"How'd she do that?" Tank breathed. "With the bike, I mean. …She's still plugged in, right? So how'd…?" He looked at Morpheus, bewildered.

The captain paused, bittersweet-chocolate eyes glazed over ever-so-slightly, gathering his thoughts. He spoke carefully, choosing his words. "It's rare, but not unheard of… The girl could be a Catalyst." All three leaned forward, Neo's brow furrowed, Tank eager for the information, Trinity's arms folded, face blank, unreadable. "Now, this isn't my area of expertise, but from what I know, they can be powerful, once released from the Matrix, but… Volatile." He shook his head suddenly. "I won't make assumptions, or try to tell you more now. It's too dangerous, trying to think on possibly flawed information. Tank," he said, focusing his attention on the operator, "I believe it's your shift. At a suitable hour, we'll try to contact Typhus. She knows more on the subject than I do."

Tank nodded, grinning despite the long watch ahead of him. "Captain of the Ma'at, right? I think Thread's still on her crew…"

Morpheus smiled his small smile. "We'll find out. Goodnight, boys and girl." With that, he slipped into the Nebuchanezzars innards, heading for his bunk.

Neo asked, to no one in particular, "The Ma'at?"

Trinity's lips twitched as Neo met her eyes, in what may have been a smile. "I'll tell you in the morning. Get some sleep, Neo." She held his gaze perhaps a moment longer than absolutely necessary, then returned to her own small bunker, footsteps echoing on the ships grating. Neo followed, like a stray puppy.

"Night, ya'll," murmured Tank, cracking his knuckles, the sound lost in the subliminal white noise, settling in for a long shift…

***

The light spilled onto the street, tarnished bronze washing over the bricks and smooth Deco molding, and a tastefully hand-lettered sign that read:

"Sons of Thunder, Motorcycle Repair & Academic Consultation."

Home. She banked, smooth as ice, into the adjacent alley, bringing the engine down to the distant grumble of thunder as the victorious hero and her mighty steed pulled next to the garage door. The kickstand flicked out as quick as reflex, gleaming silver in the darkness, as she killed the engine completely.

"Well, Ned, I dunno. Their Lincoln sounded like it was pretty much shot all to hell. I mean, how could they follow me with no car?" She knelt next to the door as she spoke, sliding the riding goggles up to her forehead. "In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were deliberately trying to scare me." The soft click as the lock opened, a near subconscious routine.

~I am not trying to scare you, Marie. I'm just saying--~ He paused while she threw the door upward and open with its grating, cascading roar.

"I hate that sound..." she murmured.

~So do I. And what I'm saying is that you should be more careful.~

"This from the 'Uncrowned king of Arabia?'" she smirked. "And if I recall correctly, sneaking into the 'office building' was your brilliant idea, not mine." Eyes-of-Lawrence guided the Brough into the darkened garage, chuckling at his mock-bluster.

~Why, I never! Insolent child...~

"Yeah, yeah, yeah..." She grinned, leaving the motorcycle softly ticking from the engine's heat as she sidestepped various disembodied car parts, relishing the gasoline and car-oil smell of home. She slipped off the riding goggles, hanging them on a hook as she freed her messy light-auburn hair. Her fingertips grazed the battered rope that pulled the garage door down, texture rough and bristly, blister-inducing...

~Marie.~ Ned's voice was urgent, but calm, laced with steel. She froze in her tracks, feeling her insides turn to lead, the fire of adrenaline starting to lick at her veins.

~Someone's coming.~

"How much time?" Was she scared? Hell, yes. When T. E. Lawrence had that tone in his voice, you were a fool not to be. But he wasn't the only one with steel.

~Very little. There's not a lot you can do. Just know where your gun is.~

"Oh, always."

~Be careful, child. You'll be fine.~

God, she hoped so. She stood her ground, cracking her knuckles, sharply aware of the .22 at her hip. She folded her arms, tense, as he stepped into view.

All the fear drained out of her, as surely as if a faucet had been turned off. Maybe it had just been drowned out by the adrenaline, because the man before her didn't precisely induce hope.

Her mind pounded, racing like jet engines had been strapped to it. Tall, not too bad but not too classy suit, verrrry slightly receding hairline, severe rectangular sunglasses, face carved from caucasian-colored stone, and the tell-tale earpiece coiling down his neck. Shit. Fed if she'd ever seen a crappy action movie.

"Miss Lawrence?" His voice was resonant, smooth, but tinged with a faint sense of the inherently Not-Fuckin'-Right that she couldn't (and maybe didn't want to) put a finger on. It was maddening, that vague sense, but intriguing at the same time. Like a theorem that made you work up, down, sideways, backwards, and into the Fourth Dimension before you cracked it with something inspired by 'Army of Darkness.'

"Yes?" She kept the suspicion and mild curiosity in her voice, as it was natural. "Can I help you, Mr...?"

His eyebrows lowered a fraction, the irritated but tolerant superior. "Smith. Agent Smith." Arrogant. She loathed arrogance...

~Oooh, we could play with the bloke!~ Eyes grinned inwardly. Yes, they could.

"Miss Lawrence, I would like to have a word with you on behalf of my colleagues abou---"

"Well, Mr. Smith-Agent-Smith, if you're here on business, the alley's no place to discuss it." She turned on her heel, flicking on a bright florescent light. Cold green-tinged light flooded the tangle of mechanics that flooded the workbench and spilled over onto wooden shelves, creeped under tarps, and found their way into clients' motorcycles and the beaten body of the '54 that dominated the space. "Close the garage door behind you, please..." She picked her way across the cluttered space with practiced ease, hand resting on the handrail of a rickety spiraling iron staircase. "As you don't look like the type that needs help with a class, or work on a motorcycle, well... Step into my parlor, said the spider to the fly." She mock-bowed, indicating the stairway, and totally missing the slight twitch of his lips that was the barest hint of a smile. This was going to be altogether too easy...

"I believe I will, Miss Lawrence..."

* * *

Tank gulped, staring at the screen in abject horror. Wrong. The softly descending green lines had to be wrong...

Nope.

A singular pearl of wisdom crossed his lips, the combination of two words, never before so true and meaningful.

"Ohshit."