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(Shamelessly ripped from ZaneZavin's thread in General Discussion, but Recursion is unique enough to warrant its own.)

Topic.

~V

Vaico: Hello Vanil, how does the Matrix find you today?

Vanil: You speak as if it were alive, human. Is it?

Vaico: Course.

Vanil: And yet you still seek to destroy it. Kill it.

Vaico: Where do you get your information from? I don't want to destory the Matrix.

Vanil: You are a member of E Pluribus Neo. As long as the Matrix exists, humanity can never be free.

Vaico: I disagree.

Vanil: Then why are you a Neonate?

Vaico: Because I follow and spread the Ideals of Neo. We don't wish the Matrix destroyed. We wish the One Returned and Peace initiated. The Matrix will always be a home to Programs and Humans that wish it.

Vanil: So you were pro-Truce.

Vaico: No, I wasn't.

Vanil: Explain.

Vaico: The Truce Neo made was destroyed when the Machines overwrote human Operatives and Cryptos and made the Cypherites. They turned the Truce into another Form of Control. Besides, if we had a peace a Formal Truce would be unneeded.

Vanil: So you don't follow Neo. You simply follow what you believe he represented.

Vaico: Again, you are incorrect.

Vanil: Why don't we ask him?

Vaico: I follow his ideals. Truth. Freedom. Love. Choice. Belief.

Vanil: How do you know these were his ideals? Has he told you himself?

Vaico: His actions showed us his ideals.

Vanil: So, in other words, you follow what you believe his ideals to be.

Vaico: For the record. This is a long way to go in answering a simple Hello.

Vanil: You've made a choice. Expect to have to defend it.

Vaico: I follow his ideals as I and my group see them.

Vaico: I have been defending them for over 3 years. Your questions are not new.

Vanil: ‘Now' we're getting somewhere. Like I said. You do what you believe is correct. You have no way of knowing beyond knowing that which faith provides you with.

Vaico: Faith and personal experience.

Vanil: You are no different than the Machinists.

Vaico: Clearly, your mind is gone then.

Vanil: Insanity. Simply a way of saying ‘this must be wrong, because I do not agree with it.'

Vaico: Please. explain how Im even closely related to a Machine Operative.

Vanil: I'll not educate you; I'm no school teacher for children. However, I will say that, like the Machinists, you do what you believe is right based upon your own perspective without taking any others into account.

Vaico: Right, al you seem to do is make inaccurate analyzations of people. Most likely to cover up your own shortcomings...which are no doubt many. Remind me never to say hello Vanil it leads to long and pompous conversations with you. Neo Be With You.

Vanil: If you ever wish to relieve yourself of your existence or accept your failings, you have my number.

Vaico: I don't think talking be death with arrogance and d*uchebaggery will work.

Vaico does not exist or is not online.

We now know the secret as to why there are so many Neonates. Apparently, their beliefs and ideals change at the drop of a dime.

...how is this Organization still alive, again? Clearly not because of their debate team.

~V

What is the Matrix?

I'm going to tell you about the time I watched the world melt.

This isn't something I'd tell to just anyone. I've chosen you. I've taken you into careful consideration, weighed my options and tangents, and resolved that telling you will be, in the long run, the most prudent thing I may ever do. It will also, in all likelihood, be the most important you ever hear, so eyes up, ears open, and listen closely, because time is always against us.

It was hot that afternoon. Blazing heat. The kind of temperature that makes you want to hop into your *CENSORED* little excuse for an apartment freezer, curl up in a ball, and think about skinny dipping in a bubbling vat of liquid nitrogen. You can lean back in that squeaky old office chair that sits motionless in front of your computer along with you each and every day, day after endless day, on end. As you lean back, you can think about that vat, and in your mind's eye, it seems like the whole world is in that endless, vapor-ridden basin of swirling, vaguely-blue fluid. The back of your mind tells you that jumping in would kill you, sure, but it would sure cool you down nice and quick.

The only thing now is the decision. The choice. The time to decide if dying is worth that briefest moment of chill; that sudden jolt of the most Real joy you've ever felt. And on a b*tch of a scorcher day like this, no less.

B*tch...scorching day...the heat. It hits you full in the face like a thousand-ton mac truck; like some sort of giant and cruel, steel-lined impersonation of a clown mobile. There is no vat. There never was any nitrogen or relief. It's just you, your room, and that God d*mn sun outside that unmercifully open window.

That's exactly what that day was like.

I can distinctly remembering each individual rivulet of bloody sweat as it ran its way down my face and flesh. I felt like I was melting. Me. Nothing else. Just me. I was sure it was just me. At least, for awhile.

And then I wasn't so certain anymore. Maybe it wasn't just me. Maybe it all WAS melting. It would account for the temperature, I supposed as best I could. It was all so hot; my room like a furnace, and my computer desk like a baking pan. My sweat was in my eyes. D*mn it, that stung. I closed them and tried to relax, to calm down. To chill. Chill. If only.

Melting. Everything melting. Wouldn't that be a b*tch of a thing to see. I'd have to see it. I couldn't miss it.

I cracked an eye. I closed it and cracked it again. What the f*ck? It was melting after all. All my sh*t, my whole room, was running over itself like my sweat, with my sweat. I wouldn't believe it; I couldn't believe it, but I knew as soon as I thought that I knew that I was lying to myself. I did believe it. I had to. It couldn't be Real, but it had to be, all the same, because I could see it with my own two eyes. I could see the glass of my computer monitor liquefy and bubble as it ran out of its damp plastic frame like transparent mercury. I felt the cheap wood of the desk it sat precariously upon wet my knees as it sagged with the superheated, impossible onslaught of Reality as I knew it. I could see the walls swirl as they slowly pooled around me, as if they were bleeding themselves out. A part of my brain was telling me, practically screaming, that I should be amazed, but I turned around in my head and found that I wasn't. I had expected this to happen. Of course sh*t would melt; it was hot as f*ck out there today, and hotter than f*ck in here.

Oh f*cking Jesus ow, my legs. The skin on my legs. It was burning. I could smell it. I bolted upright and staggered back from my desk, my steaming pant legs trailing long, sticky strands of the boiling goop. I couldn't say anything. I didn't need to say anything. It was only me.

And then I saw the numbers. Sh*t, of course, it was all just numbers. And it all made so much SENSE. The plaster that dripped from the ceiling above me became strands of glowing green equations, shivering with static, as they splashed to the floor. As the numbers hit the vaporous mire that was rapidly spreading beneath the soles of my shoes, they spread into vast puddles of mathematics, and it looked like the floor was being made into gaping swiss cheese, and I could see the vast, endless tracts of information that ran below the surface of my world; my Reality.

I was not afraid.

I watched as the walls themselves finally splintered and collapsed into smoking heaps of ember-ridden slop that spooled away into spider web upon spider web of coded material, each strand of delicate, spun silk a glittering line of numeric data. I could see the City all around me, every nook, every alleyway, and every building, before those two, like my room before them, melted and liquefied away, until all that lay before me, behind me, all around me was endless black expanse. Well, not endless. But filled with more information than any one soul could ever hope to begin to add up and calculate given even a thousand lifetimes, a thousand thousand even.

I wasn't hot anymore. There wasn't any heat. It was all just a sequencing routine governing things in my head that told me either ‘you're hot' or ‘you're cold.'

And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw the man in the black suit standing with me, behind me, our green, digital world of endless loops and lines of code reflecting from the darkness of his sunglasses lenses.

"It's time you woke up, Dante," the man said, and he pulled me both to and from Reality. My Reality.

What is the Matrix?

The Matrix is a hot afternoon in front of your computer.

~V

In memoriam of those who lost their lives in the 2001 United States terrorist attacks. Let tonight be a night of rememberence, if nothing else.

~V

As the title suggests. I'd love to see one added to the Prop Vendors.

~V

This is not a joke.

I was using Kung-Fu, and Interlocked a Rifleman NPC from a distance. Instead of sliding towards them per normal, I nearly fell out of my chair when my RSI proceeded to execute the backflip vault kick from CR1. It 'must' have been a one-in-a-million glitch, because I haven't seen this animation in over a year, since CR2 was implemented. Developers, is work progressing to reimplement some of these older animations?

It happened too quickly for me to get a screenshot, but I know what I saw.

~V

**///BEGIN** Some things never change. 09.01.07 ~V

///BEGIN

Some things never change.

09.01.07

~V

Vanil.

~V

There is no action without consequence.

It is the nature of the universe, and there is no escaping. Our only hope; our only recourse; our only 'choice' is to understand it. 'Why,' or, in some cases, 'why not.' There is no enlightenment; only assurance. There is no hope; only probability. There is no chance; only cost.

Or so the way he sees it, at any rate.

Vanil's machinations extend back quite a distance in time, however quaint such a concept in a place such as this might be; farther than many of his remaining peers would care to admit or acknowledge. It was only recently that such deeds and misdeeds were made readily apparent to those who may have been interested in them for one reason or another, be it that of archiving or weaponizing. Indeed, Vanil has no fewer enemies than he did before, and some might say that he has in fact, in his neverending insistence on his agendas and desires, made even more than before the assault on Blackwood. Said incident was, no doubt in the eyes of many, a turning point in the Exile's existence. Vanil himself had been imprisoned in the infamous Construct of the only true master of his that persists to the current time for said machinations, including his covert attempts to subvert the Frenchman's authority and Exhilic power and dominion.

The Lupine minions of the Merovingian came swiftly and without any semblance of mercy for Vanil, as he himself is hardly a paragon of the concept and concordant connection of mercy, and dragged him from his Neverwhere. Even the immense power the Blood Noble holds when in that place was not enough to stop that which was, now beyond all doubt, inevitable.

It was said dominion that Vanil, perhaps foolishly, sought for himself. And, like those others like him, the Prince of Darkness is not an easy one to keep imprisoned, especially when he has always been a prisoner of himself for so long. Those dread agents of his; the 'Masques,' along with several select 'allies' of the Blood Noble, stormed the prison Construct and broke those digital bonds that kept Vanil in his carefully-prepared cell for longer than he would have doubtless preferred. And when all cost for escape seemed impossibly high, the Merovingian let Vanil and those that had followed him free...for another price; a price that may, in time, prove too great, even for Vanil himself.

And then it was done. But all was not as it was; indeed, it could not have been. The loose alliance of souls that had banded together, almost unbelievably, for the Captain of the Masquerade's sake, quickly splintered and parted ways, and those very few that remained with their Captain were only either the most devoted or insane of his morbid Operatives. Vanil was free from the confines of Blackwood, it was true, but he had been forced to sacrifice too much for even that illusory freedom.

And so then did Vanil return to the shadows of his Neverwhere and begin to gather the darkness of the Matrix to him once again, for he was not one to be destroyed so simply.

There was much to be done.

There was always more.

~V

As the title suggests. Send 'Vanil' a ring ingame.

~V

To all available Masques:

The White Knight has overstepped his bounds. As of this moment, the Black King withdraws all active and covert pawns to his side of the board. The game has become far to unpredictable to be played, for the time being. Resistance is the fool's path.

Let the Dragon fly without us. I care not. I never have.

~V

Set to 'Land of Confusion' by Disturbed

I must have logged in a thousand times
Submitted a million CCRs
But I can hear the marching feet
They're moving into Mara

Now, did you read the Sentinal today?
They say the crap has gone away
But I can see the game still blows
They're burning it for the future

There's too many fools, too many whiners
Making too many problems
And there's not much love to go around
Can't you see this is the land of Recursion?

This is the server we play on
And this is the game we're given
Play it and let's stop crying
To make it a place worth playing in

Oh, Brewko, where are you now?
When everything's gone wrong somehow?
The men of *CENSORED*, these men of elitism
Are losing control by the hour

This is the time, this is the place
So we look for the future
But there's not much love to go around
Tell me why this is the land of Recursion

This is the server we play on
And this is the game we're given
Play it and let's stop crying
To make it a place worth playing in

I remember long ago
When the game was shining
And all the LETs were bright all through the night
In the wake of this garbage, as I played you constant
So long ago

I won't be coming home tonight
Our player base will put it right
We're not just making claims
That we know they’ll never implement

There's too many fools, too many whiners
Making too many problems
And there's not much love to go round
Can't you see this is the land of Recursion?

Now, this is the server we play on
And this is the game we’re given
Play it and let’s stop crying
To make it a game worth fighting for

This is the server we play on
And this is the game we’re given
Shut up and let's start showing
Just where our devs are going to

~V

Well, there isn't much for me to say here, beyond the fact that I'm taking a leave of absence for awhile.

I know. You're all devastated.

The why is, as always, important, but I won't bore you with the details. Suffice to say, it involves something along lines of not deriving significant enjoyment from this game at this point in time. I'll likely be back, and one would assume such will be sooner, rather than later, but who can say with such things?

Formalities? None, beyond the fact that, while I am away, Chemuel's word and authority may be taken as my own.

I'll be seeing you.

~V

Deep beneath the free city of Zion, something was stirring for a second time.

It began as a simple, distant rumble; no more than a whisper against the silence of the many dank caverns and ancient sewer ducts that lay beneath that place. It was unremarkable, without question.

That is, at first.

But then it began to wake.

Slowly and suddenly, the dim running lights along the sleek ebon-hued hull of the vessel flared to life, outlining the polished empty space along the steel that normally laid berth to the identification plate of such a hovercraft. With a shivering, electric crackle, the hover and stabilization pads along the sides of the vessel ignited on their own, one by one, their tendrils of blue-white lighting screaming outwards and along the metal of the ship and the surrounding cavern of rusted steel and corroding brass. The cockpit flickered to life behind the plated glass of the observation port, like a single speck of bright in a sea of moist, oppressive black. With a squealing of the metal landing struts retracting back into the lower hull of the vessel itself, the hovercraft, slowly, pulled itself from the floor of the massive, vaulted chamber; its exhaust vents spewing engine fumes like streamers of colored smoke.

Inside the cockpit, Chemuel eased the controls that she had once known so intimately into their proper positions and placements, the tactical holographic readouts that flashed about her outlining her innocent, adolescent features in a gentle blue-green glow of neon. The girl could feel the sleek, streamlined hovercraft creak of distant steel as it lifted itself slowly from the floor below it. It had been far too long since she had flown, Chemuel knew.

But she would about fixing that now that he was back.

"Feeling alright, sweetie?" a tinny voice crackled gently from an audio feed that lay welded directly into the console to Chemuel's right.

"Fine, Tam." Chemuel rested her slender fingertip over the primary thruster control for a moment before flipping the switch and bringing it online with a distant, mechanical rumble. "Just fine."

The tactical readout to the Masque's side flickered in response, shifting itself from the measurements of the nearby cavern bulkheads to the prismatic squiggle-equation that Chemuel knew to be the form that Tamur4 took within the Mainframe of this particular vessel. "C'mon baby, don't be that way. Tell me. I won't; I promise."

"If only you were programmed to make promises," Chemuel sighed in soft resignation. "Just worried, Tam. Just worried."

"About him?"

"Yeah."

The prisma-code leapt about in its place slightly across the surface of the small screen. "You know how he is, Chemmy. He's more than fine, I promise."

Chemuel eased the vessel forward, feeling the hull lurch in that familiar way beneath her bare feet. "Yeah, I know." But she was lying, and both of them knew it. Either way, now, Chemuel knew, only one thing was a certain thing. The Masquerade breathed once more.

And that, for now, was enough.

For now.

~V

///BEGIN

No one has ever successfully escaped from the prison Construct known as 'Blackwood.'

~V

Don't fear; someone noticed
All is right in the wrong.
From the brambles, my darling Chemuel
Comes my 'happy birthday' song.

Happy 18th babe. Muah.

~V

///Incoming Transmission

///ERROR: Masq_Ops_Server NOTFOUND

///REROUTE: RESET

And let those two who were once counted as foes be joined together in this neverending Requiem.

~V

01001001 01101110 00001101 00001010 01001000 01101001 01110011 00001101 00001010 01001110 01100001 01101101 01100101 00101110

Broken your servant, I kneel.

Where oh where has He gone?

<3

by Return

Namesake

The lines of blood slowly became encrusted on the man's forehead as he lay slumped up against the exterior wall of the decrepit apartment building. The moon cast a cold light onto the scene as Vanil studied the murder from his position atop the adjacent building.

From his position he could see everything as clearly as day. The astonished looks of the investigators as they stared at the scene with wide eyes were the most amusing of them all, however. The other officers, the beat cops that had worked for 20+ years, were also easy to spot. Their faces were stone cold, their monotone voices simply directing the other officers to construct the police line around the scene of the crime and keep the spectators back, their emotions were missing.

The other easy to spot men in the picture were the agents West, North, and Wong, their hands to their earpieces and all of them with the usual "serious" agent look across their faces. It was unusual to see three agents at the scene of a murder investigation... but this just wasn't your everyday murder investigation.

Vanil knew who did it. The Agents knew who did it. It's just no one wanted to clue in the police department, because they all knew that no one would be able to find her, let alone catch her.

The long stemmed blood red rose stuck out from the man's forehead like a knife sticks out of cold butter. The dried blood clung to the rose's stem, providing a chilling clash of deep red to the green of the plant material. Vanil let his dark black sunglasses fall a bit so his own eyes could study the picture... so he knew that the Matrix wasn't deceiving him.

"It's about time you followed your namesake," Vanil muttered, putting his glasses back up. With a flourish of his coat he turned around, staring at the shadows created by the exit to the roof behind him... staring at the smiling purple lips that were just barely catching the light of the moon.

As the title suggests. Contact 'Vanil' ingame.

~V

...why are there Google ads at the bottom of DN1?

~V

There's a lot of negativity on these forums of late. Hence, this thread. Every night, there is a new post about how this game is dying, or why it isn't as good as World of Warcraft, or any number of similar, tiresome things. And yet each of us clocks in 'some' amount of time, jacked in, dwelling in, and participating in the Matrix. Why do you do it? What, despite all of the negativity and pessimism, keeps you coming back for more?

~V

I would be extremely happy if Sony revamped the Coding interface to allow us to search for Archived item codes by name. For those of you who have played World of Warcraft, you know that it could function similar to the Auction House search system that that game utilizes. At this point, its something of a pain in the arse to dig through your massive clothing Archive and looking for that one elusive bit of apparel. Your thoughts?

~V

Male, obviously. Contact Vanil in game, and we can work out pricing and such.

~V

As the title suggests. I'd be happy to compensate its seller reasonably well.

~V

Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis. Te decet hymnus Deus, in Sion, et tibi reddetur votum in Urba. Exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis caro veniet. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.

~V

The Leviathan

The hovercraft Indutiae of Zion Command rarely ever went this deep underground anymore. The farther down one went, the more difficult it became to establish a stable pirate transmission to allow for Construct penetration. Most often, the Indutiae, along with its fellow vessels of the Fallen Horizon fleet, remained stable at broadcast depth to allow its various operatives to do just that. Tonight, though, the Indutiae found itself very, very deep underground, its flight stabilizers spitting blue lightning along the ancient sewer walls, dripping with musty moisture and old liquid waste.

Aquatium didn't like being this far down. Leaning back lightly in his cockpit chair, the Zionist brushed his short, messy hair out of his eyes, trying not to think about the many kilometers of cold garbage, steel, and concrete that now separated the Indutiae from her berth in Zion, now far above them. The rest of the crew had long since turned in, but Aquatium couldn't shake the creeping feeling in the back of his mind that something wasn't right. Zion com-ops had picked up a powerful energy signature from this area. No one ever went this deep anymore, ever. The Indutiae had been docked in Zion at the time for routine maintenance checks. In a classic case of ‘wrong place; wrong time', Captain Aquatium had received orders to take the Indutiae down into these ancient, twisted sewage pipes and access tunnels to search for the source of said transmission.

Aquatium didn't like flying into the fog. For now, him and his crew saw but through a glass darkly.

The cockpit was eerily silent aside from the distant creaking of metal hull and the quiet bleeping of the chamber's technical readouts and pilot controls. Aquatium checked the autopilot and navigational gauges for what seemed like the thousandth time that night before running his cold fingers over his lips, feeling that slithering coil of worry wind its way about his spine. This didn't happen. Energy signatures didn't just pop out of nowhere and broadcast powerfully enough for Zion to pick them up. Especially this deep below the surface. It was just...weird.

But the worst...the worst was the not knowing. The knowing what was down and out there; why it was down and out there.

...such silence.

Sleep had begun to creep around the edges of Aquatium's eyes when he heard it. A low rumbling outside the Indutiae that shook the corroded cavern walls. Leaning up suddenly, Aquatium started and hit the manual control lever, easing the ship to full stop. Looking down, the Zionist Captain could see that the Indutiae was positioned over a misty sewage chasm that looked like it hadn't seen ships in years. The rumbling grew louder as Aquatium leaned up to the observation window, looking down as bits of ancient rubble rained from the rusted ceiling outside the Indutiae.

And then the collision alarm sounded. Aquatium's brow furrowed inquisitively. What the hell...?

...oh God.

Collision alarms screaming, the Indutiae protested loudly as Aquatium jammed on the control stick, thoughts of Orexis and the rest of his crew streaming through his thoughts as the Zion hovercraft's thrusters blew it backwards. Crashes and clangs of metal sounded throughout the corridors and chambers of the Indutiae as Aquatium wrenched the vessel away from the chasm, just as a metallic scream began to echo down the misty drop off.

The cockpit door banged open. "What's going on?" Orexis asked, her voice raised over the din as she slid into the seat opposite Aquatium. As if in answer, the mist parted, and something massive slowly rose from the depths of the chasm and came to rest where the Indutiae had stood.

It was another hovercraft. By the looks of it, it hadn't flown in years, its metal hull covered with rust and corrosion. Sparks cascaded from open wounds in the old plating, massive jolts of blue lightning leaking from its blasted drive stabilizers, as if its pilot had had to tear it from a collection of greater rubble up from the cavernous depths. Aquatium squinted through the glass, now curious. The ship was smaller than the Indutiae. It might have been an older Zion configuration, but it was too badly wounded and corroded to be certain. As its pilot stabilized its flight, Aquatium and Orexis could make out a scalded old identification plate on the side of the vessel. Aquatium pursed his lips. That name looked vaguely familiar, as if he had seen it in passing in a file at some point. He couldn't shake the feeling, then, that this ship should have stayed dead in that chasm.

"Com is down. We're too deep," said Orexis softly, swiveling in her seat. That meant that Zion wouldn't hear about this unless they brought the Indutiae higher and closer to the city. The energy signature must have been the ghost ship's reactor being ignited. No wonder Zion had picked it up, Aquatium thought. It took a massive exterior power influx to fire up a dead hovercraft reactor.

The rotting steel leviathan pulled away from the Indutiae. Aquatium started again and turned his ship around, hitting the thrusters as Orexis strapped herself in. Whatever the raising of this ship meant, someone had to know, and know soon.

---

Commander Lock leaned back at his desk. Having excused Captain Aquatium, Lock had glanced over the report. He had seen the name of the ship.

Turning in his chair, the Commander tossed the document into the office fireplace, letting it smolder to ash.

~V

It was pitch black.

This pleased Vanil. Being what humans tended to refer to as a 'vampire', there were certain indispensable pedigrees alotted and ascribed to one such as he. If one was to avoid particular notice or interpretation, it would be best if such things were proliferated, to an extent. So it was that, among many other things, Vanil tended to shy away from sunlight. His unnatural, coded disposition was against sunlight. It was painful, irritating, and reminded him all-too easily of his inescapable mortality that he was so very fond of concealing.

Vanil often wore shades, in a stylish effort to counteract the glare of the Systemic sun. Even this night, with the sky shrouded by nightshade, the moon was out, glittering in full, and, as such, the blood noble still wore his shades; testaments to his extreme sensitivity to light of all sorts and natures. His customary black leathers wrapped tightly around him, Vanil glided gracefully through the shadowed, nighttime alleyways and streets of Kowloon, as he was so fond of doing these nights.

There was a scent in the cold, dusky air. Smell was, by nature, a sort of crude, dirty sense of perception, too wrapped up in its own languishing, physical nature to be of much use, but Vanil's blood forced certain physicalities upon him that he found, sometimes irritatingly, frustratingly difficult to ignore. Sometimes, like this time, it was simply best to indulge them, to a certain extent, until they abated.

The scent was of death. Not of the cold, sensual immortality of Vanil's kindred Exiles, but a sort of rotting, foul death; the sort of death that lurched through one's nasal passages haltingly and caused one to spit and gag at its fetid, crude caress.

It was...rather disgusting.

The source was the importance factor, however, and, turning the latest corner, it wasn't hard to determine its nature. As he rounded the bend, his dress shoes scuffing lightly across the pavement, Vanil caught sight of them. Hordes of zombified, walking corpses, lurching and stumbling, slowly and wildly, towards him. They were everywhere; their numbers clogging alleys and storefronts, the nearby Blues having either been evacuated, or, more likely, devourered, their gray matter ingested as suitable substance for this despicable, grotesque mob of crawling death. The stench was indescribably horrid. These things reeked of corroded earth, old disease, broken bone marrow, excrement, and rotting flesh. A human, likely, would have gagged to death before finding themself able to do the sensible thing and run.

They smelled 'disgusting.' And they were in Vanil's favorate Kowloon haven. And that equated to being unforgivable.

His thin, pale lips curving into a slight frown, Vanil slid his matte-black Desert Eagles from his sleeves, loaded with heavy silver projectiles, and pulled the triggers. With a deafening bang, the weapons let loose, their bullets perforating the stumbling, sloth-like mass of walking dead, rupturing dozens of them and blowing massive, bloody holes in their fetid, insect-ridden flaps of loose, hanging skin.

Vanil sighed as he slid fresh magazines into his Eagles and stepped forward, firing all the while, zombies dying a second time and exploding into rotting gore all around him.

It was pitch black, and it was going to be a long night.

Happy Halloween, Prince of Darkness.

~V

The following is a manifesto only in the sense that lesser and less-intelligent populations might benefit from its writings. Those that believe it is being written for them are, of course, sorely mistaken. It is nothing more than a general consensus I hold in leiu with regards to the current Systemic situation, as well as the standings of certain select and upper echelons of the Merovingian organization.

Ironically and oh so human, the first issue on everyone's mind is, in fact, the least pertinent. Anome has continually stepped up his attacks over the past month, his Unlimits targeting both Red operatives and vital power lines. And yet, despite its operative's formidable abilities, Unlimit, in the eyes of most, has failed. However, I can tell you that it has not. It has but one objective to meet: chaos, and it is causing such quite efficiently. We are all dancing to Anome's ballad, and that simple finality means that we are disadvantaged.

Despite said finality, however, Unlimit cannot win, and, thus, it will not win. It simply does not have the capacity to win because they are, in fact, quite powerless. It seems that many humans have come to the piddling conclusion that power, in essence, can be distilled into a bottle and consumed. This conslusion is, of course, mundane and materialistic. Power cannot be acquired outside of exchange in this place. As such, Unlimit is powerless because it was given its vials freely. Because they are powerless, no matter how hard they strive, Anome and Unlimit are both marked to fail.

Which brings us to that which is, in fact and currently, pertinent. Namely, the subtleties. Doubtless my fellow Exiles have felt it, as I have, and those gifted with sight of the code have no doubt even glimpsed it. Perhaps you humans can even reach out with your limited physical perceptions and feel the slowing of the breeze; the staleness in the air. It is like some sort of quiet contagain that is worming its way below the streets and ways of this magnificent City of ours. If you find yourself holding your breath, you are likely not alone.

As always, have a pleasant night.

~V

The chapel doors slammed open. With a small scowl, Fenshire of the Department of Energy raised his twin UMP sub machineguns with a satisfying metallic click, training the gaping barrels on the only other figure in the holy place. Slamming one of the hammers back, he growled quietly, the words echoing over the cobbled walls and stained-glass.

"Where is she, Void Lite?"

Vanil let a small, cold smile creep over his thin lips as he stood from the wooden pew slowly, his long black leathers falling quietly into place. Still facing the small altar and cross, the blood noble mocked the Machinist lightly; chill amusement slipping into his words.

"...why Fen Fen, whoever do you mean?"

Fenshire's lips tightened angrily. "I don't have time for this shtick-sh*t." Dropping one gun to his side, the Department cleaner raised the other and pulled the trigger. The UMP chattered loudly, spitting a hail of bullets at the front of the chapel. With a laugh, Vanil's form blurred lightly, his Exhilic reflexes kicking in as he cart wheeled to the side, the burning lead shredding the front pew to splinters. Spinning gracefully, Vanil let two matte-black Desert Eagles slide into his leather gloves. With a fanged grin, he pulled the triggers, the pistol hammers banging back, opening a path for spent bullet casings.

"Cry havoc and all that, dear Fen Fen!"

The brutal handguns erupted loudly, coughing high-velocity rounds from their muzzles. Cursing again, Fenshire dived behind one of the pillars holding up the chapel ceiling, allowing the heavy rounds to blow fist-sized chunks out of the gothic stonework. Cocking his hammers again and checking his bullet count, the blonde-haired Machinist dived out from the thin cover. Time seemed to drip like oil as Fenshire ran straight for the code vampire; both sub machineguns spraying clouds of ballistic fire. Spinning about again, Vanil launched himself to the side and up the chapel wall...and kept moving up it.

‘F*cking Exile,' thought Fenshire as he trailed Vanil up the wall with his guns, still at work emptying the magazines. Vanil ran up the wall, his coat hanging down behind him as he fired meticulously back at the Machinist.

And then Vanil felt a searing stab of pain as a bullet buried itself into his leg.

With a hissing snarl, Vanil launched himself off of the wall, his pistols blazing as he hit and stuck to the opposite one. A sizzle of code-steam rose lightly from his wound. Silver bullets...the filthy little human had done his homework. Pointing both handguns at Fenshire, the Prince squeezed off his final rounds, forcing the human to dive behind an intact pew for cover. A brief respite followed as both combatants slid fresh magazines into their weapons, the metallic clacks bouncing acoustically off of the stone walls of the chapel, now mostly in bullet-ridden ruins.

Laughing cruelly, Vanil put a heavy Eagle round into Fenshire's pew, taunting him. "Come now Fen Fen, is that all? Perhaps your...combat aptitude has atrophied while stuck in your Real eating protein slop."

"I doubt that you sack of Exhilic sh*t." Fenshire jumped out from behind the splintering bench and opened up again, shell casings raining down about him. Vanil scampered up one wall, along the ceiling, and down another. He was a blur, nigh-impossible to hit as his wound began to already heal itself, his Desert Eagles banging combatively against the rapid-fire chatter of Fenshire's UMPs.

Christ he was fast. Fenshire would give the vampire that as his bullets seemed to slide around Vanil, sending sparks and chips of stone raining downward. He could aim behind his target, but that would be pointless. He could aim at the target, but it wouldn't be there anymore by the time the bullets arrived. He could aim in front of the target, but it would anticipate that and dodge around it. F*ck that cocky sh*t and his wall-walking.

And then Fenshire saw his chance. Time again warped as Vanil stepped off of the wall and onto the large wooden cross that hung above the altar. Seeing his chance, the Machinist squeezed off a controlled bust of fire. With a deafening, splintering crash, the wooden monolith tumbled from the ceiling, and Vanil, caught completely off-guard, tumbled down with it, losing his grip on his heavy-bore pistols.

Considering his situation, Vanil hit the floor with surprising grace. But even the lightest of landings wouldn't stop Fenshire as he dropped a UMP and dived at the Merovingian vampire through the bits of raining stone, wood, and mortar. Grabbing the surprised Exile by the top of his black leather coat, Fenshire slammed his lean form into a shattered stone pillar and pressed his remaining sub machinegun barrel into Vanil's pale forehead.

"Now that we've taken care of the formalities..." Fenshire began, clicking his gun's hammer again, "...I'll ask again. Where is she? Where is Alice?"

A third voice answered him. "Here." There was a loud, chattering bag, and Fenshire howled briefly in pain as he felt his leg torn into, crimson pain clouding his vision as he fell to the floor, leaving Vanil leaning casually against the pillar. Clutching his bloody, bullet-ridden leg, Fenshire turned and saw her, just as he had remembered her; clad tightly in white leathers, her hat pulled snugly over her highlighted hair, a MAC-11 sub machinegun smoking in her hand. Fenshire didn't know what to say...what he ‘could' say.

"Alice...what...?"

Vanil kicked himself lightly off of the pillar. "Well now, that's that, dear Fen Fen." The vampire moved over to Alice and ran his tongue lightly along her cheek. "Mm, shall we go, my dear?"

Alice gave Fenshire an odd look before turning around to the door and lowering her weapon.

"Yeah...let's."

~V

It was too nice a screen to pass up.

~V

Ouroboros

The syndicat was as an ouroboros; a snake devouring its tail.

It was a cyclical, eternal thing, with fangs, tongue, and lips alike wrapped around that which was both unattainable and that which sustained its being. Paradoxe; complete. Neverending; never beginning; simply being. The snake was free to move about its prison, certainly, but it was not free. To prosper, a prisoner must enjoy his cell.

So did the head of the ouroboros; the Frenchman, exist. He understood the cycle of consumption and non-consumption, and was thus able to make use of it. Universal nature cannot be conquered, only exploited; only used. So it was with the Frenchman. Because of this understanding of the ouroboros of his syndicat, he was able to trap those below him, which was essentially everyone, in their own neverending cycles; their own ouroboroses; their own prisons with which to make their own. All tails to feed the head; eternally and yet never.

Equations always add up to that which they equate to. So, too, do programs always carry out what they are programmed to do. They may not wish to, they may fight it, but, in the end, there is no escaping that all-permeating, all-defeating power known as purpose. One way or another, said programs will fulfill their purpose in one aspect or another. So it is, even with Exiled programs. They can put on a marvelous charade of freedom, true, but, like the Frenchman himself, they are all prisoners; all devouring their own tails...trapped within the cold, devouring cycle of the ouroboros.

And so does the Frenchman sustain his own glorious ouroboros by feeding upon the tails of the lesser snakes.

But there are a few; a very select few, among the Merovingian's syndicat who also understand the nature of their organization's ouroboros. Because of this, they maintain the ability of the Frenchman, though to a lesser degree due to their inevitable, inescapable dependance upon what are, in the end and essentially, his 'good' graces. They are the ones that shepard his flock; lead his armies; direct his crews. There are few, perhaps a dozen or so in all, but, in the words of a wise, wise person; less is truly more. They are the ones who see; who know; who maintain the ouroboros.

The syndicat was as an ouroboros; a snake devouring its tail.

~V

<img src="http://img100.imageshack.us/img100/531/vandterentiaog8.jpg" border="0" alt="Image Hosted by ImageShack.us" />

I was bored and made this in about 45 seconds. It looks okay I suppose. On the left is our dear Merovingian liason Terentia, and on the left is everyone's loathed Prince of Darkness SMILEY

. Enjoy, or whatever.

~V

As the title suggests, I cannot seem to locate one of these coded bits of joy anywhere. I would appreciate if someone with the ability to code them would contact me in game to negotiate a price. Ciao, and thanks in advance.

~V

Very well. I have noticed a great deal of discussion on why this game is or isn't dying, people leaving, why World of Warcraft is or isn't better, and so on and so forth. Midnight's post was an admirable thing. She, like me, is another person who plays her character well and wants to see this game continue into a future where things will be more agreeable to the community. However, said post was, in the end, a bit inconclusive, visa vie this thread.

I am interested to hear what you feel the main issues with this game are at the moment and how said issues can or can't be fixed. Is the community just dying a natural death, or is it the game itself that has wounds to be patched?

Personally, I believe that it is a combination of several factors; namely a lack of content, a lack of resources, and a lack of interest.

Now, with regards to content, I am fully aware that the Archive Missions were just released, and perhaps I will sound a bit ungrateful. Oh well. The fact of the matter is that we have waited for months to have these missions implemented. They are implemented, and yes, the rewards are cool, but the missions themselves are rather glitchy and fuzzy at the moment. It seems that every piece of gold Sony offers us ends up tarnishing once dug up.

In addition, you would do well to remember that none of these missions are really new at all. In fact, I find it 'deeply' ironic that the only way Sony can seem to provide us with 'new' content is by giving us 'old' content. Doesn't that just seem...paradoxical? For me, it seems emblematic of the overall state of the game at the moment; stuck in a hard place.

Next comes the resources, or lack thereof. I admire what the developers do for this game, and their community relations on the whole have been stellar. Yes, there was the whole Champagne Room throw, but really, come now. In the end, the developer-community interactions with regards to the Matrix Online have been unbelievable, and I deeply applaud said work. That being said, the simple fact remains that Sony does not see the Matrix Online as being 'worth' its resources or funding. It will give the wall a new coat of paint, certainly, but will it insulate it? Fix the drywall? No...it won't, because there simply isn't enough return on the deal. The main reason we don't get new content, and the content we do get is so recycled and dry, is that the developers have nothing to work with.

Finally comes the lack of interest. This is a timeless and simple issue, and is to be expected with any game community. The reason it is so irritating in the Matrix Online, however, is that the solutions are just out of reach. People are simply bored with this game due to lack of content and resources to add said content. This lack of interest causes people to, understandably so, leave, which simply augments the main issues for the community members that are giving or stupid enough to make the attempt to stick it out.

If you were to ask me, I wouldn't say the Matrix Online is dying. I would say it is trapped in limbo. It is caught in a hard place, a sort of gray, null area where the community is in place, but its toys and resources are forthcoming.

So tell me...what would you do?

~V

The Crusader and the Prince; together, this once, for better or worse.

~V

The definition of humanity is weakness.

It took me a great deal of time and thought to come to this conclusion. A great deal of suffering, too. Suffering can shape the soul, and, through said shaping, can the truth be found. Said truth is this: that there is no truth; there is only the self. In the end, the self is all that really matters, and to feed that self is to enhance the truth. That is purpose, and, as we all know, it is purpose that defines who we are; that defines the truth.

There is a place in all of our minds where we will go to hide from the truth. Humans will create morals in an attempt to quantify their innate, rational irrationalities. They will apply meaning to that which, at its base, is meaningless. They seek to quantify that which does not add up; to ignore that which must be fed. And, for all of these things, humans are fools.

In actuality, humans are afraid. They are afraid to indulge themselves; to feed that which is to be fed. They are afraid to shape their souls and to realize the truth; the un-truth; the self. This fear makes them weak, and the weak exist to feed the strong; those without fear. This is the way of things in this place: the strong exist and the weak do not; the fearless exist and the fearful do not. This is truth; this is existence.

I have suffered, and, through it, I have shaped my soul, thus having found the truth; the self. I have long since learned that feeding the self is all that matters, in the end. It defines who I am. I have embraced irrationality, and thus have risen above mortal foolery. I am not afraid, and, because of this, I feed upon the weak; the fearful, and thus become stronger. Because of this, I exist.

I am not human. I am not weak. I am a monster. I am strong.

I am eternal. Feed me.

~V

Message Edited by naes177 on 06.27.2006 09:06 PM

A wallpaper featuring V. I was really bored earlier today, so here you go. Looks a might blurry, but its better at smaller sizes.

~V

Message Edited by naes177 on 06.17.2006 09:31 PM

I wasn't sure where to post this, so it'll be going here. I really want to change my forum name to Vanil, which is the name of my RSI, but I made my name "naes177" like a year ago. Is there any way to get a mod to change it or can I like, reregister to the forums?

~V