Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters except Fox and Jack. They all belong to the Wachowskis and the WB. But you all knew that, anyways.
Author's notes: When you read this, please keep in mind that I am trying to create a character. Furthermore, that character is not me. Any opinions she expresses on such touchy subjects as religion and God are there as part of her personality, and are not meant to directly challenge anybody's beliefs. So don't get pissed at me for them, ok?
Also, I still have my thing about titles—they suck. So the one that led you here doesn't mean much of anything.
I never really went for the all-black look. I mean, I thought about it, sure--I had always felt that the world was not a place designed for me and wearing black seemed like an easy way to make that statement. But the more I thought about it, the stupider it seemed. I suppose that once, there was a time when wearing black really meant something, and to many people, it still did. More and more, though, it was just something that the hollow crowd did to make themselves feel bad-ass and important. It didn't mean anything to them. "Hollow crowd" is the term I've invented for the every-day masses that don't bother to question anything or challenge the world they live in. They buy into everything that's put in front of their faces like middle-aged housewives watching the home shopping network. The world is their infomercial. Eventually, some of them decide that they're bored with the brand-name bullshit, so they decide to switch over and start going for the artsy-fartsy variety. And they start wearing black. It doesn't mean anything to them—it's a hollow statement. Hence, "hollow crowd." They disgust me. But then, it seems that most people do. I decided that I did want a colour, though—a motif, if you want—but black wouldn't be it. I thought about white, but its association with purity and innocence would counter my entire mentality. Besides, white fades too easily into the background, and I refuse to blend into a world from which I hold myself so completely distinct. My third option was the colour I chose. It is the colour of anger, the colour of rebellion, the colour of blood. My colour is red.
I was never a hacker. To be perfectly honest, I've despised computers for as long as I can remember. They're so inherently artificial, so false. To me, the internet was nothing more than a representation of corporate strength and control over the world. The internet made the world even uglier than it already was. Maybe my inherent distrust came from an instinctual knowledge of the truth, of the overbearing control that computers truly did have over all of us. I don't think I'll ever know. But my point is, I was never a hacker--I was an artist. For as long as I can remember, the only things in my life that have ever been real and substantial is my hatred and anger. So I took those emotions and harnessed them, confining them to paper, canvas, and clay. Eventually my anger evolved into a sort of desperate hope that there was another layer of existence beyond the one I was living. I know other people had similar feelings—it was the thing they called God, or heaven, or Zen, or Eden, or any of a hundred thousand other names. I never believed in any of those things, though. The existence I believed in was purely non-spiritual. You might describe it as a fifth dimension, a larger universe encompassing the one in which we lived. My desire to discover that greater reality became the driving force in my life, until it eventually surpassed even my anger in terms of its importance to me. The hollow crowd tried to sell me religion as a solution. "It's Jesus/Buddha/Krishna/Yahweh/Mohammed/Zeus/God trying to reach you," they said. They were full of shit. My art reflected my struggle—looking back upon my work, I can see the trends that developed. Images and themes of hands demolishing barriers, faces stretching against malleable films which I suppose could be interpreted to symbolize the distinction between my realities. I don't believe in over-analyzing art. I just know that the conflict within me manifested itself into these images, making them too passionate for many, but very valuable to many more.
I was working late in a gallery when they I was first approached. A few of my pieces were going on display the following day, and if all went well, I might sell one or two. I sure as hell needed the money. The gallery owner, Jack, was there, too, but he'd left for a few minutes to go buy himself a cup of the ultra-fancy coffee to which he was hopelessly addicted. He was the kind of pretentious artist who spent all his free time smoking weed and pontificating, and never ordered a cup of coffee unless its name was preceded by at least fifteen adjectives. His beverage of choice was a 'venti double-tall extra black extra hot non-fat dry caramel cappuccino.' I had ordered it for him often enough to have it memorized. I couldn't stand him, but I wasn't about to turn down a show. Anyways, the point is, he left the front door unlocked in his rush to get to Starbucks or wherever before it closed. I was hanging a piece of mine called "Digital Blindfold"—a line drawing that combined the digital symbols of binary code with the intense, fluid shapes of human form. I had been especially angry at technology at the time I drew it, I guess, though I don't remember why, and anyways, it's irrelevant now. I hadn't heard the door open, but when I turned around there was a woman staring intently at another of my paintings on the opposite wall. I couldn't help but chuckle quietly to myself when I noticed that she was clad head-to-toe in black leather, and the picture she was studying so carefully was the one I had called "Hollow Crowd." It was one of my earlier works and, in my opinion, one of my best, so I had a particular emotional attachment to it. But my bank account was nearly empty, and I knew that one would sell, so I'd put it on the wall. I was happy to see that it was already getting attention when the show hadn't even started yet. Still, the gallery was closed, and if Jack came back to find some random person in there after-hours, he would have had my head.
"Um, excuse me ma'am, but I'm afraid we're closed."
Only her head turned when I spoke, the rest of her body remaining completely stationary. Her shoulders remained square, one hand clutching her opposite wrist across the small of her back. I could feel her studying me out of the corner of her eye, though I couldn't see through the dark mirrored shades she was wearing.
Pure hollow crowd, I thought laughingly. Aloud, I said, "Listen, ma'am, the gallery opens at 9 am tomorrow if you're interested in that painting. The artist will be here, and she'll be more than happy to answer any questions you have about any of her work. But right now, I have to ask you to leave."
She turned and faced the painting again before saying, "You are the artist, Fox."
I was confused. Fox was the name I put on my paintings, the name I gave myself. Something akin to a pen name, I guess. Nobody ever referred to me directly by that title. I walked up and stood beside her. She was tall, I noticed. At five foot seven, I was a taller-than-average woman. Still, she had a few inches over me. I had never seen her before--I knew that.
"That's right, I'm the artist," I exhaled in exasperation. "People don't actually call me that, you know. My name is—"
"Your name is Fox," she interrupted. Why was she so persistent about this?
"Look, all right, fine, but--"
"Your name is Fox, and this," she pointed to a hand in the picture that appeared to be breaking through the canvas, stretching out into the space in front, "This is your hand."
I stared at her. How had she known? There were dozens of hands on this particular painting, each conveying similar emotions, but she had pointed to this particular one, the one I had modeled distinctly after my own hand. It had a scar on it that mirrored one on my right hand. On the painting it was distinctly visible, but on my actual flesh, it was all but unnoticeable. Glancing at me, she pointed directly at the scar on the painting. "I imagine you're more careful when slicing bagels, now."
The sentiment that had started as slight discomfort expanded into outright fear. When I was twelve, I had been slicing a bagel when the knife slipped, gouging the top of my left index finger and leaving that exact scar. That had been seven years earlier, though, and I couldn't think of any reason that this complete stranger would have known about it.
"How the hell did you know that?"
"I know a lot about you, Fox." She turned to face me. "I know that you'd be wanted in six counties for breaking and entering if the cops had the slightest idea who committed your crimes--"
"Shit," I interrupted her. So that's what she wanted. I thought about denying it, but somehow I could tell that with her, that wouldn't work. "Look, I just needed the money, okay? I didn't have any then and I don't now, I don't have anything to give you. What do you want from me?"
The bemused look that flashed across her face confused me. Then she continued to speak as though I hadn't said anything.
"I know what your paintings mean, Fox. I know that you hate the world you live in, I know that your life is haunted by the idea that there's something bigger than the world you live in. It's not a spiritual 'bigger' for you, though—it's a physical 'bigger.' And I know what this 'bigger' is, Fox."
For a moment, I was unable to speak. We stood there facing each other, red next to black. I examined her. She was older than me by quite a bit—ten years, at least. Try as I might, I couldn't remember where I must have met her before. Who was this? How the hell did she know me so well? Where had she come from? What did she want from me?
"What is it?" I managed to croak against the sudden stiffness of my tongue.
"It is the Matrix."
"The what?" I had never heard of it.
"The Matrix. The 'bigger,' Fox. The greater reality."
I didn't know what she was talking about, but I knew it was true. This wasn't like the bullshit that the entire rest of the world had tried to push on me. This was real. No longer able to control myself, I seized the collar of her leather trench coat and pulled her face close to mine. "Listen, don't fuck with me, whoever you are. I don't take well to cryptic answers to straightforward questions. What the hell is the Matrix?"
With a strength that dumbfounded me, she took hold of my wrists and forced me to let go of her coat. Straightening, she regarded me with a studious eye.
"Nobody can tell you that, Fox. You have to see it for yourself, and I'm not certain you're ready. You will be, though, and when you are, it will find you."
I stepped back, defeated. I wasn't going to get any more answers from her yet. She turned and began to walk towards the door.
"Wait!" I threw at her. She turned to face me again. "Who are you?"
"My name is Trinity."
It meant nothing to me. She was about to walk away, when, almost as an afterthought, she extended a finger toward the name card that accompanied the painting she had been studying.
"This I can tell you—I am not one of them."
I followed her with my eyes as she walked out of the gallery and disappeared down the street. Only then did I turn my gaze to the name card, studying the words printed there in bold, capitalized letters: HOLLOW CROWD. 'No, Trinity,' I thought, 'you are definitely not one of them.'
For a moment, I was tempted to pull the picture off the wall, to study it, to see where the answer was hidden within its image. It had to be there, somewhere—why else would Trinity have chosen it? I suppressed the urge, though. Answer or no answer, I still had to eat. I had to laugh at the irony of the situation—it was my artwork, and yet I didn't know what it meant. I stood and stared at it until Jack snapped me back to attention. I shook my head to clear it and took the coffee he held out to me (just a plain, black coffee, like I'd asked), and then returned to hang the rest of my pieces.
The next morning, I overslept. I was supposed to be at the gallery by 8:45 for the opening at 9:00, but I didn't even crawl out of bed until 9:15. At 9:45 I dragged my ass in the front doors of the gallery. I hadn't had time to shower or eat, which was made even worse by the fact that I'd had to sprint the two-mile trek to the gallery from my apartment. When I arrived, I stumbled into the washroom at the back of the room and made a haphazard attempt to straighten myself out. When I walked out, Jack was standing there to meet me.
"Where the hell have you been? You were supposed to be here when we opened."
"Look, I'm sorry, I overslept. Must have forgotten to set my alarm or something. I got here as fast as I could."
"Yeah, well, that may not be fucking good enough! How many sales do you think we might have lost because you weren't here to schmooze with people? When somebody made an offer on your big piece, I had to barter it for you, and you know--"
"I sold my big piece? You sold 'Hollow Crowd?'" I felt a kick in my gut, and I wasn't sure if it was happiness or disappointment. I need the money, I reminded myself. Rent is due in a week. "How much?"
"$450."
"WHAT????" I could have throttled him. My asking price had been $800. I had hoped to get $700 for it, but I would never have settled for less than $600. It was a huge piece—about seven feet tall by six feet wide. "You asshole, you knew what I wanted for that piece. For god's sake, man, the show's only been on for an hour! Are you that fucking eager to get a fucking sale that you're willing to fuck me over in the process? You know it would have sold eventually, but no, you had to give it to the first fucking moron that asked for it. That painting was my meal ticket for the next month, man, and you screwed me over."
"Look, if you'd of been here when the guy asked for it, you coulda got what you wanted. I just did my best. The guy was a collector, I didn't want to piss him off."
I regarded him with a dagger-sharp glare.
"Fuck you." With that, I brushed past him.
I had only planned to stay at the show for a couple of hours, but I didn't want to leave any more sales in Jack's hands. I stayed until closing. By the end of the day I had sold two more pieces at prices I deemed more reasonable for the money I got for Hollow Crowd. I didn't come close to making up the $150 I had lost, though. If I stretched my earnings thin enough, they would last me couple months. The show was still on for another week, I reminded myself. Still, it was normal for the bulk of sales to be made on the opening day, because that was when collectors came in. I could easily not sell another piece. Maybe if I offered to do a little work around home, my landlord would give me a little cut in the rent for the time being. I hadn't eaten all day and my stomach was killing me. I bought a hot dog from a street vendor and wolfed it down on my way to the library, where I was planning on doing a little research. I had to find out who this Trinity person was. What did she know? Why wouldn't she tell me? I didn't really follow the news. The goings-on of the rest of the world didn't interest me at all, so I lived in a self-imposed ignorance that I enjoyed. I spent four hours at the library that night, scanning old microfilm newspaper articles. One in particular caught my interest. The headline read. "IRS KANSAS CITY DATABASE CRASHES, MYSTERIOUS HACKER 'TRINITY' BELIEVED TO BE RESPONSIBLE." The text continued: "The IRS database in Kansas city was suddenly shut down last night following the infiltration of a virus believed to be created by the notorious hacker Trinity. All employees attempting to access the database were greeted with an alert message saying "What is the Matrix?" before their access was completely denied and their terminals erased. Any information regarding the identity of Trinity should be reported to local authorities…" So, she's a hacker, I thought. I should have guessed. Throughout the article, this Trinity was referred to as male. Still, for some reason, I was fairly convinced that this was the same Trinity I had met the day before. This article was fifteen years old. There were a few follow-up articles over the next few days and weeks, and then she wasn't mentioned again.
I scanned the list of subject headings that the librarian had given me. "If you're interested in Trinity," she'd said, "you might be interested in these, too. A lot of them are believed to be related to him." I didn't bother correcting her little gender mix-up. Little on the list interested me. Most of the terms were things like "IRS, taxes, hacking, internet, cyberterrorism." A few terms at the bottom of the list caught my eye, though. Morpheus… Neo… the Matrix… There it was again. What the hell was it? I looked it up, but there were no articles under that subject heading. Fucking useless librarian. Morpheus was a term I recognized. He was probably the most notorious terrorist the world had ever seen. Even someone living in self-imposed isolation like me couldn't be oblivious to him. There were hundreds, maybe even thousands, of articles under his name. I limited my search to the current year. Again, one article caught my eye: "TERRORISTS DESTROY GOVERNMENT BUILDING, MORPHEUS ESCAPES." Apparently, Morpheus had been captured by the C.I.A and was being held at a city government building, when two lone attackers entered the building, defeated the dozens of guards sent to stop them, and escaped with Morpheus in an army helicopter. I couldn't help but laugh at that little piece of irony. My laughter died in my throat, however, when I saw the photograph that accompanied the article. It was a taken by a security camera in the lobby of the building, and though it was unclear, I distinctly recognized one of the two figures. It was Trinity. So she's a terrorist… For some reason, that didn't scare me. Morpheus didn't scare me, either, though I would never have said that aloud. People would have thought me insane. I looked at my watch: 10:45 pm. The library would be closing in fifteen minutes. I left.
My landlord was out sweeping the hallway in a bathrobe and curlers when I arrived home. She was a nice old lady in her late sixties who kept hours nearly as bad as mine. She'd never had any kids, and I'd never really had any parents, so she liked to take care of me. My apartment was her only source of income, so she did need me to pay my rent. There were a few times when she'd made me chicken soup when I was sick, though, and she always brought me cookies and things when she'd been baking. I'd been lucky to find her.
"Hello, dearie," she cooed, "how was your show?"
"Not too bad, thanks. I sold a few pieces… one for much less than what it's worth, but those are the breaks, I guess. I have rent money, though."
"Yes, well, you just pay me whenever you can. Oh, before I forget, a FedEx came for you today. I signed for it, I hope you don't mind."
I was puzzled—who would have a FedEx for me? "No, that's fine, thank you."
She retreated into her apartment and returned with a bulging soft-pack. I thanked her and brought it upstairs with me. I opened the package within the safety of my apartment, reached in, and pulled out a… cell phone? What the hell was this? Somebody's idea of a cruel joke. I couldn't even afford a regular phone, let alone a cell, and—
It rang. I answered it.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Fox." A male voice. "Do you know who this is?"
I hesitated momentarily, before hazarding a guess: "Morpheus?"
"Very good, Fox. I am Morpheus."
Nobody spoke for a few seconds. I supposed he was waiting for me to say something, but I had nothing to say. I was about to make some sarcastic comment about the purpose of his call when he finally broke the silence.
"You are an interesting case, Fox. There are very few like you. You were hard to find."
"Excuse me?"
"Usually, an individual's need for truth is characterized by his or her search for myself, Trinity, or Neo. You, however, did none of these things until Trinity herself planted the seed in your head. Your search for reality, however, is more intense than almost any I've ever seen. The difference is, you searched for the answer within yourself. Unfortunately, the answer lies no more there than it does in me, or Neo, or Trinity. It lies in the Matrix."
I was getting really, really sick of all this psychoanalytic bullshit, first from Trinity, and now from him. "Listen, Morpheus, I don't like people fucking with my head like this, and I don't have time to—"
"Do you want to know what it is, Fox?"
"Excuse me?"
"The reality. The Matrix. Do you want to know what it is?"
I felt my heart stop. He was offering me the truth. I had to spit out my answer: "Yes."
"Be at the corner of Greene and Sherbrooke in one hour." He hung up.
"Shit… what the hell am I doing?" I chastised myself silently. Then I picked up my bag and headed out the door.
It took very near the full hour for me to get to the designated corner. I lived on the other side of town, and it was raining. A cab would have been a very, very nice luxury, if only I could afford it, and the buses weren't running that late--a glance at my watch told me it was 12:30 am. I jogged up to the corner just as an old, black Lincoln pulled up. I paused to lean against a telephone pole, trying to catch my breath, when the suicide door on the car swung open.
"Get in." It was Trinity. I did.
It didn't even have time to register. I hadn't even settled myself into the seat before I found myself staring into the barrel of a gun. I froze. Trinity reached across me with her free hand and closed the door. Now, I was scared.
"Oh God… please don't hurt me I didn't do anything at least not on purpose please please don't hurt me oh god oh god I--"
"Fox!" Trinity's commanding tone snapped me out of my blubbering. "I know you don't understand now, but you will. This is necessary for our protection."
"Protection from what? From me? I don't have anything--"
"Yes you do. I'm sorry, but if you're not one of us, you're one of them. Neo, seal her up."
With that, the only other person in the car turned from his position in the driver's seat, brandishing a roll of duct tape. He tore off two pieces and used them to tape my eyes shut, Trinity still holding her gun steadily aimed at my head. I recognized the man as the other person from the newspaper photograph as I was shut into the darkness.
I felt the car pull away from the curb, and I could hear Trinity moving around in the seat next to me. I had thousands of questions racing through my head, but fear silenced all of them. Suddenly, the car's interior light was turned on, shining through my closed lids.
"Lift up your shirt." That was Trinity.
"What? No!"
The car lurched to a halt. Trinity sighed. She sounded exasperated. "Fox, I need you to lift up your shirt. I need to see your stomach. Now, please." Reluctantly, I complied. She started poking and prodding at the flesh around my navel.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking to see if you're bugged. We've watched you carefully, so I don't think you are, but just to be safe…" The prodding subsided. "No, you're clean. Let's go." The engine started again, and we were off.
Nobody said anything for a few minutes. The questions were still swimming around my brain, but I was afraid to be the one to break the silence. It's true, what they say, that when you lose one of your senses, the others increase to compensate. I could hear and feel ever little sound and movement in that car. So when the man (had she called him Neo?) said "Shit—Agents on our tail," the ensuing silence and stillness took the grain of fear that I still felt and amplified it exponentially. A few seconds later, I heard Trinity move.
"I can't see them," she said simply.
"I know, they're not close enough yet. But they know where we are." That was him.
"Is it her?" They were talking about me.
"I don't think so. Her code shows no traces of contact with agents, so I don't think they know her. Somebody must have seen you when you let her in the car."
"Okay, so they know I'm here. Do they know you're with me?"
"I don't think they'd be trying to catch us if they did." A low chuckle. "I'll just pull into an alley over here and wait for them to show up."
"Do you want me to come with you?"
"No, I should be all right on my own. There are only two of them. Just… just take the driver's seat so you can make a run for it if you have to."
"All right. Be careful."
With that, I heard both doors on that side of the car open. They both got out. The rear door slammed, then I heard Trinity settle herself into the driver's seat, and the front door slammed.
I had listened in silence to this short dialogue, but I couldn't hold it in any longer.
"What are Agents?"
"They are what we fight," she replied simply. "Just keep the tape over your eyes and you should be safe." I wasn't reassured.
"What is he going to do?"
"Neo? He's going to erase them."
This answer didn't satisfy me, but I could tell by Trinity's tone that I wasn't going to get any more out of her right now. Suddenly, I could hear her stiffen in her seat. Obeying her unspoken, though well communicated, command, I kept as silent as possible. Somewhere in front of the car, I could hear male voices. One was Neo, but I didn't recognize the others. The scuffling sounds ensued, and I heard the clatter of a metal garbage can tipping over. Suddenly, there was a flash of light, followed in quick succession by a second. Trinity's breathing was shallow and rapid. A few seconds later, I heard her relax. The door on the passenger side opened and Neo climbed in. The engine restarted.
Trinity broke the ensuing silence: "Shit… I just can't get used to that, Neo…"
"Neither can I, Trin." His voice shook a little. "I'm sorry about that, Fox. If it's any consolation to you, I can tell you that this will become routine for you if all goes well."
"No, that isn't really any consolation. Thanks anyways." If all goes well? What the hell were they leading me into?
We drove the rest of the way in silence. When we stopped, Neo turned around and gently peeled the tape off my eyes. I had braced myself against the pain I was certain would accompany the tape removal, but was pleasantly surprised to feel… nothing. That puzzled me. I should have felt the tearing of my eyelashes and the ripping of dead skin cells, something similar to when you tear off a band-aid, but I didn't. At this point, though, I was too afraid and confused to question something which seemed so petty. We were parked outside an abandoned building. The old, faded sign in front read "Heart O' the City Hotel." I didn't recognize it.
Neo looked at me. "Just follow Trinity." To her: "See you in a few."
Then he was gone. I followed Trinity into the hotel and up a very rickety flight of stairs. She stopped in front of a large door a few floors up, and turned to face me.
"This is it." She paused. "Let me give you this piece of advice. Be honest. He knows more than you can possibly imagine."
With that, she opened the door. I followed her into the room.
The next few minutes are a haze in my memory. First I was talking to Morpheus. The next thing I knew, I was swallowing a red pill (how couldn't I? It was red!), and then Trinity and Neo were fastening electrodes to my head, and then the old painting over the mantle came to life and the water in the picture poured out of the frame and threatened to drown me, and then everything went black, and the I was waking up in a vat of red goo, and I was staring into the eyes of a huge electroid spider, and I was falling into a sewer, and I was pulled up, and I was staring into the somehow different-looking faces of Morpheus, Neo, and Trinity, and I passed out.
When Morpheus showed me the truth, I reacted differently from most people. I was not incredulous, I was not in denial, I suffered no sense of intense loss. It made sense to me, somehow. I had always felt that there was something more, and when I learned what that something was, I was satisfied. This is not to say, however, that I was happy about it. I shut myself into my room and considered my former life, considered the things I'd done, the experiences I'd lived, and came to the conclusion that there was only one thing I'd left behind: my artwork. My search for truth had been my inspiration, and it was gone now. Where it had been, I felt a void. Besides, I thought bitterly, all the work that I made wasn't real, anyways. Digital paint on computerized canvasses. Shit.
A few hours later, I heard a knock on my door. I didn't acknowledge it, but my visitor slowly opened the hatch anyways.
"Fox?" It was Trinity.
I said nothing. She came in, quietly closing the door behind her, and then perched on the edge of the bed next to where I was curled up.
"It's okay to show a little emotion. This is the hardest thing that will ever happen to you. Nobody will think you any weaker for it."
I didn't say anything for a minute. I was, by nature, an emotional person. Not in the moody sense—on the contrary, on the surface I appeared to most people to be remarkably subdued and level-headed. I felt emotions strongly, though. They radiated through my entire body. Hell, I was an artist, and that was what allowed me to create.
"My artwork…" I managed to mumble.
Trinity nodded in understanding. "We used to have another artist with us, and she said the same thing when we unplugged her. She wasn't professional like you, but her art meant everything to her. That was what bothered her when she was freed—that her art wasn't real. It took her time, but eventually she understood that it was real. Her art was an expression of her, in the matrix or out. So physically, it only existed in the matrix, but in substance, it existed everywhere."
I pondered this for a few minutes. It made sense, I supposed. Still…
"Her name was Switch." There was a touch of sadness in Trinity's voice—the first emotion I had ever noticed in her apart from that brief moment of fear in the car. "She figured out how to mix rust shavings with oil to make a crude pigment. Just one colour, but you'll like it—red. I can show you how to make it. She painted murals all over the walls in her room. It's two doors down, behind us."
"What happened to her?"
"She died."
"Agents?"
"No. A traitor on board."
It took a few minutes for that to sink in.
"People die a lot here, don't they." It wasn't a question—I knew the answer.
"Yes." There was a sense of finality to her tone. "But at least they have the chance to really live, first."
I didn't want to think about it. I wasn't ready to die. I was intent on maintaining the conversation, though. I felt strangely comfortable with Trinity, though I hardly knew her. Instinctively, I trusted her, which was strange, because I didn't really trust anybody. I needed her to be there with me for a little while longer.
"So… who lived in this room before me?" How did they die?
"Neo."
"What? But he--"
"He just moved next door, there." She gestured in the direction of the opposite wall, indicating that he lived on the other side of it. That seemed strange, to me—why would he move one room over? But she didn't offer any reason, so I didn't ask.
"How about you? Where do you live?"
She paused, and then pointed again in the same direction she had when indicating Neo's room. "I live there, too. With Neo."
I smiled to myself. So that's why he moved. I couldn't say that I blamed her—he was one hell of a good-looking man. If he were a few years younger, I would have gone for him, too. I could tell from Trinity's face that there was more to it than that, though. Her and Neo… that was something special. There was substance, there. Someday, I would ask her about it--but not now.
The next day, my training started. I liked Tank—he had an easy-going, unassuming personality that caused me to appreciate him as a genuine person. Probably my favourite thing about the real world was that it seemed that nobody living there was hollow. Everybody had substance. I wasn't able to endure too much combat training at one shot. Three to four hours at a time proved to be my limit, but I'm told that's about average. When you're dealing with mostly a bunch of computer nerds, Tank explained, you're usually dealing with people that spend more time sitting than anything else. I suppose that made sense. My training took several days. There was a window period before I was allowed to return to the Matrix, and that was a rule strictly adhered to. The only time it had ever been allowed to be broken was with Neo, but he was a special case. I suppose being the One allows for certain privileges.
I spent my time studying these people whom I knew I would come to know as family, whom I would have to learn to trust. Morpheus was easy—a father figure to all of us, he was a little melodramatic and frighteningly brilliant. I learned from Tank that he was considered by many to be the best Captain of the rebellion. Tank's open, honest personality made him easy to get along with. I was happy with the thought that he would always be the one making sure we all had a safe route home, and that he would be the one watching over our bodies when we were jacked in.
Trinity and Neo were different from the other two. They were intensely private, both as individuals and in terms of their relationship. They didn't even hold hands when they thought anybody else could have seen them. An idle visitor would never have known they were a couple, unless he or she was observant enough to notice that they always sat together at mealtimes and retreated to the same bedroom every night. There was only one time that I ever actually saw anything happen between them. Trinity and Morpheus had had a particularly rough journey into the Matrix. They had been chased to the very edge of the city—so far that there was only one functioning hard-line for a mile or so in any direction, and the Agents knew where it was. There were three sentient programs hot on their pursuit, and while Neo begged Tank to send him in to erase them, the lone hard-line had to be kept open for the other two to exit. Morpheus, who had taken a bullet in the shoulder, exited first. The Agents caught up with Trinity when she was waiting for the signal to be patched through again. The phone rang, she picked it up, and she disappeared--just as a bullet passed directly through the point where her left eye had been. She was the queen of close calls, it seemed, but that was far, far too close, even for her. By the time she woke from the construct, she had managed to regain her composure. Neo, however, was slower to recover. He was kneeling beside her when she opened her eyes, obviously very, very afraid that he had lost her. He unplugged her with a still-trembling hand. For a moment they just sat there, staring at each other, Trinity's firm countenance in sharp contrast to Neo's shaky breathing. And then, all of the sudden, he kissed her more passionately than I had ever seen anybody kiss in my entire nineteen years of life, and her response was equally intense. While I admit to feeling a little out of place, the artist in me couldn't stop watching--it was beautiful…a complete, unabashed expression of emotion in its purest form. I could see from the shocked looks on Tank and Morpheus' faces that this was a new event for them, too. Silently, we left the room, leaving the lovers to each other.
I joined Morpheus in the mess hall a few minutes later, intent on asking him what the deal was with Neo and Trinity. There was something important about them, though I couldn't figure out what. A gut instinct, I guess. Before I even had a chance to speak, though, he smiled knowingly at me. "You want to know the story. You're ready." I nodded. He went on to tell me everything about Neo's awakening and Cypher's betrayal. He told me about Neo's death, and the Oracle's prophecy for Trinity, ending with Neo's miraculous revival and discovery that he was the One. At the end of the tale, I sat back, incredulous. I couldn't believe that things like that actually took place. It was like something out of a movie; the real world was less possible than the simulation. And yet, it was fact.
"So that's how it happened…"
"Yes."
I breathed deeply and shook my head. Fantastic. I turned it over in my mind. I could understand why he needed her. He needed his pillar, something real to keep him grounded… but what about her?
"How can she deal with that? He's superhuman…" I wasn't really expecting an answer, but as usual, Morpheus had one.
"Trinity's life in the Matrix was easily the hardest of any of us on this ship. Her father killed her mother when she was a child, and she was sent to live with relatives who didn't care for her. She spent her life completely alone… she had one bad relationship before we freed her, right around your age. She didn't trust anybody—not me, not Tank or Dozer. For a long time she wouldn't jack in because she was afraid that they wouldn't pull her out again. Nobody had ever been there for her before, so she didn't see why now should be any different. And then we unplugged Neo, and that whole story happened. I believed that her confession of love for Neo was precisely what she needed to learn to trust again, and that things would become easier for her after that point. Her fear was deeper than I had thought, though; she retreated into denial. She was terrified of developing a dependency on anybody, even him. For weeks, when we were down in Zion, I watched her fall deeper and deeper into her anger and confusion while pointedly avoiding Neo. She looked horrible—I don't think she slept much. I wanted so badly to help her… It was strange, you know. The only battle she couldn't fight was the one within her. And then, one morning, I sent Tank over to fetch Neo for some medical work. He found Neo's room empty. He came to get me, and together, we went to get Trinity, assuming that Neo had disappeared in an attempt to make himself useful somewhere and avoid his treatments. Nobody answered her door when we knocked, so we opened it quietly and found the two of them asleep on her bunk, curled up together. I judged from their dishevelled appearances that she had finally allowed her head to give in to her heart… I don't think they'd slept much that night." He smiled. "Since then… that's been it. I think she finally understood that he needed her as badly as she needed him."
I didn't see Trinity or Neo again that day until I passed Trinity on my way to the bathroom, just before I went to sleep.
"How are you?" I asked.
"I'm better."
"Neo?"
"He's fine, too." She paused, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Listen, I'm sorry that happened in front of all of you. It's never happened before…" Her voice trailed off distractedly.
I smiled at her. "Don't worry about it." No explanation was needed, but I guess she wanted to give one anyways, because she continued:
"Neo is… he's more than half of me, Fox. He is the best part of me. Sometimes, I think we share a soul."
She was confiding in me, I realized. I would never again hear her say anything that sentimental. When I returned to my room a few minutes later, I was greeted by the sounds of people making love in the next room. It didn't bother me in the least. There was something magical happening there, a connection more complete than any I had ever encountered. It was beyond beautiful… it was perfect. Suddenly, a seed of inspiration was planted in the back of my mind, and I wasn't tired anymore. I pulled out the can of paint that Trinity had helped me mix earlier, and tore the corner off of an old rag that I happened to have lying around. I wrapped the rag around my finger, dipped it in the pigment, and attacked the wall over my cot. I don't know how long I painted… by the time I finished, the ship was completely silent. I stood back to examine my work: it was abstract, as my pieces always were, with swirling lines, shapes and images interacting to create a work both emotionally and psychologically stimulating. I didn't think, when I was painting—I only felt. The images created themselves. And as I studied my mural, I noticed something: it was happy. It had round edges and smooth transitions, and the few pictures of hands I had included (my paintings always contained hands) were relaxed and open, compared to the clenched fists I had always preferred previously.
I crept to the bathroom to rinse out my rag, and hung it over my doorknob to let it dry. Before climbing into bed, I allowed myself to study my painting once more. It was good, I decided.
One inspiration lost, another found.
I curled up in my cot beneath my painting and fell asleep, but for the first time I could remember, it was with a smile on my face.
To be continued, hopefully, as soon as I'm inspired again…