Beta Reader: Crystal (finding beauty)

Author's Note: This fic is based off of a role-playing storyline that my friend (Tabitha) and I came up with while we were brainstorming some ideas for future plots. I'm just expanding on what we've played, and what we're going to play since she's on vacation and I can't exactly do any playing without her. Yeah. I'm v. sulky.

Disclaimer: The Matrix and all things related belong to Warner Brothers and the Wachowski Brothers (o.O). I'm not trying to bank on anyone's roll … I'm just a humble fan under the influence of depression.

Resistance
Chapter One | The Coma

You're not alone ... …

A constant pounding resonated within his head, the steady beat pressing firmly behind his unseeing eyes. Either his heart had relocated to the base of his skull, or his body was trying to fight off the plug jammed into the back of his head. But that would mean that he was awake.

Stay with me ... Stay with me, Neo.

The familiar voice hitting his conscious like cold water, he desperately attempted to open his brown hues to what he knew would be his only hope for survival. But his muscles weren't responding. His eyelids refused to be directed, and his voice failed to respond to the woman's pleas.

Neo ...

The gentle voice was beginning to fade as he fell deeper into what he believed to be a mental limbo. Those in the real world believing his state to be comatose were unaware - unaware of what? He had lost his train of thought.

Finally able to open his eyes, he realized he was in the Matrix - but only a second before that memory passed, and he was left stranded to his own vices. Where was he? Hadn't he just answered that question? Looking down at his clothes, he became all the more confused, as he was clad in black in the middle of a hot summer day, and in a Chinese market for that matter. What was he doing in the middle of China? Was he Chinese? Did he live there? Perhaps he spoke Chinese ...

Spinning once around, slowly, to take in his current surroundings, he stopped as soon as he faced a large billboard towering above the entrance of the market. Large, green caption stood blindingly against a black background, a simple message reading: THE SYSTEM HAS YOU. Ebony orbs narrowed slightly as if history were repeating itself within his mind, but the billboard soon rotated in a series of vertical strips to reveal yet another caption, this time with a uniformed technician smiling contently beside the text: PROTECT YOURSELF WITH NERO VIRUS DETECTOR. Momentary reminiscence passed as the thought quickly evaded him.

Raising a shaky hand he ran long fingers through a field of dark tresses, his pale features frozen in astonishment. He couldn't remember anything. His past was as much a mystery as his name, and he had no clue as to who he could turn to for help.

Then he stopped. His wallet ... perhaps he had a wallet. Some form of identity to jog his conscious. Patting down the loosely fitted jacket, he found what he was looking for tucked neatly away within an inner pocket. Moving from the middle of the crowded market street, he stood beneath the shadow of a small restaurant embedded in a long, rectangular building. Flipping open the leather pocketbook, he yanked out several cards, including a driver's license with what he believed to be his photo plastered in the corner. Next to it would be his name, "Thomas A. Anderson." It jogged none of his mental syntaxes, however he continued reading: "Samson Heights, Apt. 101." It was his address, but, unfortunately, he had no means of getting there. Checking the slit where monetary units should've been, he was disheartened to find only a folded slip of paper and a receipt. Removing both, he first unfolded the paper and found that someone had written a ten-digit phone number in black ink. The receipt contained nothing more than a bar tab for a beer at some club called The Caucus.

Finding no help from either, he replaced the items back into the wallet, keeping in mind the number he'd found and placing it into his jacket pocket. Well, he was there. He might as well make the most of it until he figured out the riddle of his psyche. Stepping back into the chaos of Asian masses, he began pushing his way towards a phone booth when a firm hand grasped at his shoulder, flinging him about face.

"What the f--..." His eyes darted towards his assaulter, bewildered to find an ominous white man, uniformed in a tailored black suit. Panic-stricken, he opened his mouth to object to any wrongdoing but was quickly shot down by the other man's frigid words.

"Mr. Anderson ... How nice of you to join us."

How the hell does he know my name ...? But before he had time to ask his question, the man wrapped his cold, stiff fingers around Thomas's jugular, squeezing it with a sense of vengeance, "What's the matter, Mr. Anderson? Cat got your tongue?"

As the man's grip tightened about his neck, Thomas clawed at the unrelenting appendages, his lungs burning from airway constriction. Gasping for breath, the last image embedded into his drowning cerebrum was that of the sneering assassin, looking almost suspicious of his victim's struggles, before the relief of unconsciousness blanketed his senses.