In the Region of Sight, Chp. 4
You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland, and I show you how deep the rabbit hole goes.
He walks to Berkeley’s flat; neither of them are comfortable taking a taxi after last night. They’re headed for the Tube station when a sleek black car pulls up alongside them. It looks exactly like what their agent friends would drive, and John’s reaching for a gun he no longer carries when the window rolls down and a long, vinyl-clad arm beckons them over.
“Get in the car, both of you. Now.”
He finds himself seated next to Locke, who’s poured into a bodysuit so tight John’s a little surprised he can sit down. In fact, ‘black’ and ‘slick’ seem to be some sort of uniform; the silver-haired man in the other seat- Locke introduces him as Fox- is buckled into black leather and a pair of trousers that must be painted on. The glimpse he caught of the driver, Versai, was nothing but shiny, wet-looking vinyl and dark curves through red lacing. Is it a rule that they all be ridiculously attractive, as well?
“The two of you need to take off your shirts.”
Berkeley snorts as John jerks his gaze away from Locke’s thighs and stares at the man across from him. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”
“It’s alright, John,” answers Locke. “You each had an encounter with a man yesterday, correct? He appeared unexpectedly, asked for information, threatened you, and then you woke up this morning in your own home. We believe that some sort of tracking device was implanted in you while you were unconscious. It needs to come out, and quickly.”
Berkeley’s already stripping off his shirt, but John stalls at the sight of Fox pulling a knife from his pocket. “No. Absolutely not, sorry. Do you have medical training of any sort?”
The man laughs. “Of a sort, yes. I’m not exactly a doctor.”
This just keeps getting better and better. “Well, I am a doctor, so if anyone’s going to do any impromptu, backseat, hideously unsanitary surgery, it’ll be me. Give me the knife.”
Fox looks to Locke for confirmation. John leans forward into Fox’s personal space and lets his Captain Watson voice come rolling out of the back of his brain. “Give. Me. The knife.”
Mission accomplished. Knife in hand, John turns to Locke. “Where do I find this thing?”
“It should be located in the left anterior deltoid. You’ll be able to feel it if you depress the muscle.”
Of course it is; where else would it be, with his luck? At least he’s got too much nerve damage there to feel much of anything; for Berkeley, though, this is going to hurt like a bitch. He gestures for them to hold Berkeley in place and palpates the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary. It doesn’t take long to find- a thin, hard tube, the kind used for microchipping pets.
Berkeley swallows a grunt at the first slice, but John tunes it out. His focus narrows to the blade in his hand and the flesh in front of him; nothing else matters. He cuts down into the muscle, catches the tracker, and flicks it out with one smooth twist of his wrist. He slaps on the bandage someone hands him, strips off his jumper, braces himself against the seat, and does the same thing over again. It’s not quite as smooth- the scar tissue is harder to slice through- but the whole procedure takes less than five minutes. When he hands the knife back, both Fox and Locke are staring at him.
“I did say I was a doctor.”
: : :
It’s a short and silent ride to Baker Street. John watches Berkeley stare out the car window; he hasn’t lost a lot of blood, but there’s an ashy tone to his dark skin and John’s beginning to worry about shock. His friend stumbles getting out of the car, catching his foot and nearly tumbling to the pavement.
John slings an arm around his waist. “You alright there, mate? I know you’ve had worse- I was there.”
He shoves John away to stand on his own. “It’s fine.” Berkeley turns and heads for the front door, leaving John staring, bewildered, as their escort finally climbs out of the car. Locke glances from Berkeley at the door to John on the curb; John can practically see the gears in his head ticking away.
They follow Fox up a dark staircase into a shabby, ridiculously Baroque-looking sitting room. It might have been attractive, once; now the wallpaper is peeling from the wall and a layer of grime coats most of the surfaces. A singularly pretentious, heavy oak desk dominates the space, and behind it, in a wingback chair, sits the man who must be Hermes. Tall, pale, his black-on-black suit broken only by the red of his tie; Christ, the man looks like he just strolled out of a boardroom somewhere. He’s ginger, for heaven’s sake! This is the ‘most dangerous man alive?’
“Berkeley. John. Welcome; as you must have guessed, I’m Hermes. Please, have a seat.” He waves a hand at the two chairs in front of the desk, as if they’ve come to his office for an appointment. Of course, that’s essentially what they have done, so John pulls out a chair, kicks the other over towards Berkeley, and sits down.
“Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain; but you caught a glimpse of it. A flash, as you hung in the space between life and death. Something... wrong. Something real. You don't know what it is, or how to explain it, but it's there, when you close your eyes in the night. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. You know what I’m talking about.”
Berkeley clears his throat twice before he whispers, “the Matrix.”
“You’ve begun to realize what the Matrix is, haven’t you? It is... everywhere. Everything. The air we breathe, the water we drink. The blood you spilled in the desert for a war that doesn’t exist. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.”
John’s vision is going a little fuzzy around the edges. He’s known, all along, believed it since they shipped him back to England; that none of it was real. Nevertheless, there was a tiny voice deep in his mind making an argument for his own personal brand of insanity, and that voice has just been shut down. He reels in the silence it leaves behind.
“The truth, gentlemen, is that you are slaves. Like the Jews in Egypt you were born into bondage, and you will die without ever tasting freedom. It is so natural, so ingrained, that you do not even realize you have been broken to the yoke. You are trapped in a prison of your mind’s own making.”
Only when Locke’s hands settle on his shoulders does John realize that a fine trembling is running through his bones. He tries to stop, but can’t; the warmth of Locke’s palms his only anchor-point in this false reality.
“Even the idea of the Matrix is too much for our minds to truly accept. No one can help you; you must see it for yourself. What I can do is give you this one chance.”
From his suit pocket, Hermes pull out two glass vials, sets them on the desk. One has blue pills, the other red. They seem... innocuous. Something like this should be something bigger, flashier, shouldn’t it?
“This is the only time I will make this offer. You have two choices. Take the blue pill, and we send you home tonight. You close your eyes, bury your head in the sand, and live out the rest of your tiny little life. You will be safe; you may even be happy. You will not be alive. Take the red pill, and you will stand shoulder to shoulder with what is left of humanity. The truth is not safe, and it rarely has a happy ending. It is not beautiful. But you will know the world, unequivocally, and no one will be able to take it from you.”
John takes a breath, holds it. Closes his eyes. The still, calm center of his being- the one that made him an excellent soldier and an even better doctor- already knows the answer. He wants the truth. He wants to see. He exhales, slowly, and reaches for the red pills the way he’d pull the trigger of his gun.
The other vial is gone.
He turns to Berkeley just in time to watch him tip the blue pill down his throat.
“I’m sorry, John. I don’t... I can’t... I don’t want this. I’m sorry.” He knocks the chair over in his haste, nearly running from the room.
John surges upward, only to find Locke’s hands, still on his shoulders, clamping him into the chair.
“No, John. You can’t go after him. He made his choice, and in twenty-four hours he won’t even remember it. He won’t remember you.”
“Let me go. Just let me talk to him!”
Across the desk Hermes sighs, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, John. There’s no going back; he took the pill. It’s too late for him now. But not for you.”
John shakes a pill out into his palm and stares at it. This is the only way out, but... he hadn’t imagined he’d be doing it alone.
It’s Fox who finally speaks up. “We’re here with you, John. We made the same choice.”
He swallows the pill.
A strange sensation washes through him, slowly, a tidal wave that starts at his center and laps outward. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel- right.” His head spins as Locke steers him to the grungy settee in the center of the room. He doesn’t want to lie down, but can’t manage to push himself upright. He’s only getting snippets of the voices around him.
“Are we in place? ARE WE IN PLACE?”
“I can’t find the signal-”
“He’s the One, Hermes, I know it-”
“There, right there! I’m locked on, dial us out!”
In the moment before everything slips away, there’s a brush of lips against his temple. “I’ll see you when you wake up, John.”
He walks to Berkeley’s flat; neither of them are comfortable taking a taxi after last night. They’re headed for the Tube station when a sleek black car pulls up alongside them. It looks exactly like what their agent friends would drive, and John’s reaching for a gun he no longer carries when the window rolls down and a long, vinyl-clad arm beckons them over.
“Get in the car, both of you. Now.”
He finds himself seated next to Locke, who’s poured into a bodysuit so tight John’s a little surprised he can sit down. In fact, ‘black’ and ‘slick’ seem to be some sort of uniform; the silver-haired man in the other seat- Locke introduces him as Fox- is buckled into black leather and a pair of trousers that must be painted on. The glimpse he caught of the driver, Versai, was nothing but shiny, wet-looking vinyl and dark curves through red lacing. Is it a rule that they all be ridiculously attractive, as well?
“The two of you need to take off your shirts.”
Berkeley snorts as John jerks his gaze away from Locke’s thighs and stares at the man across from him. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”
“It’s alright, John,” answers Locke. “You each had an encounter with a man yesterday, correct? He appeared unexpectedly, asked for information, threatened you, and then you woke up this morning in your own home. We believe that some sort of tracking device was implanted in you while you were unconscious. It needs to come out, and quickly.”
Berkeley’s already stripping off his shirt, but John stalls at the sight of Fox pulling a knife from his pocket. “No. Absolutely not, sorry. Do you have medical training of any sort?”
The man laughs. “Of a sort, yes. I’m not exactly a doctor.”
This just keeps getting better and better. “Well, I am a doctor, so if anyone’s going to do any impromptu, backseat, hideously unsanitary surgery, it’ll be me. Give me the knife.”
Fox looks to Locke for confirmation. John leans forward into Fox’s personal space and lets his Captain Watson voice come rolling out of the back of his brain. “Give. Me. The knife.”
Mission accomplished. Knife in hand, John turns to Locke. “Where do I find this thing?”
“It should be located in the left anterior deltoid. You’ll be able to feel it if you depress the muscle.”
Of course it is; where else would it be, with his luck? At least he’s got too much nerve damage there to feel much of anything; for Berkeley, though, this is going to hurt like a bitch. He gestures for them to hold Berkeley in place and palpates the area, searching for anything out of the ordinary. It doesn’t take long to find- a thin, hard tube, the kind used for microchipping pets.
Berkeley swallows a grunt at the first slice, but John tunes it out. His focus narrows to the blade in his hand and the flesh in front of him; nothing else matters. He cuts down into the muscle, catches the tracker, and flicks it out with one smooth twist of his wrist. He slaps on the bandage someone hands him, strips off his jumper, braces himself against the seat, and does the same thing over again. It’s not quite as smooth- the scar tissue is harder to slice through- but the whole procedure takes less than five minutes. When he hands the knife back, both Fox and Locke are staring at him.
“I did say I was a doctor.”
: : :
It’s a short and silent ride to Baker Street. John watches Berkeley stare out the car window; he hasn’t lost a lot of blood, but there’s an ashy tone to his dark skin and John’s beginning to worry about shock. His friend stumbles getting out of the car, catching his foot and nearly tumbling to the pavement.
John slings an arm around his waist. “You alright there, mate? I know you’ve had worse- I was there.”
He shoves John away to stand on his own. “It’s fine.” Berkeley turns and heads for the front door, leaving John staring, bewildered, as their escort finally climbs out of the car. Locke glances from Berkeley at the door to John on the curb; John can practically see the gears in his head ticking away.
They follow Fox up a dark staircase into a shabby, ridiculously Baroque-looking sitting room. It might have been attractive, once; now the wallpaper is peeling from the wall and a layer of grime coats most of the surfaces. A singularly pretentious, heavy oak desk dominates the space, and behind it, in a wingback chair, sits the man who must be Hermes. Tall, pale, his black-on-black suit broken only by the red of his tie; Christ, the man looks like he just strolled out of a boardroom somewhere. He’s ginger, for heaven’s sake! This is the ‘most dangerous man alive?’
“Berkeley. John. Welcome; as you must have guessed, I’m Hermes. Please, have a seat.” He waves a hand at the two chairs in front of the desk, as if they’ve come to his office for an appointment. Of course, that’s essentially what they have done, so John pulls out a chair, kicks the other over towards Berkeley, and sits down.
“Let me tell you why you're here. You're here because you know something. What you know you can't explain; but you caught a glimpse of it. A flash, as you hung in the space between life and death. Something... wrong. Something real. You don't know what it is, or how to explain it, but it's there, when you close your eyes in the night. It is this feeling that has brought you to me. You know what I’m talking about.”
Berkeley clears his throat twice before he whispers, “the Matrix.”
“You’ve begun to realize what the Matrix is, haven’t you? It is... everywhere. Everything. The air we breathe, the water we drink. The blood you spilled in the desert for a war that doesn’t exist. It is the world that has been pulled over your eyes to blind you from the truth.”
John’s vision is going a little fuzzy around the edges. He’s known, all along, believed it since they shipped him back to England; that none of it was real. Nevertheless, there was a tiny voice deep in his mind making an argument for his own personal brand of insanity, and that voice has just been shut down. He reels in the silence it leaves behind.
“The truth, gentlemen, is that you are slaves. Like the Jews in Egypt you were born into bondage, and you will die without ever tasting freedom. It is so natural, so ingrained, that you do not even realize you have been broken to the yoke. You are trapped in a prison of your mind’s own making.”
Only when Locke’s hands settle on his shoulders does John realize that a fine trembling is running through his bones. He tries to stop, but can’t; the warmth of Locke’s palms his only anchor-point in this false reality.
“Even the idea of the Matrix is too much for our minds to truly accept. No one can help you; you must see it for yourself. What I can do is give you this one chance.”
From his suit pocket, Hermes pull out two glass vials, sets them on the desk. One has blue pills, the other red. They seem... innocuous. Something like this should be something bigger, flashier, shouldn’t it?
“This is the only time I will make this offer. You have two choices. Take the blue pill, and we send you home tonight. You close your eyes, bury your head in the sand, and live out the rest of your tiny little life. You will be safe; you may even be happy. You will not be alive. Take the red pill, and you will stand shoulder to shoulder with what is left of humanity. The truth is not safe, and it rarely has a happy ending. It is not beautiful. But you will know the world, unequivocally, and no one will be able to take it from you.”
John takes a breath, holds it. Closes his eyes. The still, calm center of his being- the one that made him an excellent soldier and an even better doctor- already knows the answer. He wants the truth. He wants to see. He exhales, slowly, and reaches for the red pills the way he’d pull the trigger of his gun.
The other vial is gone.
He turns to Berkeley just in time to watch him tip the blue pill down his throat.
“I’m sorry, John. I don’t... I can’t... I don’t want this. I’m sorry.” He knocks the chair over in his haste, nearly running from the room.
John surges upward, only to find Locke’s hands, still on his shoulders, clamping him into the chair.
“No, John. You can’t go after him. He made his choice, and in twenty-four hours he won’t even remember it. He won’t remember you.”
“Let me go. Just let me talk to him!”
Across the desk Hermes sighs, shakes his head. “I’m sorry, John. There’s no going back; he took the pill. It’s too late for him now. But not for you.”
John shakes a pill out into his palm and stares at it. This is the only way out, but... he hadn’t imagined he’d be doing it alone.
It’s Fox who finally speaks up. “We’re here with you, John. We made the same choice.”
He swallows the pill.
A strange sensation washes through him, slowly, a tidal wave that starts at his center and laps outward. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel- right.” His head spins as Locke steers him to the grungy settee in the center of the room. He doesn’t want to lie down, but can’t manage to push himself upright. He’s only getting snippets of the voices around him.
“Are we in place? ARE WE IN PLACE?”
“I can’t find the signal-”
“He’s the One, Hermes, I know it-”
“There, right there! I’m locked on, dial us out!”
In the moment before everything slips away, there’s a brush of lips against his temple. “I’ll see you when you wake up, John.”