"One" Part I: Apartment 101
Summary: "One is the saddest experience you'll ever know". A look into the mind of Neo before, during and after the Matrix Trilogy.
A/N: "Apartment 101" is the first in a series of vignettes that will make up this fic "One". This section is set before the first Matrix film, also titled "A day in the life of a dork"
A/N 2: This entire fic was inspired by the song "One", originally by Three Dog Night, covered by John Farnham. It's just a cool song and I thought I'd plug it.
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"One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do
One is the saddest experience you'll ever know""
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"One" - Three
Dog Night
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Routine.
Awakened by alarm. Hit snooze. Sleep in. Wake up again. Shit. Fumble for clothes. Check clock. Shit. Search for keys. Double shit. Realise you catch the bus to work. Triple shit. Arrive late. Get summoned to management. Curse inwardly. Look apologetic. Get chewed out nonetheless. Spend day in death-trap, otherwise known as cubicle. Escape to park for lunch. Sit alone. Return to drudgery. Home again. Switch on computer. Search. Search. Search. Watch t.v. Search. Eat. Search. Fall asleep at computer. Awakened by alarm.
Day in, day out.
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Thomas Anderson hated monotony.
After 33 years, the days had begun to bleed into one another.
He'd awaken to the insistent beeping of his alarm, every day promising himself he would change the tone, but then realising the time, file it away for later. Then, of course, he always forgot.
Every morning was a struggle to get himself ready on time. Every day he fought a war with his apartment, searching for that lost shoe, watch or tie that somehow never seemed to be in the place he had left it the previous night. His suit was always crumpled, and it didn't quite fit him properly, but Thomas had decided long ago that he didn't give a shit. It wasn't like he had anyone to impress, anyway.
He didn't own a car, too much hassle. Even though catching the bus guaranteed being seated near people of questionable character and hygiene, he didn't care. He didn't bother anyone and these people had the courtesy to offer him the same respect. It was at the office he had to endure the arduous tasks of conversation.
"Hey, Anderson!" a colleague, Geoff, or Peter, or Mark would call, and he would cringe inwardly. It was almost a game, a task he set himself every morning to see how far he could get into the office without being disturbed. He'd set a new record today, only five feet from his desk. So close, yet so, so far.
"Hey" he would reply, half-heartedly, gazing at his cubicle with longing.
"You catch the game last night, Anderson?"
"Uh, no…I – "
"Well you missed out big time, buddy! The Sentinels were on fire! Falco made a…."
It was usually at this point Thomas tuned out, occasionally nodding his head, giving a forced "Oh really?" every now and then. But then, his colleagues were not the most observant men alive, and therefore never noticed his indifference to all things socially popular. He didn't pride himself on his knowledge of football, except for that one time in college when he'd hacked into the system and fucked around a little with it.
If he was lucky, an equally sporting-minded worker would join the conversation and grant him a reprieve. In his cubicle, he would begin the day, praying that no one had noticed his arrival time, which was more often then not horribly late. He was forever thankful that he seemed to be the type of person who would fade into the background.
Riding the elevator was often the highlight of his working day. The silence, with the exception of the soft hum of a fluorescent light, welcomed him. Accepted him with the mechanical shutting of the doors. Unless of course he had the misfortune to share the elevator. Forced to impart some of his domain to whoever had invaded his quiet contemplation. The office and the outside world was alien to him, but the elevator – the elevator was his. He didn't ask for much, just that small three by four square of metal floor.
101 was his apartment at the end of the hall, a beacon of light at the end of a long day. But then he saw his landlady struggling with her garbage, overflowing with tissues, newspaper and assorted food products. Every week he considered just walking past, into the shelter of his room and letting the woman fend for herself, but then instinct kicked in.
"Can I help you with that, Mrs Johannsen?"
He was always rewarded with a pat on the arm, since her height barely reached his shoulder, and a friendly smile.
"Thank you Thomas, always such a gentleman. Have you found yourself a nice young lady yet?"
The conversation was always the same, as constant as the heat that crept to his cheeks. He would always stutter out an excuse before he carried the garbage downstairs. He hadn't brought anyone back to his apartment in what seemed like years. Always too nervous to approach someone, always too unnerved when approached.
Once enclosed within the safety of his small, musty room, relief came to him. The walls were toned with green and grey, a thicket of technology, but at least here he could be alone. The computer was the first thing to be flicked on, followed by the tv and music. A beer would be pulled from the six pack he had purchased on the way home and a bowl of Capt'n Crunch fixed. He briefly considered tidying the apartment, removing the endless chocolate wrappers and Chinese take-out containers, but decided against it. Recalled his father's obsessive notion that his room was never clean enough. Fuck it. This was his apartment and he didn't want it to be clean, sterile and smelling of bleach. Not when there were more important matters at hand.
In "The Matrix", the exclusive hacker hangout, Thomas always observed but never participated.
JACKON: I heard Morpheus has been on this board.
SUPERASTIC: Morpheus doesn't even exist and the Matrix is nothing but an advertising gimmick for a new game.
TIMAXE: All I want to know is Trinity really a girl?
LODIII: 87% of all women on line are really men.
QUARK: The Matrix is a euphemism for the government.
SUPERASTIC: No, The Matrix is the system controlling our lives.
TIMAXE: You mean MTV.
SUPERASTIC: I mean Sega.
FOS4: ALL HAIL SEGA!!!
Fuckin' idiots didn't know shit.
Information on Morpheus was becoming scarce. It wasn't that there was a lack of articles, reports and police files on him…it was more that there was very little Thomas had not already seen. There was a solitary photo of him, dark face hidden by even darker glasses. A strong face. A leader. This man. This man had the answers.
Of Trinity, however, there was nothing. No photo, no descriptions. Just a trail of achievements. As a hacker his reputation was unparalleled, except maybe by Morpheus. And somehow, Thomas knew that by finding one, he would inevitably find the other.
"Hey Tommy-boy! Open up!"
Not the most pleasant sound to awaken him from his reverie, although that particular voice was often acquainted with cash, which caused Thomas to open the door instead of employ his usual policy of ignorance. As suspected, it was Choi.
"Hey man, knew you'd be home. Let's face it, where else is a stud like you going to be?". Choi, as usual, was not alone, Dujour hanging off his arm like an accessory.
"What do you need, Choi?"
"I'm desperate, man. The shackles of fascism…they've got me".
Thomas listened, as he did to all of Choi's tirades. Surprisingly, when Choi was finished, the appendage on his arm spoke.
"You can really get that for us?"
"Hey…Tommy here might look like just another geek but he's all we got left standing between Big Brother and the New World Order"
Thomas sighed.
"Thanks. I'll have it done in a few days".
Back into the darkness. Back to the questions, the plagued thoughts, the restlessness.
What is The Matrix?
Even in sleep he was denied a respite. Dreams plagued his consciousness, to the point where he found himself loathe to sleep at all.
He saw himself clad in black, dusty and broken. Dead. Numerous bullet wounds perforated his chest as he slid against the wall and down, down onto the floor. Heard his own heart give out and the sound of a flatline. Saw his life bleed out of him slowly, with no hope of reprieve.
And in his dreams, his blood was green.
A/N: The Hacker conversation and the Choi/Neo interaction was shamelessly stolen from the 1996 Matrix shooting script, for no other reason than I'm an extremely lazy person. Don't kill me, I changed it a little. Well, not really. But at least I'm referencing. I would put a link to it here but ff.net won't let me. I'll put a link in my bio if anyone is interested.
