In the Region of Sight, chp. 10
In which there are many endings, but also a beginning.
Hours later, John stands at the control console, going over the brain wave scans again.
It’s a virus. A foul cohort of viruses, rather, working against the computer body that’s inside the Matrix, while simultaneously attacking the electric signals being sent to and from the physical brain.
It is, in effect, tangling their brains back into the Matrix. A matter of hours, maybe less, and the Matrix- the agents- will have access to everything tucked away in their heads. Their informants. Lists of targets.
The entry keys to Zion.
That’s the start of it, but the virus goes still deeper- it’s chipping away at their source code, rewriting it from the bottom up. Changing the program, altering the very thing that makes them ‘Hermes’ and ‘Locke,’ instead of anyone else on the street.
Huddled over the table, he’d poured over it with Fox, Anthea, and Shale, but they’ve come to the same conclusion a half-dozen times. Even if there was a way to pull Locke and Hermes out, what they got back wouldn’t be their crewmates.
Friends.
Lovers? If they manage it, if they get Locke out... If it’s even what Locke wants, once all this is over. Gazing down at his blank, empty face in that tunnel, John had been struck by just how much he wanted to know Locke, all the questions he had about his life, what made him tick- the man he might be, hidden away under all that leather and snark.
: : :
The world has hazy edges, and John knows he must be dreaming. Falling-floating-tumbling down the rabbit hole and bumping bits and pieces of his life on the way down.
A nudge at the wrist- performing his first large-scale surgery, reaching into the chest cavity of a living, breathing human being, literally holding life in his hands-
A knock on the shoulder- heat, the weight of his pack, gun in his hands, watching the enemy body drop-
A brush against the small of the back- sharp eyes and a twitch of lips set against translucent skin-
A pointed jab to the chest- “You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun.”
: : :
He stumbles into the common room after barely an hour’s rest, plagued by indecipherable dreams. Slumped at the table, Fox looks as bad as John can tell his own face does.
“Where’re the others?”
“Shale’s finally managed to get in touch with the Council, see if they have any ideas. Anthea’s still in bed.”
They stare at each other blearily, bowls of porridge going cold between them. John’s grateful for the thud of Shale’s boots in the hallway.
“The council says...” Shale pauses, swallowing, “they said we have to pull the plug.”
“We are not fucking doing that. It’ll kill them.”
“Fox, man, I know. I know, but it’s what Hermes would want. He’d kill himself before he put Zion in danger like that.”
“Don’t try to tell me what Hermes would want! We’re not doing it.” John grabs Fox’s wrist before it can make contact with Shale’s face.
“Sit. Down. Fox. Of course we’re not doing it.”
Shale stares at the both of them. “Yes, we are. I’m sorry, Fox, John, but we are. With Hermes gone, I’m the captain, and I have to keep Zion safe. If they get into Hermes’ head, that’s the end of it. We’re done.”
Anthea’s unruffled voice breaks the tense standoff that’s taken hold. “I’m sorry, Shale. I do so hate to state the obvious, but there are three of us, and only one- well.” She waves a hand in his direction. “We’ll find a way to get them out, with or without you.” Her inflection leaves no doubt as to what ‘without you’ entails.
Shale sets his jaw, staring at Anthea. John knows what it’s like, and if he were captain he’d be making the same decision, but he’s not the captain this time around. He is going to save Locke and Hermes, and god help whoever gets in his way.
Shale makes contact with three sets of steely eyes in turn.
“The Council’s contacting us again in an hour, and they expect this matter resolved. I’ll be on the flight deck for exactly sixty minutes, and then I’m pulling the plug and taking us home. What happens between now and then, well...” He turns on his heel and strides from the room.
In the silence Shale leaves behind, John hears the Statistician’s voice again, goading him. “I think... I think I might have an idea.”
: : :
There’s no time to practice, to get a grip on it, to decide that it might be anything other than what it is- a crazy, last-ditch effort, based on little but hope and blind faith.
He looks at Fox. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this.”
Anthea gives them the count-
: : :
Black. Stark, unrelenting, battle-ready black from top to toe. They’re taking no prisoners, giving no quarter.
Anthea dropped them in the most closely-monitored area she could find- an agent opens a door and steps out into their path almost immediately. One he recognizes.
The agent from the cab.
“I did tell you we’d meet again, Doctor Watson.”
John says nothing, Fox a solid weight at his shoulder; watching as the agent strides closer.
“Did you think that you’d be of any use, Doctor? Poor, broken John Watson, with his little limp and his little gun. I see it, you know, what we’ve taken from Locke already. How he thought you were the One, how’d you save all the other little bugs, scurrying around.”
Closer.
“How he felt about you, all those disgusting, messy, human emotions that you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit.”
Closer.
“You’re nothing but a loose end now, Doctor Watson, and I intend to-”
Close enough. John grabs for the agent’s tie, jerking them together.
Slams his eyes shut. Coaxes his brain into the mental twist he’d learned from Locke; one step, another.
Shoves his hand into the agent’s chest.
Information floods into him, a sudden, inescapable overload where he’s conscious of every nanosecond. He watches Fox lower them to the ground as John and the agent twitch and jerk.
Breathe into it, John. Breathe.
With each breath he expands, gathering the data into himself. He’s opening to it, dissolving, snapping into that perfect, crystalline vision, and he finally, finally understands.
Sees it laid out like a first-year med school chart. Not a heartless, sterile machine, but an organism, a body, nerves sparking, blood pumping, interconnected. This agent, these people, antibodies and cells, organs and flesh wrapped in a skin that is the Matrix.
He follows the umbilical that leads from the agent to the heart, the Core, of the system. Part of him wants to tear and rend, to destroy the machines for what they’ve done- he shoves it down. Moves calmly, delicately, with surgical precision.
Finds one shard, then another, the shrapnel of what used to be Locke. Knows him, in that moment, down to the bone, to the cells. Would recognize any part of him, anywhere. Is absolutely suffused with love for this sharp-eyed disaster of a man. Pieces him together, stitching up the gaps and setting broken code to rights. Whispers life back into him.
When it’s done, he reaches out, pulls in Greg, gathers up Locke.
Help me. Help me find Hermes.
They work together- Locke’s memories of a boy named Mycroft, his beloved older brother who vanished, inexplicably; the way Fox’s eyes were caught by a brilliant, outspoken man during an endless Council meeting; a silent figure who sat next to John in a shattered dream and gave him time. Things that John wouldn’t have guessed, and some that don’t surprise him.
He slips them back into their bodies, feeling the rightness of it.
Hangs there, floating, for an eternity, simply watching it all work.
: : :
“Come back to me, John. Wake up.”
His eyes flutter, Locke’s face coming into focus above his own, just as it had when they pulled him out of the Matrix the first time. God, only a handful of days have passed since then.
“John?”
He reaches up, snags an arm around Locke’s neck, and tugs him down into a kiss. What he’s done today is just a stopgap- the machines, the agents, the war is still out there. For now, though, he intends to fall into the feel of Locke’s mouth and forget about the world.
Hours later, John stands at the control console, going over the brain wave scans again.
It’s a virus. A foul cohort of viruses, rather, working against the computer body that’s inside the Matrix, while simultaneously attacking the electric signals being sent to and from the physical brain.
It is, in effect, tangling their brains back into the Matrix. A matter of hours, maybe less, and the Matrix- the agents- will have access to everything tucked away in their heads. Their informants. Lists of targets.
The entry keys to Zion.
That’s the start of it, but the virus goes still deeper- it’s chipping away at their source code, rewriting it from the bottom up. Changing the program, altering the very thing that makes them ‘Hermes’ and ‘Locke,’ instead of anyone else on the street.
Huddled over the table, he’d poured over it with Fox, Anthea, and Shale, but they’ve come to the same conclusion a half-dozen times. Even if there was a way to pull Locke and Hermes out, what they got back wouldn’t be their crewmates.
Friends.
Lovers? If they manage it, if they get Locke out... If it’s even what Locke wants, once all this is over. Gazing down at his blank, empty face in that tunnel, John had been struck by just how much he wanted to know Locke, all the questions he had about his life, what made him tick- the man he might be, hidden away under all that leather and snark.
: : :
The world has hazy edges, and John knows he must be dreaming. Falling-floating-tumbling down the rabbit hole and bumping bits and pieces of his life on the way down.
A nudge at the wrist- performing his first large-scale surgery, reaching into the chest cavity of a living, breathing human being, literally holding life in his hands-
A knock on the shoulder- heat, the weight of his pack, gun in his hands, watching the enemy body drop-
A brush against the small of the back- sharp eyes and a twitch of lips set against translucent skin-
A pointed jab to the chest- “You can shape this reality around yourself; when you do, remember that the scalpel is as much a weapon as your gun.”
: : :
He stumbles into the common room after barely an hour’s rest, plagued by indecipherable dreams. Slumped at the table, Fox looks as bad as John can tell his own face does.
“Where’re the others?”
“Shale’s finally managed to get in touch with the Council, see if they have any ideas. Anthea’s still in bed.”
They stare at each other blearily, bowls of porridge going cold between them. John’s grateful for the thud of Shale’s boots in the hallway.
“The council says...” Shale pauses, swallowing, “they said we have to pull the plug.”
“We are not fucking doing that. It’ll kill them.”
“Fox, man, I know. I know, but it’s what Hermes would want. He’d kill himself before he put Zion in danger like that.”
“Don’t try to tell me what Hermes would want! We’re not doing it.” John grabs Fox’s wrist before it can make contact with Shale’s face.
“Sit. Down. Fox. Of course we’re not doing it.”
Shale stares at the both of them. “Yes, we are. I’m sorry, Fox, John, but we are. With Hermes gone, I’m the captain, and I have to keep Zion safe. If they get into Hermes’ head, that’s the end of it. We’re done.”
Anthea’s unruffled voice breaks the tense standoff that’s taken hold. “I’m sorry, Shale. I do so hate to state the obvious, but there are three of us, and only one- well.” She waves a hand in his direction. “We’ll find a way to get them out, with or without you.” Her inflection leaves no doubt as to what ‘without you’ entails.
Shale sets his jaw, staring at Anthea. John knows what it’s like, and if he were captain he’d be making the same decision, but he’s not the captain this time around. He is going to save Locke and Hermes, and god help whoever gets in his way.
Shale makes contact with three sets of steely eyes in turn.
“The Council’s contacting us again in an hour, and they expect this matter resolved. I’ll be on the flight deck for exactly sixty minutes, and then I’m pulling the plug and taking us home. What happens between now and then, well...” He turns on his heel and strides from the room.
In the silence Shale leaves behind, John hears the Statistician’s voice again, goading him. “I think... I think I might have an idea.”
: : :
There’s no time to practice, to get a grip on it, to decide that it might be anything other than what it is- a crazy, last-ditch effort, based on little but hope and blind faith.
He looks at Fox. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this.”
Anthea gives them the count-
: : :
Black. Stark, unrelenting, battle-ready black from top to toe. They’re taking no prisoners, giving no quarter.
Anthea dropped them in the most closely-monitored area she could find- an agent opens a door and steps out into their path almost immediately. One he recognizes.
The agent from the cab.
“I did tell you we’d meet again, Doctor Watson.”
John says nothing, Fox a solid weight at his shoulder; watching as the agent strides closer.
“Did you think that you’d be of any use, Doctor? Poor, broken John Watson, with his little limp and his little gun. I see it, you know, what we’ve taken from Locke already. How he thought you were the One, how’d you save all the other little bugs, scurrying around.”
Closer.
“How he felt about you, all those disgusting, messy, human emotions that you couldn’t even bring yourself to admit.”
Closer.
“You’re nothing but a loose end now, Doctor Watson, and I intend to-”
Close enough. John grabs for the agent’s tie, jerking them together.
Slams his eyes shut. Coaxes his brain into the mental twist he’d learned from Locke; one step, another.
Shoves his hand into the agent’s chest.
Information floods into him, a sudden, inescapable overload where he’s conscious of every nanosecond. He watches Fox lower them to the ground as John and the agent twitch and jerk.
Breathe into it, John. Breathe.
With each breath he expands, gathering the data into himself. He’s opening to it, dissolving, snapping into that perfect, crystalline vision, and he finally, finally understands.
Sees it laid out like a first-year med school chart. Not a heartless, sterile machine, but an organism, a body, nerves sparking, blood pumping, interconnected. This agent, these people, antibodies and cells, organs and flesh wrapped in a skin that is the Matrix.
He follows the umbilical that leads from the agent to the heart, the Core, of the system. Part of him wants to tear and rend, to destroy the machines for what they’ve done- he shoves it down. Moves calmly, delicately, with surgical precision.
Finds one shard, then another, the shrapnel of what used to be Locke. Knows him, in that moment, down to the bone, to the cells. Would recognize any part of him, anywhere. Is absolutely suffused with love for this sharp-eyed disaster of a man. Pieces him together, stitching up the gaps and setting broken code to rights. Whispers life back into him.
When it’s done, he reaches out, pulls in Greg, gathers up Locke.
Help me. Help me find Hermes.
They work together- Locke’s memories of a boy named Mycroft, his beloved older brother who vanished, inexplicably; the way Fox’s eyes were caught by a brilliant, outspoken man during an endless Council meeting; a silent figure who sat next to John in a shattered dream and gave him time. Things that John wouldn’t have guessed, and some that don’t surprise him.
He slips them back into their bodies, feeling the rightness of it.
Hangs there, floating, for an eternity, simply watching it all work.
: : :
“Come back to me, John. Wake up.”
His eyes flutter, Locke’s face coming into focus above his own, just as it had when they pulled him out of the Matrix the first time. God, only a handful of days have passed since then.
“John?”
He reaches up, snags an arm around Locke’s neck, and tugs him down into a kiss. What he’s done today is just a stopgap- the machines, the agents, the war is still out there. For now, though, he intends to fall into the feel of Locke’s mouth and forget about the world.