The young boy lay on the concrete floor completely motionless. One would have thought he was dead until he stirred and groaned. Fighting the urge to collapse, he lifted himself to his feet, supporting himself on a nearby crate. As his vision began to clear, he noticed that he was in a pitch dark room filled with boxes and various other objects. He saw a trapdoor and heard muffled sounds coming from below. He was in some sort of attic.

The boy glanced back at the spot where he had been lying and saw a five-point star inscribed in a circle. Crude letters were scratched over the pentagram, spelling the word "AZRAEL." The boy whispered it to himself, feeling the word, tasting it. It was a name. His name.

The trapdoor squeaked. Azrael dropped behind the box and drew a pistol he hadn't known he had.

Two men stalked in, one with a pair of pistols at his waist, the other with a sub-machine gun hanging from a strap on his shoulder. One pointed at the symbol. "There it is. Right where the boss said it would be."

"Well, where's the program, then?"

"It has to be around here somewhere." He drew his two pistols as his companion grasped his sub-machine gun.

Taking careful aim, Azrael shot the man with the sub-machine gun in the chest. The man with the pistols wheeled around and fired off four shots. Azrael ducked behind the boxes and fired two shots.

The man jumped onto the ceiling and began leaping from wall to wall. Azrael tried to fire at him, but the man was too fast. He would leap away from the wall right before the bullet hit the concrete.Azrael tried to adjust, but it was impossible to tell which way he could go, and Azrael thought he saw him change directions in midair. Soon Azrael's pistol ran out of ammo. He shoved the weapon back into its holster.

The man hopped into the air and braced his legs against the wall like a swimmer. He sprung through the air, one arm raised for a devastating punch. At the last moment, Azrael ducked and, as the man flew over him, he jumped up and rammed his shoulder into his body, shattering his breastbone and several ribs. The man was blasted into the ceiling, blew several cracks into the concrete, and dropped back to the floor, quite dead.

Azrael was small and not at all muscular. He realized that it was physically impossible for him to slam that man all the way up to the ceiling. But as he contemplated this, a soft voice began singing. The notes flowed softly through his body, relaxing him and bringing back the tiredness he had felt when he first awoke. Finally, he dropped.

XXXXX

Azrael awoke in a large, luxurious bedroom. His bed had soft silken sheets and a high roof with curtains. Two large windows covered by white curtains flanked the bed. His empty pistol lay in its holster on a large oaken writing desk.

As if on cue, a man entered the room. "Get dressed," he said. "One hour before you go to Hel."

"If I'm going to Hell, why wait an hour and why get dressed? Why not just shoot me right now?" asked Azrael. The man simply laughed and walked out of the room.

An hour later, two men came and led Azrael to an elevator. One pushed a red button marked "HEL." Only one "L". Interesting.

The elevator stopped at what seemed to be an underground garage. At the end was a door guarded by four large bouncers. Azrael's escorts led him through the door. "Have fun," they said before wandering off, leaving him alone in the middle of the strange place.

Itwas some kind of club. Correction, it was a mass orgy of techno music, bondage, S&M, bisexual women, and leather costumes with spikes. Azrael felt completely lost. What was he supposed to do?

Azrael skirted the dance floor, exploring but not really looking for anything. Someone caught his eye. In contrast to the skimpy, sleazy costumes of the partiers, this man wore a well-pressed, expensive black suit and tie. His hair was red and receding slightly. He stood motionless at the wall and his sunglasses kept Azrael from knowing where he was looking. Still, he was more approachable than the other characters in the club.

"Hi. You wouldn't happen to know who's in charge here, would you?"

Without a word, the man in the suit led him up a high flight of stairs to a large balcony crowded with the strangest assortment of people in the world including a dirty hobo off the streets and a pair of albino twins in white suits and blond dreadlocks. But most interesting were the two people on the couch, who were obviously the leaders.

"Who are you?" asked Azrael.

The man shifted on the couch, a small smile forming on his refined face. "I should ask ze same of you," he said with a French accent. "In fact, I believe I will. Who are you?"

"Azrael."

The man paused, as if expecting him to continue. "Zat is it? Just a one-word answer? 'Azrael' is only a name, just a label some fool slaps onto you. Who you are is more zan a name, my boy. What do you do? Zat is what matters. What are you doing, and what have you done? You awoke in this world only, what, a few hours ago, no? You have done nozzing. Zerefore, you stand before me as nozzing."

"Nice speech. Now who the hell are you?"

"Ah, I am ze Merovingian. I control various programs exiled into ze Matrix. Programs like you and ze Siren. I believe you have already met."

The Merovingian nodded to someone behind Azrael. Behind him stood a beautiful woman with pale skin, bright blue eyes, and shining silver hair. She wore an unornamented white gown that stood out so much in this place thatAzrael was surprised he hadn't noticed her before.

"And you have been enchanted by her wondrous melodies, no? You know what I am talking about. Zat is what ze Siren does, you see. She shuts zings down, eizer temporarily or permanently. She could have put you to sleep or killed you."

"Why did you pick the former rather than the latter?"

"Same reason I did not have Monsieur Brown killed," he said, nodding towards the man in the suit and sunglasses. "I can make you useful. You may be nozzing now, but I can make you somezing."

Azrael nodded before turning to the tanned, black-haired woman who sat next to the Merovingian. She had an upturned, refined quality to her and payed little attention to what was happening in front of her. She had been silent and did not intend to change that. "You've been pretty quiet. Who are you?"

"Persephone, my wife," the Merovingian said curtly. He said nothing about what she did. By Azrael's reasoning, that meant he did not care about who Persephone was.

"The Queen of the Underworld," said Azrael. He smirked. "And married to Hades, of course." Azrael was pleased to see a tiny smile appear on her face for a second. The Merovingian simply gave Azrael a dirty look before deciding it wasn't worth his time to respond.

"Take out your gun," the Merovingian said suddenly. Azrael drew out the empty pistol and laid it on the table before him. The Merovingian took it and examined it. "A truly fine weapon. What kind of gun is it?"

"Heckler & Koch USP Elite .45 Auto," Azrael said without thinking.

"Where did you hear zat?" asked the Merovingian. Azrael shrugged.

"Now, what kind of program possesses such knowledge of a gun as if preprogrammed from birth? And can defeat two of my strongest men before he takes his first steps out into ze world? Hm? I believe we have an insight into who you are. Or rahzer who you are meant to be."

XXXXX

My first Matrix fic. Please review.