Back to 101
By Adam Morgan
Room 101, a small square room, just like the others: Plain, uniform, controlled, subtly sinister but again, controlled, controlled by the Matrix. Locked away in this little room lies the One. Typing furiously at a PC, he stares deeply into the screen. All we see is lines, lines of green hieroglyphs and code, but he sees much deeper. He sees people, millions of people, moving, moving slowly. People, talking, thinking, breathing, living. People talking, about what the Matrix tells them to talk about. People thinking, thinking about what the Matrix tells them to think about. People breathing, breathing the air the Matrix wants them to breathe. People living, living the way the Matrix wants them to live. A member of the resistance, Neo knows the Zion codes, he has them on this PC, stored safely, soundly, tightly. Not even the Matrix can know these codes, they are real. The Matrix knows nothing real, only the virtual. He needs to leave soon, the agents will be arriving soon, they know where he is, the signals he gives out. Watching him, waiting for him to give out the codes. He's not stupid, he's packing up. He unplugs the PC, rips out the chords and removes the hard drive, pocketing it in his over coat, which swishes as he rises from the chair. He senses the agents, they are outside, coming up the stairs, running, talking, shouting. He smiles and backs against the wall and faces the door. The cold, uniform, controlled door and waits it for it to burst open.
Room 101, a small square room, just like the others: Plain, uniform, controlled, subtly sinister but again, controlled, controlled by the Matrix. Locked away in this little room lies the One. Typing furiously at a PC, he stares deeply into the screen. All we see is lines, lines of green hieroglyphs and code, but he sees much deeper. He sees people, millions of people, moving, moving slowly. People, talking, thinking, breathing, living. People talking, about what the Matrix tells them to talk about. People thinking, thinking about what the Matrix tells them to think about. People breathing, breathing the air the Matrix wants them to breathe. People living, living the way the Matrix wants them to live. A member of the resistance, Neo knows the Zion codes, he has them on this PC, stored safely, soundly, tightly. Not even the Matrix can know these codes, they are real. The Matrix knows nothing real, only the virtual. He needs to leave soon, the agents will be arriving soon, they know where he is, the signals he gives out. Watching him, waiting for him to give out the codes. He's not stupid, he's packing up. He unplugs the PC, rips out the chords and removes the hard drive, pocketing it in his over coat, which swishes as he rises from the chair. He senses the agents, they are outside, coming up the stairs, running, talking, shouting. He smiles and backs against the wall and faces the door. The cold, uniform, controlled door and waits it for it to burst open.