the broaken down tram cart of a subway, the other telling him about the pills.
"One to wake you up, the other to let you sleep" It had said, and in so he wondered what that must have meant he was now? awake but dreaming?
No, it did not. The train came to a stop, and he boarded it. Two others watched him, one from opposite sides of a coin that seemed to him more of a sphere. Ironic, he thought, that understanding only came with so great a loss that there was nothing worth being taught. His mind flashed to the body of his daughter, defiled by the agent, then killed by himself, a gesture to him that he had no real power over the actions he caused and felt.
They knew where his family was. These words came back to him, and he cried without tears. He had shed to many this day, and none where left, for the most important part of it. His daughter. He moved to sit down beside the leather dressed woman.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice feeling tired and old, like that of an old mans, who had bent himself toward a storm of his own making and lasted out his end.
"Have you decided?" She countered, her voice as smooth as glass, and truly, did she not know? She must, and yet could hold her voice so calm in the face of what must have been the death of his family?
"We all must make sacrifices." He wanted to hit her then, to smash in her perfect face, to crush and tear her head like his daughters.
"Oh god..." he sobbed, his hands catchinfg his head in his lap. She only watched.
* * *
There it was! His free form exalted, and he sped toward it, travelling on lanes of information and free form power. None ever defeated him. Ever.
* * *
He felt it. A ripple, that ran across his back. He sat up, looking through eyes that were not his. Through tinted glasses? He owned no such thing! He was caged, and he cried out at the woman, and spoke with a voice that was not hi.
"We meet again." She turned, and stared into his eyes. He heard no sound, but just a word mouthed on her lips as she tried to pull away from his new self. He raised his arms, noting the expensive rollex watch that was his. He ignored the clatter of bullets, ignored his eyes and ears as he felt the watch, a thing that did not disapear like so much of him had. He gritted his teeth, and repelled at it, as violently as he could, tearing his mind from a prison that had only been morrings. He dropped the gun, and looked at the woman before him with eyes that rapidly became his. He smiled, and stepped towards her, a thin, almost translucent mist wafting off him as the suited man fled. He was himself, and that was all that mattered in the world.
* * *
The woman watched him colapse, blood draining from the thin holes in his torso. She had been lucky, but he was not. She loathed to touch him, but knew that the agent would return soon. He knew this, and took from the hat that and floated down to land upon his upturned face. and removed it, and the pills that had been his choice. Her back was turned, and the stop slid up behind her. Then she heard the voice.
"I am truly free." She spun, and stared at the corpse that had not moved. Shivering, she left, into a station, in a world that was not her own.
For you see, he had known the truth, and had sacrificed it all for it. It did not matter if you were in the real world or not, there was only one way to be truly free.

End.

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Wow. Impressive for your first Fan Fic. Keep it up.