(no subject)
TITLE: Shadow Over Valinor (2/7)
FANDOM: Lord of the Rings/The Matrix
RATING: Not for young uns.
NOTES: Chapter one can be found here. I maintain the blame of this particular fic must be directed at none other than The_Gentleman. Of course, with a bit of additional blame being tossed in the direction of Twospotz, who found the idea so amusing, she prompted me to work on it and then it became painfully feasible and now, will be a seven chapter series which won’t leave me alone. And she’s illustrating it, whether she wants to or not. Ha!
Once more, I must beg forgiveness from Tolkien and the Wachowski brothers. And please pardon my mind. It’s frightening.
____________________________________________
Perhaps, the system of the Matrix had an amusing sense of irony. Perhaps not. Even so the jagged lightning that ripped across the night sky, which was lashed with sheets of dull grey rain, seemed to mark the air with foreboding.
In the topmost room of the apartment block in the middle of Tel Aviv, a black-haired youth - clad in scruffy denim clothing and a baseball cap - fidgeted uncomfortably in a chair.
He was held under the steady gaze of a dark, mysterious man, who seemed to carry an air of authority and power about him, although the youth couldn’t be certain that he was being watched due to the reflective black shades.
Another potential for freeing.
Like so many others, the young man had been seeking out the answer to a question that he didn’t truly understand. All that he knew was that it was a question he felt he had to as and that this man, the infamous Morpheus, could provide the answers.
He had been trying, time upon time, to find Morpheus.
When the ‘terrorist’ had been seen in his home city, less than a year before, he had tried to find the enigma that was the man, only to find - the next day - that Morpheus had already moved on.
Now, though, Reuben Ibrahim - also known as Micro - was seated before the man who could very well be classed as his Idol, ready to listen to all that Morpheus had to say and learn all he could from him.
That is, if he didn’t immediately flee from the man’s presence, the sheer charisma and force of overwhelming personality filling the towering walls of the gloomy, dust-marked room.
Sharp blades of buttery-yellow light from a flickering street lamp outside of the window cast angular shadows on the man’s distinctive features, making him seem all the more mysterious.
Morpheus was seated in the broad leather chair that he favoured for his encounters with those he wished to assess for potential freeing from the Matrix, his fingers steepled before his chest, his face an expressionless mask.
A woman stood to the left of the chair, one hand resting on the back, closest to the massive mantle. She was aloof, her features cool, revealing nothing to the man in the chair before them.
To the right, another man stood.
To the potential, he was the epitome of cool.
Younger than Morpheus, his skin was almost whiter than was natural, his hair dark and slicked back from his lean features. His posture, the way his head was canted, the neutral expression combined with the floor-length black coat and gleaming black shades made him strangely awe-inspiring to look at.
He appeared to be the kind of man who was unfazed by anything that happened, even in a worst case scenario.
"You know why you have been brought here tonight, Micro," Morpheus’ voice was everything that Micro had expected. Deep. Controlled. Full of conviction. "I know you have been looking for me. For us."
"Us?" Micro echoed, glancing at the other two in question. The woman raised her chin slightly, the younger man inclining his head.
"You have probably heard of my associates," Morpheus unfurled a hand gracefully in the direction of the woman. "Trinity," The gesture was mimicked in the direction of the man. "and Neo."
Reuben Ibrahim felt the colour seeping from his cheeks. Trinity. He knew that name well. It was one of the first he had looked into, when he had become ‘Micro’. As for Neo… all he knew was that the name was now legendary in hacker circles.
"I see you recognise their names," Morpheus continued, the suggestion of a smile playing once more on his lips. "As you can see, this is no game. You know who we are and I can say, without doubt, that we know who you are and why you are here."
"Yeah…" the youth said, his voice low. Beads of sweat were pricking on his brows, his hands shaking. "Yeah. I-I’ve been trying to find you all… well, you especially… for years…"
Mopheus smiled, which showed a genuine curve of amusement on his lips. "We know," he said, lower his hands from before his chest. "And we know that you want to see everything we have to show you, but the question is are you ready?"
"R-ready to see? I-I think so."
"And you know that there would be no going back, if you accept this offer, do you not?" Morpheus’ voice was even. Micro nodded once, catching a motion out of the corner of his eye.
Neo.
The younger man was looking around, his head jerking rapidly from one direction to the other, as if trying to track an insect that was buzzing around him. A line appeared between his brows, his expression tightening.
"I-I…" Micro found himself staring at Neo, wondering what was causing him to act in such a way, his attention apparently redirecting the attentions of both of Neo’s companions to him.
One of Neo’s hands snapped up, locking onto the back of the massive chair, his knuckles whitening to the point of bone ripping through skin. It almost appeared that his legs buckled beneath him, a gasp escaping him.
"Neo!" Trinity was around the chair in a heartbeat, an arm around Neo’s body, holding him upright.
"Shit…" The whisper fell from lips that were growing whiter by the moment. A pale hand reached up to grip the woman’s shoulders, as if a lifeline, Morpheus rising smoothly from the chair to shield Neo from Micro’s sight.
"Neo?"
"We have to get him out," the woman hissed. "Now."
Morpheus’ back and the flaring spread of his coat was obscuring the younger man from Micro’s viewpoint, but from what he could see, Neo was on his knees on the ground, unable to even answer for himself.
"Take him to the connection," he ordered in a low voice, though not low enough to be unheard. "I will be with you in a moment."
"Hurry," Trinity’s voice was urgent.
Turning back to the potential, Morpheus inclined his head. "As you can see, Micro, not everything is simple when it comes to our world. We have difficulties, as will you. This is not an easy choice to make." Micro nodded automatically, but his eyes were on Neo, who was being half-carried, half-dragged from the room by the woman. "We shall leave you to consider for now, but we will contact you again."
"When?"
Morpheus smiled again, although it was more forced than it had been before.
"Soon," was all he said, before he seemed to glide through the door that the others had just disappeared through, the panel of wood shutting silently behind him, leaving Reuben Ibrahim sitting alone in the chamber, wondering what had happened.
***
Smith felt strangely… satisfied by the progress of his plan.
Th so-called Elf Lord had been adequately broken. He had felt the ripple begin and knew that it would have built enough momentum, travelling through the system, to strike at Mr. Anderson with the force of a tidal wave.
It was only a matter of time, he knew.
That, of course, was when there was a minor malfunction in the plan.
A savage blow from behind struck by something he did not even register, catching him without warning. It had been so long since such a thing had happened that Smith was actually almost surprised.
Most often, he would feel the tremor of the system, granting him warning. Not this time, though. How very curious.
The force with which it struck him actually caused him to stagger a step, dislodging his glasses. One hand automatically reached up and straightened them, before Smith reassumed his standard stance, stiffening his back.
Turning quickly, much more so than a mere human, he found a tall man standing there. He was not alone, surrounded closely by an assembly of the ‘Elves’, every one of whom was armed.
Interesting.
Taking a moment to study his assailant, who was armed with a staff and clad in white. He looked ancient and, since he was locked in the system of Valinor, it suggested he was among the ancient people who lived in that world.
His features bore an age that Smith would have placed in his latter years, beyond middle age by over a decade. They were worn and - Smith supposed - would be qualified as wise. White hair and a white beard hung to his waist.
However, there was a fire in his bright blue eyes, an expression that Smith could match to those of someone else who was close to the surface on his memory.
Mr. Anderson.
Well, well… how intriguing.
In the human heartbeat it took for the man to take up an attack stance, Smith had searched through the files of his programme’s hard drive and downloaded all possible information about the man before him.
One side of Smith’s mouth twisted slightly.
How very ironic fate was.
So this man had also been an anomaly in his world?
Almost an ancient version of Mr. Anderson standing before him.
An anomaly who, like Anderson, had defeated the Sentient programme in his own world, when those Sentient Programmes had been larger and much more supernatural and imposing - and, Smith added with a touch of cynicism, obvious - than they looked now.
So, the information all seemed to say one thing: in order to trap one anomaly, Smith had unintentionally rekindled the force of another, who had been stored in a sideline system, where he no longer mattered as he had never realised his true potential.
The fact that he had defeated one of the Sentient Programmes should have told him enough, but part of him was still so deeply ingrained within the system that even his body forcing itself to resurrection had seemed acceptable and normal.
And apparently, he had remained connected into the world without any idea of the potential power he held.
How delightfully amusing.
Yet, simply by reacting to Smith’s present, this anomaly’s own abilities would instigate another wave in the system, potentially enough to tip the balance enough to get Mr. Anderson’s attention, if his initial plan failed.
Smith smiled slightly.
Really, the world was full of surprises.
"Mr. Olórin," he murmured, his lips shifting into a cold smile. He straightened the front of his suit, which had been left rumpled by the old man’s attack. One hand fastidiously smoothed his lapel. "Thank you. You have provided me with assistance I did not expect."
Bracing his staff in his right hand, a sword in his left, the man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Leave this place," he said in a voice that, if jovial, might have sounded pleasant. "You are not welcome here."
"And I suppose you are going to… make me depart?" Smith sneered.
He was aware of a few of the Elves edging around him, hidden in the shadows and the edges of the forest, all of them no doubt trying to reach Mr. Half-Elven to offer him some kind of pitiful human aid.
Before him, the man of a hundred names tilted his head. "If I have to, I will do what is necessary," he said coldly.
"I suppose it would only be fitting," Smith commented, removing his dark glasses, folding them, his eyes on the lenses as he tucked them into his breast pocket. "For the death of one anomaly to serve as a trap for another." He tilted his head slightly. "Irony is such a… fascinating term."
"If you expect me to fear you," the man said. "Then you are grievously mistaken. I have fought your kind before, although in another form."
Smith’s brow arched.
So this man recognised what he was and could see that he was created by the same system, which had caused his ‘death’ so many years earlier? Perhaps, then, he was more like Mr. Anderson than Smith had given him credit for.
"You know what I am?" he observed.
"I know that you are not of this world," the old man replied evenly. "And I feel a great force of evil in you that I have only ever felt in one other." His chin lifted a little higher. "One whom I slew. I defeated it. I can defeat you."
Had Smith been cursed with a sense of humour, he would probably have laughed at the futility of the man’s very human attitude. However, he did not, so he sated himself by tilting his head to one side, then the other, his neck cracking.
"I do believe I am going to enjoy this, Mr. Olórin," he said coldly. His hands flexed by his sides and he inclined his head.
The blow came fast, but still, the man was only human.
Both sword and staff were used in equal measures, one rapid spin and twist sending Smith’s only solid weapon, his revolver, spinning from his hand and rattling across the stone of the surroundings.
Reaching into the core of the system, he found his immediate access to further weapons inexplicably blocked. So these long-lived ones could control their world to a small extent?
No matter.
So it was to be hand to hand combat, was it?
Very well.
Blocking it and the attacks which followed, however, was not as easy as Smith had initially expected. Fighting the old man, armed while Smith was not, caused a ripple in his memory.
The blade and staff were used to great effect and Smith felt his borrowed body bruising, breaking under the blows, which were reversed even before they were completed to double-strike on both sides in the time it would take an average man to strike once.
Smith felt the beginnings of consternation. The fight was far too similar to that which he had fought with Mr. Anderson, the aged man’s speed and power increasing with every minute the fight progressed.
It was, however, different in a single respect and that was that Mr. Anderson had fought alone.
Mr. Olórin did not, clearly aware of the danger he could be in, if he did not have the support of others. The ‘Elves’ surrounding them seemed to instinctively know when to launch their own weapons at Smith, their speed and accuracy far surpassing that of normal humans.
It rapidly became abundantly clear to Smith, as one rapidly arrow after another lodged themselves in his borrowed digital form, that he underestimated the abilities of the collective of the inhabitants of Valinor.
Apparently, their long lives had also gifted them with some abilities usually only attributed to anomalies, including that which gave them the capability to manipulate their surroundings to some extent, making them seem faster and more skilled than an average human would.
While Smith would have been satisfied to remain and examine the concept in closer detail, the ninth arrow striking him in the back suggested that terminating his connection with the world for the present would be the more intelligent option.
Reaching out briefly, he was irritated to observe that in the fray, Mr. Anderson had not reacted as expected.
Apparently, instead of immediately running to the rescue as he was prone to do, the anomaly with whom Smith was more familiar had been cowardly and logged out of the system during Smith’s fight with Mr. Olórin and the Elven people.
Disappointing. Very disappointing.
Another bolt lancing into his body captured his attention once more. Yes, he knew, it was time to depart from this world. If Mr. Anderson logged in again, Smith knew the man would know about the world where he stood now. If he attempted to access it, Smith knew he would be aware of it.
So, he had to wait.
Time meant nothing to him. Patience was everything.
Locating his connection opening, Smith merged out of the world’s drive without further comment or battle, loading himself back into the equivalent of the machines’ all-encompassing motherboard.
Yes. He would wait.
***
"Oh God!"
Tank, the ship’s operator nearly swore in pain when Neo’s hand grappled his bare arm, tight as a vice, Neo wrenching in the seat in front of him, his eyes wide. "Neo! Easy, buddy! What is it?"
Unable to voice his reply, Neo all but hurled himself from the operations chair as soon as the connection plug was withdrawn from his skull, an acid stream of vomit spewing from his lips.
Folding his arms across his stomach, his breath wheezing in his throat, the dark-haired man rocked back and forth, shaking violently, words running from his lips in a liquid mantra. "Oh God… oh God…. Oh God…"
Tank rapidly moved onto Trinity, where she still half-sat, ready to emerge from the system, knowing if anyone could get Neo back on his feet, it was the woman. Hitting the computer panels, he rapidly unplugged her.
"Tank?"
Tank nodded sharply down to the floor, where Neo was still shivering violently. "I think this is your area of expertise, Trin," he said, stepping back as she launched herself off the seat.
She was on her knees beside her lover in a heartbeat, uncaring of the grid biting into her skin, her arms around him tightly. "I’m here, Neo, I’m here. It’s okay…" she whispered over and over, pressing her lips to his brow. "It’s okay…"
"What the hell happened in there?" Tank demanded, as he unplugged Morpheus, the leader of the group swinging rapidly off his seat and joining Trinity beside the panting, choking Neo.
"We don’t know," Morpheus replied, going down on one knee, one hand on Neo’s heaving shoulder. His face lifted to Tank and, for the first time in months, Tank could see fear and anxiety marring their Leader’s strong features, something which worried the operator even more than seeing Neo down.
Trinity’s lips were little more than a thin line, her eyes intently on her lover’s face, which was chalk-white, even paler than usual. His dark eyes were wide, darting about in every direction, as if he was having difficulty seeing, one of his hands reaching up to cling to her, like she was the only thing keeping him sane.
"Oh God… how…? How could they…? What the hell was that…? How?" Neo’s voice was rough, barely even audible, a litany of questions streaming the one over the other as he sank against his lover. "How...? What the hell...?"
"Neo?" she murmured, wrapping her arm around him, drawing him to her chest and pressing her cheek against the top of his head. "Neo, can you hear me? It’s okay… it’s gonna be okay…"
"No," Neo rasped, shaking his head. Doubling over again, more sour-smelling fluid spilled from his lips, spattering loudly on the gridwork and the metal beneath. "It’s not okay," he panted raggedly. "Oh God…" His head sagged down, as if he lacked the strength to feel hold it upright. "I could feel it… I could feel…"
"Feel what?" Trinity asked softly, her features wrought with concern, one hand framing his face, forcing him to look at her. The pain in his eyes made her recoil, unsolicited tears sliding from his eyes that seemed sightless. "Oh God, Neo…" she whispered, holding him all the more securely. "What is it?"
"Pain," he replied, his voice raw. "So much pain. Like the whole world was being torn apart around me." Dark brown eyes, liquid with agony, stared frantically up at her. "Something’s wrong. Something big. And it wasn’t an accident."
***
His blue eyes closed, Olórin leaned heavily upon his staff, his own grief and sadness etched in his very posture, his gait once more that of a man weighed down by the troubles of an eternity of pain.
He had been too late.
His friends, the Firstborns, had called upon him for aid in their hour of need, an hour they had never imagined would come to pass in Valinor, and he had arrived to late to provide anything but belated defence for them.
The enemy, he knew, was more powerful than anything he had faced alone, powerful in a way that no mortal could be. Only one battle had ever drawn so much from him: his encounter with the Balrog in Khazad-dûm. Thankful he had been for his allies aiding him on this occasion.
Even so, it had proved in vain and their foe had not been vanquished.
Instead, he had appeared to melt away, vanishing before their very eyes, leaving the fallen form of his long time friend and ally, Lord Elrond Half-Elven, lying in a pool of blood before them.
It had been the image Olórin had never contemplated seeing, especially not in the haven of Valinor. Haven. That was what Valinor was meant to be. A place of peace and tranquillity where the Elves were to live out their eternities without hurt or pain.
A Haven that was no longer safe.
Olórin’s eyes slowly opened and he looked down at the sight before him, the lance of pain to his heart more potent than the keenest of blades, as he watched the healers aid his fallen friend.
Laid upon his bed, stripped of his torn robes, the Elf Lord was motionless, his features as still as if they had been graven from marble. Lord Elrond had been sorely damaged, his body torn and defiled by the intruder in a way that the ancient Maia had only ever seen Orcs and worst of mankind inflict on others.
The greatest of the Elven Healers had surrounded him and had been fighting against the shadows that were closing about him, using all of their abilities to save their friend and Lord.
Close to the bed, the evening twilight playing upon her features through the intricate and elaborate twists that decorated the windows, Celebrían stood in silence, her hands folded before her, tears streaming down her lovely face for her husband’s pain.
It rekindled the memory for Olórin of the Elf woman’s time in Middle earth. She had been captured and harmed as gravely as her husband had now, only she had been able to depart the squalor of the world of Men to take her rest in the security of Valinor, a security her husband would be unable to seek.
There was no doubt of it, Olórin knew.
Elrond’s light would gradually fade and there was no place that he could go which would allow him the protection and security that Valinor was meant to have granted them for all eternity.
Already, the dark Elf Lord seemed diminished.
It pained Olórin more than he could bear to see such a thing. Even more so, simply because Valinor should not have allowed such a thing. What, he wondered, had lead to this destruction of their Haven? Why had such a thing been allowed to happen?
The world was changing, changing in a way that it should not have and it was a matter of great concern for the ancient Maia. For so long, he had believed that peace had finally come to them.
Now, he could see that he was and always had been wrong and that nowhere, not even the Haven of Valinor, was safe.
***
"What’s he doing?"
Standing in the doorway that led to the cabins of the Nebuchadnezzer, Morpheus didn’t even look around as Trinity stepped alongside him, glancing over his shoulder at her lover, where he was sitting at the computer consoles. She had apparently just woken, her eyes ringed with shadow, her hair mussed about her face.
"He is still searching for the source of the pain, which affected him yesterday," he replied quietly, his arms folded over his chest. Tilting his head slightly, he looked down at her. "He didn’t join you, did he?"
Trinity self-consciously rubbed her right arm, the patched sweater rustling against her skin. "He said he had to work on it," she said, her brow furrowed. "I-I didn’t hear him come in. I don’t think he’s left the station all night."
"He feels he must find the origin of the pain."
"I know," Trinity sighed, raising a hand to push back an errant strand of hair, the lights casting a pale blue wash over her features. "But surely if it was that strong, he wouldn’t be able to help that many people."
Morpheus’ eyes closed for several minutes. "Whatever caused such a fierce reaction in him must have meant a powerful surge from a large area, but Neo insists that it was centrally the pain of one individual. For such pain to be felt…"
"That person must be connected differently, in a way that means that they can be felt when anyone else wouldn’t even cause the slightest tremor," Trinity finished, licking her suddenly dry lips nervously at the implications. "How would it be possible?"
Morpheus looked at her. "I have often wondered," he said neutrally. "If the machines had found some way to develop humans. It would be simpler for them to control and adapt us, if we could be maintained…"
"Genetic manipulation?"
"Precisely."
The woman shook her head. "I hadn’t even thought about it."
Morpheus turned his eyes straight ahead once more. "I have. We know that they had to develop a second Matrix, because their first was flawed. How do we know what else they have done with humans in that time?"
A sickened feeling rose in Trinity’s throat at the thought. "Would it be possible?"
"Who can say?" Morpheus replied, his head bowing slightly. "We do not even know how long our world has been in their control. They may have had us for an eternity, maybe only a few hundred years. Anything could be possible."
"I got it!" Neo’s voice was rasping, dry, barely even audible. Swinging the seat around, he stared - hollow-eyed - at them, his face dusted with dark stubble, pools of shadow beneath his eyes. He was pointing at one of the screens. "I found it."
Moving forward, Trinity and Morpheus joined him by the consoles, staring in awe at the location he had discovered. Even though it was merely code, the detail and intricacy of it was beautiful to look at.
"That’s it?"
"Yeah," Neo rasped, tapping the screen, leaning heavily on the metal lip of the console desk. "This is the place. Right here. Weird thing, though. Got no connections to anywhere."
"None?" Trinity leaned in closer, studying the screen. "None at all?"
Shaking his head, Neo ran a hand over his eyes. "Nothing," he replied, leaning back in the chair, bringing both hands up to cover his face as he exhaled. "It’s almost like someone wanted to shove this place away from the rest of the world and just forget about it."
"Almost as if it were some kind of storage area for something that could not be involved elsewhere in the world," Morpheus observed quietly, both hands braced on the back of the chair.
"You mean that these people couldn’t fit in anywhere else?" Trinity seemed to be catching up with his train of thought, revelation marked on her face. "People who had been… adapted to suit the machines?"
"They’re freaks of human nature," Neo added, his voice exhausted. "Look at the codes we got on them…" He tapped into one of the screens, moving down onto the occupants of the system, pointing one out. "Much more elaborate than anything I’ve ever seen in there. They’re too different to fit in with normal people, but must be too useful for the machines to just be flushed."
Trinity nodded, one hand squeezing Neo’s shoulder. "You’re sure this is where the output came from?"
He nodded stiffly. "Positive," he replied. "And I know I gotta get in there."
"Perhaps that would not be a wise idea," Morpheus countered.
Dark brown eyes rose to the older man. "Screw wise, Morpheus," he said succinctly. "Something happened in there and I wanna know what the hell it was so I can stop it from happening again."
"Do you even know anything about this world? How do you know that you would not be walking into a trap?"
Neo shook his head. "I don’t know anything about it," he replied grimly. "But I’m not about to just sit by, while people are being hurt and dying, when I know I could do something to help. If we can find some way to get me in there, I’m going."
"Do you even know what age of the world this is, Neo? Do you know where you will be?"
Neo smiled at monitors, but it was cold, humourless. The green glow spread across his face from the screens. "Yeah," he replied. "It’s from a book I read as a kid." He raised his eyes to Morpheus’ again. "I’m going to Valinor."
FANDOM: Lord of the Rings/The Matrix
RATING: Not for young uns.
NOTES: Chapter one can be found here. I maintain the blame of this particular fic must be directed at none other than The_Gentleman. Of course, with a bit of additional blame being tossed in the direction of Twospotz, who found the idea so amusing, she prompted me to work on it and then it became painfully feasible and now, will be a seven chapter series which won’t leave me alone. And she’s illustrating it, whether she wants to or not. Ha!
Once more, I must beg forgiveness from Tolkien and the Wachowski brothers. And please pardon my mind. It’s frightening.
____________________________________________
Perhaps, the system of the Matrix had an amusing sense of irony. Perhaps not. Even so the jagged lightning that ripped across the night sky, which was lashed with sheets of dull grey rain, seemed to mark the air with foreboding.
In the topmost room of the apartment block in the middle of Tel Aviv, a black-haired youth - clad in scruffy denim clothing and a baseball cap - fidgeted uncomfortably in a chair.
He was held under the steady gaze of a dark, mysterious man, who seemed to carry an air of authority and power about him, although the youth couldn’t be certain that he was being watched due to the reflective black shades.
Another potential for freeing.
Like so many others, the young man had been seeking out the answer to a question that he didn’t truly understand. All that he knew was that it was a question he felt he had to as and that this man, the infamous Morpheus, could provide the answers.
He had been trying, time upon time, to find Morpheus.
When the ‘terrorist’ had been seen in his home city, less than a year before, he had tried to find the enigma that was the man, only to find - the next day - that Morpheus had already moved on.
Now, though, Reuben Ibrahim - also known as Micro - was seated before the man who could very well be classed as his Idol, ready to listen to all that Morpheus had to say and learn all he could from him.
That is, if he didn’t immediately flee from the man’s presence, the sheer charisma and force of overwhelming personality filling the towering walls of the gloomy, dust-marked room.
Sharp blades of buttery-yellow light from a flickering street lamp outside of the window cast angular shadows on the man’s distinctive features, making him seem all the more mysterious.
Morpheus was seated in the broad leather chair that he favoured for his encounters with those he wished to assess for potential freeing from the Matrix, his fingers steepled before his chest, his face an expressionless mask.
A woman stood to the left of the chair, one hand resting on the back, closest to the massive mantle. She was aloof, her features cool, revealing nothing to the man in the chair before them.
To the right, another man stood.
To the potential, he was the epitome of cool.
Younger than Morpheus, his skin was almost whiter than was natural, his hair dark and slicked back from his lean features. His posture, the way his head was canted, the neutral expression combined with the floor-length black coat and gleaming black shades made him strangely awe-inspiring to look at.
He appeared to be the kind of man who was unfazed by anything that happened, even in a worst case scenario.
"You know why you have been brought here tonight, Micro," Morpheus’ voice was everything that Micro had expected. Deep. Controlled. Full of conviction. "I know you have been looking for me. For us."
"Us?" Micro echoed, glancing at the other two in question. The woman raised her chin slightly, the younger man inclining his head.
"You have probably heard of my associates," Morpheus unfurled a hand gracefully in the direction of the woman. "Trinity," The gesture was mimicked in the direction of the man. "and Neo."
Reuben Ibrahim felt the colour seeping from his cheeks. Trinity. He knew that name well. It was one of the first he had looked into, when he had become ‘Micro’. As for Neo… all he knew was that the name was now legendary in hacker circles.
"I see you recognise their names," Morpheus continued, the suggestion of a smile playing once more on his lips. "As you can see, this is no game. You know who we are and I can say, without doubt, that we know who you are and why you are here."
"Yeah…" the youth said, his voice low. Beads of sweat were pricking on his brows, his hands shaking. "Yeah. I-I’ve been trying to find you all… well, you especially… for years…"
Mopheus smiled, which showed a genuine curve of amusement on his lips. "We know," he said, lower his hands from before his chest. "And we know that you want to see everything we have to show you, but the question is are you ready?"
"R-ready to see? I-I think so."
"And you know that there would be no going back, if you accept this offer, do you not?" Morpheus’ voice was even. Micro nodded once, catching a motion out of the corner of his eye.
Neo.
The younger man was looking around, his head jerking rapidly from one direction to the other, as if trying to track an insect that was buzzing around him. A line appeared between his brows, his expression tightening.
"I-I…" Micro found himself staring at Neo, wondering what was causing him to act in such a way, his attention apparently redirecting the attentions of both of Neo’s companions to him.
One of Neo’s hands snapped up, locking onto the back of the massive chair, his knuckles whitening to the point of bone ripping through skin. It almost appeared that his legs buckled beneath him, a gasp escaping him.
"Neo!" Trinity was around the chair in a heartbeat, an arm around Neo’s body, holding him upright.
"Shit…" The whisper fell from lips that were growing whiter by the moment. A pale hand reached up to grip the woman’s shoulders, as if a lifeline, Morpheus rising smoothly from the chair to shield Neo from Micro’s sight.
"Neo?"
"We have to get him out," the woman hissed. "Now."
Morpheus’ back and the flaring spread of his coat was obscuring the younger man from Micro’s viewpoint, but from what he could see, Neo was on his knees on the ground, unable to even answer for himself.
"Take him to the connection," he ordered in a low voice, though not low enough to be unheard. "I will be with you in a moment."
"Hurry," Trinity’s voice was urgent.
Turning back to the potential, Morpheus inclined his head. "As you can see, Micro, not everything is simple when it comes to our world. We have difficulties, as will you. This is not an easy choice to make." Micro nodded automatically, but his eyes were on Neo, who was being half-carried, half-dragged from the room by the woman. "We shall leave you to consider for now, but we will contact you again."
"When?"
Morpheus smiled again, although it was more forced than it had been before.
"Soon," was all he said, before he seemed to glide through the door that the others had just disappeared through, the panel of wood shutting silently behind him, leaving Reuben Ibrahim sitting alone in the chamber, wondering what had happened.
***
Smith felt strangely… satisfied by the progress of his plan.
Th so-called Elf Lord had been adequately broken. He had felt the ripple begin and knew that it would have built enough momentum, travelling through the system, to strike at Mr. Anderson with the force of a tidal wave.
It was only a matter of time, he knew.
That, of course, was when there was a minor malfunction in the plan.
A savage blow from behind struck by something he did not even register, catching him without warning. It had been so long since such a thing had happened that Smith was actually almost surprised.
Most often, he would feel the tremor of the system, granting him warning. Not this time, though. How very curious.
The force with which it struck him actually caused him to stagger a step, dislodging his glasses. One hand automatically reached up and straightened them, before Smith reassumed his standard stance, stiffening his back.
Turning quickly, much more so than a mere human, he found a tall man standing there. He was not alone, surrounded closely by an assembly of the ‘Elves’, every one of whom was armed.
Interesting.
Taking a moment to study his assailant, who was armed with a staff and clad in white. He looked ancient and, since he was locked in the system of Valinor, it suggested he was among the ancient people who lived in that world.
His features bore an age that Smith would have placed in his latter years, beyond middle age by over a decade. They were worn and - Smith supposed - would be qualified as wise. White hair and a white beard hung to his waist.
However, there was a fire in his bright blue eyes, an expression that Smith could match to those of someone else who was close to the surface on his memory.
Mr. Anderson.
Well, well… how intriguing.
In the human heartbeat it took for the man to take up an attack stance, Smith had searched through the files of his programme’s hard drive and downloaded all possible information about the man before him.
One side of Smith’s mouth twisted slightly.
How very ironic fate was.
So this man had also been an anomaly in his world?
Almost an ancient version of Mr. Anderson standing before him.
An anomaly who, like Anderson, had defeated the Sentient programme in his own world, when those Sentient Programmes had been larger and much more supernatural and imposing - and, Smith added with a touch of cynicism, obvious - than they looked now.
So, the information all seemed to say one thing: in order to trap one anomaly, Smith had unintentionally rekindled the force of another, who had been stored in a sideline system, where he no longer mattered as he had never realised his true potential.
The fact that he had defeated one of the Sentient Programmes should have told him enough, but part of him was still so deeply ingrained within the system that even his body forcing itself to resurrection had seemed acceptable and normal.
And apparently, he had remained connected into the world without any idea of the potential power he held.
How delightfully amusing.
Yet, simply by reacting to Smith’s present, this anomaly’s own abilities would instigate another wave in the system, potentially enough to tip the balance enough to get Mr. Anderson’s attention, if his initial plan failed.
Smith smiled slightly.
Really, the world was full of surprises.
"Mr. Olórin," he murmured, his lips shifting into a cold smile. He straightened the front of his suit, which had been left rumpled by the old man’s attack. One hand fastidiously smoothed his lapel. "Thank you. You have provided me with assistance I did not expect."
Bracing his staff in his right hand, a sword in his left, the man’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "Leave this place," he said in a voice that, if jovial, might have sounded pleasant. "You are not welcome here."
"And I suppose you are going to… make me depart?" Smith sneered.
He was aware of a few of the Elves edging around him, hidden in the shadows and the edges of the forest, all of them no doubt trying to reach Mr. Half-Elven to offer him some kind of pitiful human aid.
Before him, the man of a hundred names tilted his head. "If I have to, I will do what is necessary," he said coldly.
"I suppose it would only be fitting," Smith commented, removing his dark glasses, folding them, his eyes on the lenses as he tucked them into his breast pocket. "For the death of one anomaly to serve as a trap for another." He tilted his head slightly. "Irony is such a… fascinating term."
"If you expect me to fear you," the man said. "Then you are grievously mistaken. I have fought your kind before, although in another form."
Smith’s brow arched.
So this man recognised what he was and could see that he was created by the same system, which had caused his ‘death’ so many years earlier? Perhaps, then, he was more like Mr. Anderson than Smith had given him credit for.
"You know what I am?" he observed.
"I know that you are not of this world," the old man replied evenly. "And I feel a great force of evil in you that I have only ever felt in one other." His chin lifted a little higher. "One whom I slew. I defeated it. I can defeat you."
Had Smith been cursed with a sense of humour, he would probably have laughed at the futility of the man’s very human attitude. However, he did not, so he sated himself by tilting his head to one side, then the other, his neck cracking.
"I do believe I am going to enjoy this, Mr. Olórin," he said coldly. His hands flexed by his sides and he inclined his head.
The blow came fast, but still, the man was only human.
Both sword and staff were used in equal measures, one rapid spin and twist sending Smith’s only solid weapon, his revolver, spinning from his hand and rattling across the stone of the surroundings.
Reaching into the core of the system, he found his immediate access to further weapons inexplicably blocked. So these long-lived ones could control their world to a small extent?
No matter.
So it was to be hand to hand combat, was it?
Very well.
Blocking it and the attacks which followed, however, was not as easy as Smith had initially expected. Fighting the old man, armed while Smith was not, caused a ripple in his memory.
The blade and staff were used to great effect and Smith felt his borrowed body bruising, breaking under the blows, which were reversed even before they were completed to double-strike on both sides in the time it would take an average man to strike once.
Smith felt the beginnings of consternation. The fight was far too similar to that which he had fought with Mr. Anderson, the aged man’s speed and power increasing with every minute the fight progressed.
It was, however, different in a single respect and that was that Mr. Anderson had fought alone.
Mr. Olórin did not, clearly aware of the danger he could be in, if he did not have the support of others. The ‘Elves’ surrounding them seemed to instinctively know when to launch their own weapons at Smith, their speed and accuracy far surpassing that of normal humans.
It rapidly became abundantly clear to Smith, as one rapidly arrow after another lodged themselves in his borrowed digital form, that he underestimated the abilities of the collective of the inhabitants of Valinor.
Apparently, their long lives had also gifted them with some abilities usually only attributed to anomalies, including that which gave them the capability to manipulate their surroundings to some extent, making them seem faster and more skilled than an average human would.
While Smith would have been satisfied to remain and examine the concept in closer detail, the ninth arrow striking him in the back suggested that terminating his connection with the world for the present would be the more intelligent option.
Reaching out briefly, he was irritated to observe that in the fray, Mr. Anderson had not reacted as expected.
Apparently, instead of immediately running to the rescue as he was prone to do, the anomaly with whom Smith was more familiar had been cowardly and logged out of the system during Smith’s fight with Mr. Olórin and the Elven people.
Disappointing. Very disappointing.
Another bolt lancing into his body captured his attention once more. Yes, he knew, it was time to depart from this world. If Mr. Anderson logged in again, Smith knew the man would know about the world where he stood now. If he attempted to access it, Smith knew he would be aware of it.
So, he had to wait.
Time meant nothing to him. Patience was everything.
Locating his connection opening, Smith merged out of the world’s drive without further comment or battle, loading himself back into the equivalent of the machines’ all-encompassing motherboard.
Yes. He would wait.
***
"Oh God!"
Tank, the ship’s operator nearly swore in pain when Neo’s hand grappled his bare arm, tight as a vice, Neo wrenching in the seat in front of him, his eyes wide. "Neo! Easy, buddy! What is it?"
Unable to voice his reply, Neo all but hurled himself from the operations chair as soon as the connection plug was withdrawn from his skull, an acid stream of vomit spewing from his lips.
Folding his arms across his stomach, his breath wheezing in his throat, the dark-haired man rocked back and forth, shaking violently, words running from his lips in a liquid mantra. "Oh God… oh God…. Oh God…"
Tank rapidly moved onto Trinity, where she still half-sat, ready to emerge from the system, knowing if anyone could get Neo back on his feet, it was the woman. Hitting the computer panels, he rapidly unplugged her.
"Tank?"
Tank nodded sharply down to the floor, where Neo was still shivering violently. "I think this is your area of expertise, Trin," he said, stepping back as she launched herself off the seat.
She was on her knees beside her lover in a heartbeat, uncaring of the grid biting into her skin, her arms around him tightly. "I’m here, Neo, I’m here. It’s okay…" she whispered over and over, pressing her lips to his brow. "It’s okay…"
"What the hell happened in there?" Tank demanded, as he unplugged Morpheus, the leader of the group swinging rapidly off his seat and joining Trinity beside the panting, choking Neo.
"We don’t know," Morpheus replied, going down on one knee, one hand on Neo’s heaving shoulder. His face lifted to Tank and, for the first time in months, Tank could see fear and anxiety marring their Leader’s strong features, something which worried the operator even more than seeing Neo down.
Trinity’s lips were little more than a thin line, her eyes intently on her lover’s face, which was chalk-white, even paler than usual. His dark eyes were wide, darting about in every direction, as if he was having difficulty seeing, one of his hands reaching up to cling to her, like she was the only thing keeping him sane.
"Oh God… how…? How could they…? What the hell was that…? How?" Neo’s voice was rough, barely even audible, a litany of questions streaming the one over the other as he sank against his lover. "How...? What the hell...?"
"Neo?" she murmured, wrapping her arm around him, drawing him to her chest and pressing her cheek against the top of his head. "Neo, can you hear me? It’s okay… it’s gonna be okay…"
"No," Neo rasped, shaking his head. Doubling over again, more sour-smelling fluid spilled from his lips, spattering loudly on the gridwork and the metal beneath. "It’s not okay," he panted raggedly. "Oh God…" His head sagged down, as if he lacked the strength to feel hold it upright. "I could feel it… I could feel…"
"Feel what?" Trinity asked softly, her features wrought with concern, one hand framing his face, forcing him to look at her. The pain in his eyes made her recoil, unsolicited tears sliding from his eyes that seemed sightless. "Oh God, Neo…" she whispered, holding him all the more securely. "What is it?"
"Pain," he replied, his voice raw. "So much pain. Like the whole world was being torn apart around me." Dark brown eyes, liquid with agony, stared frantically up at her. "Something’s wrong. Something big. And it wasn’t an accident."
***
His blue eyes closed, Olórin leaned heavily upon his staff, his own grief and sadness etched in his very posture, his gait once more that of a man weighed down by the troubles of an eternity of pain.
He had been too late.
His friends, the Firstborns, had called upon him for aid in their hour of need, an hour they had never imagined would come to pass in Valinor, and he had arrived to late to provide anything but belated defence for them.
The enemy, he knew, was more powerful than anything he had faced alone, powerful in a way that no mortal could be. Only one battle had ever drawn so much from him: his encounter with the Balrog in Khazad-dûm. Thankful he had been for his allies aiding him on this occasion.
Even so, it had proved in vain and their foe had not been vanquished.
Instead, he had appeared to melt away, vanishing before their very eyes, leaving the fallen form of his long time friend and ally, Lord Elrond Half-Elven, lying in a pool of blood before them.
It had been the image Olórin had never contemplated seeing, especially not in the haven of Valinor. Haven. That was what Valinor was meant to be. A place of peace and tranquillity where the Elves were to live out their eternities without hurt or pain.
A Haven that was no longer safe.
Olórin’s eyes slowly opened and he looked down at the sight before him, the lance of pain to his heart more potent than the keenest of blades, as he watched the healers aid his fallen friend.
Laid upon his bed, stripped of his torn robes, the Elf Lord was motionless, his features as still as if they had been graven from marble. Lord Elrond had been sorely damaged, his body torn and defiled by the intruder in a way that the ancient Maia had only ever seen Orcs and worst of mankind inflict on others.
The greatest of the Elven Healers had surrounded him and had been fighting against the shadows that were closing about him, using all of their abilities to save their friend and Lord.
Close to the bed, the evening twilight playing upon her features through the intricate and elaborate twists that decorated the windows, Celebrían stood in silence, her hands folded before her, tears streaming down her lovely face for her husband’s pain.
It rekindled the memory for Olórin of the Elf woman’s time in Middle earth. She had been captured and harmed as gravely as her husband had now, only she had been able to depart the squalor of the world of Men to take her rest in the security of Valinor, a security her husband would be unable to seek.
There was no doubt of it, Olórin knew.
Elrond’s light would gradually fade and there was no place that he could go which would allow him the protection and security that Valinor was meant to have granted them for all eternity.
Already, the dark Elf Lord seemed diminished.
It pained Olórin more than he could bear to see such a thing. Even more so, simply because Valinor should not have allowed such a thing. What, he wondered, had lead to this destruction of their Haven? Why had such a thing been allowed to happen?
The world was changing, changing in a way that it should not have and it was a matter of great concern for the ancient Maia. For so long, he had believed that peace had finally come to them.
Now, he could see that he was and always had been wrong and that nowhere, not even the Haven of Valinor, was safe.
***
"What’s he doing?"
Standing in the doorway that led to the cabins of the Nebuchadnezzer, Morpheus didn’t even look around as Trinity stepped alongside him, glancing over his shoulder at her lover, where he was sitting at the computer consoles. She had apparently just woken, her eyes ringed with shadow, her hair mussed about her face.
"He is still searching for the source of the pain, which affected him yesterday," he replied quietly, his arms folded over his chest. Tilting his head slightly, he looked down at her. "He didn’t join you, did he?"
Trinity self-consciously rubbed her right arm, the patched sweater rustling against her skin. "He said he had to work on it," she said, her brow furrowed. "I-I didn’t hear him come in. I don’t think he’s left the station all night."
"He feels he must find the origin of the pain."
"I know," Trinity sighed, raising a hand to push back an errant strand of hair, the lights casting a pale blue wash over her features. "But surely if it was that strong, he wouldn’t be able to help that many people."
Morpheus’ eyes closed for several minutes. "Whatever caused such a fierce reaction in him must have meant a powerful surge from a large area, but Neo insists that it was centrally the pain of one individual. For such pain to be felt…"
"That person must be connected differently, in a way that means that they can be felt when anyone else wouldn’t even cause the slightest tremor," Trinity finished, licking her suddenly dry lips nervously at the implications. "How would it be possible?"
Morpheus looked at her. "I have often wondered," he said neutrally. "If the machines had found some way to develop humans. It would be simpler for them to control and adapt us, if we could be maintained…"
"Genetic manipulation?"
"Precisely."
The woman shook her head. "I hadn’t even thought about it."
Morpheus turned his eyes straight ahead once more. "I have. We know that they had to develop a second Matrix, because their first was flawed. How do we know what else they have done with humans in that time?"
A sickened feeling rose in Trinity’s throat at the thought. "Would it be possible?"
"Who can say?" Morpheus replied, his head bowing slightly. "We do not even know how long our world has been in their control. They may have had us for an eternity, maybe only a few hundred years. Anything could be possible."
"I got it!" Neo’s voice was rasping, dry, barely even audible. Swinging the seat around, he stared - hollow-eyed - at them, his face dusted with dark stubble, pools of shadow beneath his eyes. He was pointing at one of the screens. "I found it."
Moving forward, Trinity and Morpheus joined him by the consoles, staring in awe at the location he had discovered. Even though it was merely code, the detail and intricacy of it was beautiful to look at.
"That’s it?"
"Yeah," Neo rasped, tapping the screen, leaning heavily on the metal lip of the console desk. "This is the place. Right here. Weird thing, though. Got no connections to anywhere."
"None?" Trinity leaned in closer, studying the screen. "None at all?"
Shaking his head, Neo ran a hand over his eyes. "Nothing," he replied, leaning back in the chair, bringing both hands up to cover his face as he exhaled. "It’s almost like someone wanted to shove this place away from the rest of the world and just forget about it."
"Almost as if it were some kind of storage area for something that could not be involved elsewhere in the world," Morpheus observed quietly, both hands braced on the back of the chair.
"You mean that these people couldn’t fit in anywhere else?" Trinity seemed to be catching up with his train of thought, revelation marked on her face. "People who had been… adapted to suit the machines?"
"They’re freaks of human nature," Neo added, his voice exhausted. "Look at the codes we got on them…" He tapped into one of the screens, moving down onto the occupants of the system, pointing one out. "Much more elaborate than anything I’ve ever seen in there. They’re too different to fit in with normal people, but must be too useful for the machines to just be flushed."
Trinity nodded, one hand squeezing Neo’s shoulder. "You’re sure this is where the output came from?"
He nodded stiffly. "Positive," he replied. "And I know I gotta get in there."
"Perhaps that would not be a wise idea," Morpheus countered.
Dark brown eyes rose to the older man. "Screw wise, Morpheus," he said succinctly. "Something happened in there and I wanna know what the hell it was so I can stop it from happening again."
"Do you even know anything about this world? How do you know that you would not be walking into a trap?"
Neo shook his head. "I don’t know anything about it," he replied grimly. "But I’m not about to just sit by, while people are being hurt and dying, when I know I could do something to help. If we can find some way to get me in there, I’m going."
"Do you even know what age of the world this is, Neo? Do you know where you will be?"
Neo smiled at monitors, but it was cold, humourless. The green glow spread across his face from the screens. "Yeah," he replied. "It’s from a book I read as a kid." He raised his eyes to Morpheus’ again. "I’m going to Valinor."