In the Region of Sight, Chp. 2
John's therapist thinks that he’s disassociating; symptomatic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, of course. There’s no way to tell her it’s because he suspects the world- this world, at any rate- isn't real.
No way without sounding crazy, obviously.
It is crazy-sounding, he’s not so far gone that he can’t see that. In the middle of the day, with his therapist prattling on, he can almost convince himself that he’s simply cracked under the strain of it all. At night, though, when he tries to close his eyes and rest in his dreadful excuse for a flat, he knows differently. Sees it all again, in technicolor detail, and the darkness becomes full of nightmarish claws.
He’s not sleeping, another thing that the wretched woman attributes to PTSD.
: : :
She advocates long walks, to ‘help him feel more connected.’ His physical therapist agrees, so John spends an hour a day puttering about like an old man. He keeps his eyes on the ground, because every time he looks up, part of him is expecting- hoping- to see the maelstrom.
When he smashes into someone outside a Tesco, the jolt upon making eye contact doesn’t come from recognizing one of the men he’d sent home almost two years ago. Not one of the rambling, unsettled ones- Berkeley had lost a leg to an IED. It was hours before they were sure they wouldn’t lose the rest of him along with it.
No, the shock comes from meeting Berkeley’s gaze and catching a glimpse of the same thing that lurks behind his own.
: : :
He’s got no idea how to bring it up, or even if he should. Doesn’t know what to say, how to say it, or what to call the whole damn thing. Not the afterlife. Not an alternate reality. No angels, guiding him to his heavenly rest. They meet for coffee three times before he can begin to work his way around broaching the subject. Finally Berkeley takes pity on him and comes out with it, just like that.
“You saw something, didn’t you, doc? When you were shot. Something that wasn’t... normal. As far as I can figure, it’s either that, or you’ve suddenly decided you fancy me something rotten, what with all these coffee dates.”
The first real laugh in ages escapes him, and suddenly it’s easy. They lay their stories down like playing cards, and neither of them are surprised when they have the same hand.
: : :
It’s Berkeley who puts a name to it, plucked from whispers of online gossip. The answers are there, on the net, Berkeley says, if you know how to look for them. Computers have never been John's forte; he’s never understood them, never had a need for it. But he spends hours peering over Berkeley’s shoulder as they outline what they’ve come across, everything from blog entries and Livejournal posts to anonymous, hidden chat rooms and barely decipherable codes posted on the back walls of internet cafes.
They call it the Matrix.
He can barely wrap his head around it. Whatever he was expecting, whatever sense he’d tried to make of it... it wasn’t this, living in some sort of game world like a real-life version of Tron. Of course, it wasn’t real life, was it?
That’s the whole idea.
They read through more theories than he can count as to how it all works, and why. Most of them are absolutely ludicrous, gods and aliens, giant conspiracies, except what counts as ridiculous after you’ve accepted that the entire world is a hoax?
He still thinks the alien thing is pushing it.
: : :
There’s a name- practically a legend- that they keep coming across in their search. Hermes. An elite hacker, someone who moves in and out of the system at will, keys in his pocket to the back door of every database in existence. Rumor has it that he knows the answer to your questions before you even know what to ask, but that he doesn’t give anything away for free.
If anyone can tell them the truth about the things they’ve seen, it’ll be Hermes.
He has Berkeley spread the word, quietly, that they’re interested in a meet. John doesn’t have much hope; Hermes is in the wind, and they don’t have a shred of information to offer the hacker that the man couldn’t get a dozen other places.
A month later, though, a message filters back to them, through channels that even Berkeley’s more experienced hacker friends can’t track. They’ve caught someone’s attention- someone who says he can put them in touch with Hermes, if what they have to say is intriguing enough.
: : :
John's standing in the darkest corner of a pulsing dance floor, surrounded by people who must be a hundred years younger than he feels. If he wasn’t already going ‘round the twist, it would be enough to put him there. He hasn’t been to a club in years; the contrast between this and the battle field, the carelessness and the sweaty, throbbing life in the place. Surreal.
Berkeley’s sitting at the bar, waiting for their contact. Neither of them knows who to expect, and they’ve been given no details, apart from a date and this rather absurd location. Unlike John, his friend manages to blend in with the twenty-somethings in their club gear; Berkeley’s rather easy to appreciate, actually, in a pair of slick vinyl trousers and a black vest. John himself didn’t even own anything black, and there was no way he was fitting into Berkeley’s six-foot-tall, built-like-a-rugger getup. At least it’s keeping anyone from trying to pull him, as jeans and a white tee don’t exactly scream “shag me” in a place like this. No one’s so much as taken a second glance in an hour; he nearly jumps out of his skin when long arms snake around his waist and a solid torso slips up against his spine.
“Hello, John.”