She watched him sleep for what seemed a long while, intent on slipping away downstairs. His breathing remained unchanged; steady, peaceful, untroubled. Satisfied. She nearly sighed. How many nights had that softest of sounds been the backdrop for all her dreams?

Not tonight. Tonight it had reached into her nightmares like the sinister approach of a poisonous snake. She couldn't dislodge from her mind the look on his face when Trinity and Neo had driven off; the efficient way he had moved, the smug ease with which the gun had rested in his hand, waiting.

She knew he had lied to her. He'd known who they were, known they were here before he'd ever come round the corner. Why the gun if he only wanted to question them? Had he allowed them to come here, stayed clear long enough to let them tell their tale before moving on them? Let them remain long enough to fill her mind with images so horrific she was afraid to close her eyes? Was she meant to hear it all, only to be tested later by him, her loyalty then proven?

She shook her head. It was all madness. Yet she lingered beside the bed. He certainly hadn't behaved like someone with something to hide. If anything, it had been better than ever. She refused to even entertain the thought. It was all the release of adrenaline after the pursuit that had made him so...needful.

She padded off silently, peeking into the kid's rooms. Garrett was snoring softly with his mouth open. Only tufts of Amanda's hair were visible from beneath her blue bedspread. All was well. The wind was whipping the branches outside against the window. Gillian stood stock still, counting the length of the silence between. It was exactly six seconds each time, six seconds between the sound of the branches screeching against the glass and the next gust of wind, and the branches again...

She closed her eyes. It was only her own wish to prove Neo and Trinity weren't completely psychotic. She had subconsciously sped up or slowed her internal counting in order to will it to be six seconds. People were flawed, incapable of the precision they had come to expect from the machines they created.

She let out a long held breath and left her daughter to the peace of dreams, and went downstairs. She moved easily through the house in the dark, her domain, her whole world. In the kitchen she considered heating water for tea, and changed her mind just as quickly. She was drawn to the window. Amanda's art was backlit by the neighbour's outdoor lighting; autumn leaves captured between sheets of wax paper, taped to the glass.

From there she was led away by the sound of the windchimes, the chimes Neo had run into. She opened the front door, and the wind encircled her like the breath of some alien will. Quickly she retrieved broom and dustpan from the kitchen, and went outside again, righting the potted plants Neo and Trinity had knocked over, sweeping up the dirt. There now. Everything as it was before they'd come. As if they'd never come. Perhaps they hadn't.

She closed the door and locked it, though no-one was fool enough to attempt breaking in on an Agent's personal space. Were they? Into the darkened living room she went, as she had known she would. There was little feeling here, no lingering scent of life. It was sterile, little-used, except when entertaining guests deemed important enough to be allowed access. She'd always loved this room. Now it seemed like a very comfortable dungeon.

Absently she picked up one of the framed photographs on the glass table, and settled in the same place she had so stiffly sat when Neo had spilled his guts to her this afternoon. The windchimes tinkled. One high note, two lower. Again, and again. She grew rigid, listening so intently she dropped the picture, her fingernails sinking into the fabric of the sofa.

The pattern of the chiming was unchanged. Perhaps the Master Programmed had taken the minutiae offline in order to see to the more pressing details of the illusions of night in the city; murders and rapes and arrest took precedence over windchimes in the sleeping suburbs, after all.

"Stop it, you idiot," she hissed at herself. Still, she listened sharply. The pattern of the chimes changed, caroling merrily as the wind picked up, and she sighed with relief. She picked up the photo once more, running one hand over the glass. Owen had honest eyes, even in a photograph, even in the dark. How could she ever even have considered it?

Neo's story defied imagination. Gillian felt the first welling of contempt for him, and for Trinity. How dare they come here and tell her that her own children were an illusion? That she herself floated in some tank, oblivious to the digital life some artificial intelligence was allowing her to live? Neo and Trinity represented the world she'd left behind. There was no way she'd go back. Always hungry, always in need, always on the edge. And always a cause, a conspiracy looming.

That was how she'd first met Trinity, online, discussing such things. At one of the better jobs she'd had, at a cyber cafe near Covent Gardens. She'd had cocaine under control then. Recreational use only. Her own flat, a decent wardrobe. A passable computer. Nothing to compare to all she had now.

On her breaks, there were always messages waiting from Trinity. At home came the long emails about all that was wrong with the world, and then the all night conversations began, first online and then by phone, discussions that began to hint at what Trinity perceived to be the truth, along with Gillian's own experimentation with other pharmaceuticals when cocaine began to bore rather than satisfy. Gillian had begun to believe. Hadn't she always felt something was not quite right with the world? Wasn't someone or something responsible?

She was sacked from that job as well. Too many late arrivals and hangovers. Again. After a quick score and a brief time selling, she'd netted enough for plane fare to the states, and from there it was back to getting high and working only enough to make rent before it all fell apart. And then came Owen, right on cue, and she felt like someone again, and after rehab she felt life returning, and all that was wrong Owen could easily fix, and did. She was someone, finally, and Trinity faded into memories of a time when Gillian had been about to self-destruct for no good reason. Owen had shown her a future, and she was all too happy to take what he offered.

It was so much easier to let someone else do all the thinking, make all the decisions. Right on cue once again, Owen appeared in the living room now, disheveled from sleep but composed as always, and he sat down beside her. She felt her sense of safety returning, felt the surreal coldness of the previous day finally loosen its grip.

"Still disturbed by what they told you?" Owen asked, his arm going around her.

"I was. Not anymore. Not now that you're here. I didn't want to wake you, so I came down here."

"Nightmares?"

"Yeah."

"Understandable."

"Nothing they said is even remotely believable." It's far too horrifying to be true."

"That's what they said when the Jews were being herded into cattle cars," the Agent thought. "Their punishment will be far more severe if they come near you again, Gillian."

"They won't."

"Sociopaths. Every society has its fringe element. Neo and Trinity and their ilk happen to be ours."

"You've dealt with Neo before, haven't you?"

"Yes, I have. He's a known criminal, Gillian. A terrorist. The sooner he faces justice, the better for society."

"The Agency didn't really release him, did they?"

"No. He's a dangerous man, Gillian. Until he answers all our questions he'll be detained. He won't be harmed. He'll eventually co-operate or face charges. He's evaded capture more than once. It's for his protection as much as ours."

So, he had lied. She understood why now. Still she couldn't quite name the pang of emotion she felt. Trinity seemed to trust Neo utterly. Like he was all that mattered. As if she loved him.

"I'm sorry I lied, Gillian."

"It's okay. I know you can't tell me everything. I prefer it that way. It's your job, and you're damned good at it. Let's leave it at that."

The Agent smiled. He was unique among his kind, programmed for leadership, autonomy, decision-making. Nothing had been spared. All the routines specific to Gillian were active, waiting. He took control as only he could, knowing his skills would soon strip her of all but one thought. He could make her forget her own name. It was a simple matter to outperform even her lofty expectations. Sometimes it seemed nothing was out of reach.

Yet Neo had slipped from his grasp once again. Gillian had no clue what it was that drove him now, thinking it was her alone, and so he let her believe it, forcing her back, obliterating her sense of self until she gasped something unintelligible, asking for something he did not trouble himself to discern. Mercy, perhaps. Or more. What difference did it make? He gave heed only to his own internal machinations, plotting his next move, both against the Enemy and against her. Many of the earlier Agent programs had found their labours here quite unbearable. Such was not the case with him, or with any of the newer designs.

Gillian was already bugged, yet the technology had improved vastly since, and it was beneficial to be certain. There was no lapse in the way he moved, and her eyes were still closed. He reached into the inner pocket of the robe still draped over his shoulders and withdrew a small vial. Through him the device within was activated, and he uploaded an intricate series of commands, fine tuning its core database, adding a few essentials, personalising the programming. When it was done he covered her mouth with his free hand so no-one would hear her screaming when it was freed from the vial and he released, sending it on its way to journey into her ear canal. It was tiny, very like an insect once prevalent on this world, its design and appearance in many aspects the same as the parasite once called an earwig. This version was far more useful than the original.

Her agonised shrieking became throaty as the device found its target, yet he kept his hand clamped over her mouth far longer than necessary. By the time she went limp he was intensely gratified in every sense of the word. He actually needed her now. As bait.

Gillian woke in her own bed with a raging headache. Lack of sleep from all the fooling around. She smiled. It was worth it.

Owen was unnaturally quiet, watchful. Several aspirins and a shower later she managed to get the children off to school and herself ready for work. She came back downstairs to find him waiting for her. Her head still ached with a vengeance, and she'd no memory of leaving the living room. He was usually gone long before now.

He smiled slightly, regarding her. "I'll take you to work," he offered.

"Am I under surveillance?" she quipped noncommittally, regretting it immediately. Her face grew ashen. His stony silence answered her question in the coldest of ways. She was struck by the difference between last night and now. She'd felt he was all she wanted then, and now it seemed as though he held her in contempt.

"It's only a precaution," he finally replied.

"I never invited them here, Owen," she snapped.

"I'm aware of that. However, it's likely they may try to contact you again."

"Why?"

"Because they never give up. Because they see something about you they perceive will give them some sort of advantage. They want a victim, someone on the inside, someone they can manipulate, use. They'd be only to happy to see you fall as long as they could get to us."

Gillian snorted. "I'm hardly part of the inner circle."

"I know that. So do they."

She couldn't understand why she felt hurt by this. Maybe it was just the headache. She was tired, tired already of the turmoil Neo and Trinity had brought, the emotional wreckage they'd left behind.

She tried another tack. "I'm sorry, Owen. You seem a little far away this morning. After last night, I just thought-"

He reached for her. "It's for your protection, Gillian. Trust me." He deepened his hold, both on her and on the implant she now carried. If Neo and Trinity attempted contact again, it would backfire on them in the most delightful way. And if attempted to betray him, she would know pain unlike any she'd ever experienced. He smoothed her hair in an almost fatherly way, mumbling meaningless words of concern, telling her that he only wanted to keep her safe. She grew lax, languid, the symbiosis between her thoughts and the implant seamless now, as his own interface with the device. She rested against him a moment longer. He could easily linger here and amuse himself with her all day, but decided against it. Hedonism was a trap he was not bound for. Such had brought Gillian's civilisation to its knees. His would not fall so easily to petty pleasures. There was so much yet to accomplish before they could rest on their laurels as humanity had once done.

The rest of the morning went far more smoothly; the headache diminished until it was manageable, and work kept her mind clear and her thoughts occupied. By eleven the headache seemed gone altogether. Gillian found her first chance then to check her personal messages. Usually they were only from co-workers, interoffice matters that contained no sensitive information. This morning there were two such messages, both concerning an afternoon meeting of the clerical pool. The next was from Owen, asking if she would have lunch with him. She smiled, and her eyes grew bright as she read on; he'd written something extra about the night before, and hadn't even bothered to use encryption. He trusted her after all. She composed a reply, her face burning, writing something equally explicit before she lost her nerve. Hopefully no-one would be reading over his shoulder. She'd nothing to fear there; he was given a wide berth by most.

She deleted his message straightaway, just to be sure, and went on to the last, noting with annoyance that there was no return address, no protocol, no username.

We need to talk, Celt. Someone will be waiting to meet you at 12:30 at

the corner of Monument and James. You'll know him when you see him.

He knows more than you can guess. Go with him. You can trust him, and

me. I can prove everything Neo and I told you, if you'll just let me. Free

your mind to the possibility. You're living a lie. If you can't meet the one

coming to speak to you, I'll message you again soon. I'm taking a big risk

reaching out to you here, Celt.



There was more, but the screen went blank before she could read the rest. It scarcely mattered; pain had erupted in her head so fiercely she could barely gasp.

The Agent watched her crumble, no longer poised, her head cradled in her hands. He let her writhe for a long moment before enacting the cure, before transmitting the code that would still what ravaged her mind. Over the walls of her semi-private cubicle he peered shrewdly. In the adjacent cubicle another low-level employee attempted to watch this strange, brief drama play out, until the Agent warded him off with only the slightest inclination of his head to show he wished no interference. The other scrambled away, deferring to his authority. Agents were rarely called upon to descend here to the levels of the mundane. He clenched one fist, releasing it again before moving toward her.

Gillian was growing visibly calmer, though she still held her head between her hands weakly. The Agent regarded the blank screen of her terminal with undisguised malice, all that had been displayed there snatched away and stowed within by him. A daring move on the part of the Resistance which would net the Agency something of real value. As a reward for her usefulness, the Agent further diminished the implant's activity in her cerebral cortex. Humans were always strangely placid after the surcease of agony, and Gillian proved to be no different.

The very fact that the Enemy had gotten a message through to this most guarded of strongholds rankled. Still, the Agent was solicitous, and inquired whether Gillian was ill and needed medical attention. She declined, and he moved closer. He enjoyed watching her, though he seethed unseen at the Enemy's coup. She drew only strength from him, and he was patient as her vital signs stabilised.

He allowed her to lean against him as he accessed the implant once again, and ordered her to compose a reply, feeding her the words, supplying the return address that he had taken during the screen dump. Her pain had abated fully, and she was compliant. When she had done as he asked, he escorted her from the Agency complex.

From within the Lair, Trinity paced anxiously. It was nearly 12:00. As a general rule, they'd refrained from freeing a mind after it had reached a certain age; the mind rebelled against the truth, recoiled from all that comprised the Real World and often struck back. Trinity thought briefly of Cypher. Gillian would be dangerous because of the children she thought she had, and the husband she believed she loved.

Trinity winced at this, both with contempt and pity, remembering vividly everything she had seen in Gillian's house; all the steady signs of family, and the dark underbelly of the lie far more clearly visible, palpable as a living being in every corner. Gillian truly believed she had something to lose, when in fact everything had been denied her from day one. She and Neo had been far closer in getting through to Gillian than even Gillian yet knew. Gillian had agreed to meet Morpheus. It was a beginning, a place to start.

The mood was sober among all who gathered in the Lair now, and many were wary and untrusting, and thought Gillian had agreed too easily.

"Maybe I was wrong about her," Trinity said softly.

"A few people thought you were wrong about me, too," Neo answered, his hand on her shoulder.

Trinity sighed gravely, relaxing only slightly. The Lair was Neo's creation, his handiwork; a safe place within the Matrix where the Unplugged could meet and share information. Though it was nothing more than a hiccup in the hardline, it hadn't been detected, or breached thus far. They trusted Neo with their lives. All of them.

Trinity hoped she hadn't betrayed that trust now. She and Neo had more to lose than ever before.

"She's bugged," said Strike, interrupting their private thoughts. "Bugged, and more. She's approaching Morpheus' position already."

"Now?"

"Yep. The Agenct did us a favour in a way; we can track her, get all the details: lifesigns, proximity to an Agent, even DNA sequencing."

Neither Trinity or Neo was comforted by this. "Glad you're on our side," Neo said darkly, though he smiled.

"Why so early?" Trinity wondered out loud. "It's only ten after."

"Scared, probably. Afraid she'll lose her nerve."

"Or her ass. He'll be watching every move."

"Should we abort?"

Trinity pulled her phone out and dialed. "Morpheus. She's coming. Just around the corner. Get ready. We think it might be a trap."

"Acknowledged."

Trinity nodded brusquely at Strike. Pirating a call from here was risky business. She had half a mind to order them all back to the ship, yet she knew they wouldn't go. Morpheus meant too much to them all, and they'd do what they could from here.

Morpheus leaned nonchalantly in the doorway of an auto repair shop. His exit was near, still his nerves sang. He watched the entrenched pass by; the hapless and the hopelessly programmed. Any one of them could be an Agent. The Agent programs were now so fully integrated into the mix that they moved on every level. It was hard as hell to differentiate them from the masses. They had drawn too much notice in the past. Now they lurked at will, each slightly different than its counterparts. The Agent the woman he waited for was involved with was one of the exceptions, and had on more than one occasion flouted his identity, careless of the havoc he wrought. He was also exceptionally more deadly than his comrades. The new Agents had dealt the Resistance several serious blows and one near fatal recently.

Still hope remained in their greatest flaw. Human adaptability and ingenuity had been grossly underestimated, and the Resistance had made strides. Today they would know just how much they had gained.

In spite of his non-threatening posture, many still stared as they passed him. Morpheus scrutinised each and every one, with caution, and with pity. Somewhere in the crowd could be the next to be freed, the next join the fight. Any of them could also be studying him with more than a passing interest.

Gillian Smith approached, coming into view, nervously scanning the crowded sidewalks for any sign of who it was who waited. Morpheus slowly lifted a hand when her frenetic gaze moved his way, and he ambled forward slightly. A mechanic lounged in the doorway Morpheus had vacated, lazily drawing on a cigarette.

"A little extracirricular activity?" the mechanic drolled with a smirk. Morpheus ignored him, his hands jammed down into the pockets of his black trenchcoat. His gun was a cold comfort against his fingers, a reminder of all he stood to lose every time he entered the Matrix. Gillian slowed her approach, visibly terrified.

"Mrs. Smith?" he asked when she drew close enough. She nodded tersely, closing the distance hesitantly. Morpheus could feel her fear. She clutched at her handbag as though salvation lay within, as if it would keep her firmly rooted in reality. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"Let's take a walk." Morpheus wanted the mechanic out of earshot. She seemed willing to follow, and they ducked into the alley behind the repair shop. His exit was only feet away now. Atop one of the trash bins, an old orange tomcat with watery green eyes watched them with disinterest.

"I don't have much time," Gillian stammered. "He'll come looking for me."

"I know. I can take you to a place where we can speak freely."

"Is Trinity there?"

"Yes. I'm asking you to trust me, Mrs. Smith, and Trinity. Can you do that?"

Gillian swallowed hard. Morpheus thought she was about to cry.

"Take my hand." A beat passed before he grasped her trembling fingers and drew her onward. The cat leapt from its cold perch and strolled away, turning once to watch the retreating forms of the man and woman. Morpheus made his call and waited. At the end of the alley was a battered old phone booth. The phone rang discordantly, almost immediately after Tank had rung off.

"I'll go first. As soon as the phone rings again, pick it up." She nodded bleakly. Morpheus felt the ominous restriction in his chest, the warning that would not be silenced until she was through and it was known she was not an Agent.

The Agent swaggered with a lazy confidence into the place Gillian had chosen, silently maligning those who scuttled out of his way. Gillian had always been rather proud of the treatment they received in places such as these. He would not see her disappointed today. Predictability was control. Control was dominion. Every moment was bound by the parametres, the steadfast logic which governed all, the pure mathematics from whence all creation now sprang, itself untouched by the lesser evils, unstained by the detritus left behind.

It mattered little where control was enacted. The stronger they built the parametres, the deeper their authority, and illusion became unquestioned reality. Humans were now so dependent on the system they would die to keep it whole. That was the driving force upon which all was constructed. Nothing mattered but the energy source and the continued propagation of his kind.

And so he endured with good humour banal rituals such as taking Gillian out for a meal for the sake of the truth, unhindered by the necessity such illusory ventures demanded. Sentience had its benefits. He had learnt to adapt, and took whatever he wished from such experiences. There was always some new information waiting to be gathered, deciphered, hidden away for future reference; a base and almost reckless input and output, an interplay within the Matrix that was manufactured by both those who called it life and those who maintained it. He had been forced to admit to himself more than once the manner in which he savoured his time here, particularly those when he was alone with her. She could easily distract him, if he were ever to allow it. Sometimes he nearly did for the sake of the experience alone.

They were seated in a quiet corner, ushered there by a genuflecting member of the staff. The Agent had been warned by his superiors on more than one occasion that he was to appear more neutral in public, to blend in. He rarely followed the commands of others. For this he was programmed, and even his superiors were well aware he was a wrench in the machine. He would alter nothing of his own consciousness unless duty required it. He had infiltrated the upper echelon of Zion once; he was too valuable to risk, and such would not be asked of him.

When he and Gillian were left in peace, the Agent plied her with words of concern over her health, spoke meaningless paragraphs regarding the offspring, his tone sombre and his voice deep and smooth, wishing to convey emotion. His eyes from behind the dark glasses were impervious, though she would not see this, but only what the Matrix told her was there.

She seemed receptive to all he said, though her face was still pale and her eyes still bore the traces of earlier pain. As long as she complied, she would experience so more such pain. If she did not...

Gillian smiled back at him tensely. He'd lied twice to her in twenty-four hours. Lied about taking Trinity and Neo into custody, lied about releasing them. Where were they now, that they could have gotten a message through to the impassable fortress that was the Agency?

"What is it, darling?" the Agent inquired. Gillian stared back. Her sense of safety had fled altogether now, and the reflection of her face in his dark glasses showed it. Nearby a waiter was setting a table clumsily. Flatware bundled in a linen napkin tumbled from his grasp. Gillian's throat closed at the sound, so like the windchimes she had been so certain were not right the night before, their exactly patterned sound, repeated, so perfect, too perfect.

"Gillian?"

She'd read about Neo in the papers. About Morpheus. What was Owen's connection to them? She drew a breath, her hands clenched in violent fear on her knees beneath the table, out of his sight. Or were they? Could he see more than she'd ever want, so much that there would be nowhere to run?

She nearly gasped when their food was brought to the table, startled at the interruption, at the detour of her thoughts and what she'd been about to ask. It would be safer to ask it here, in a public place. But safer for whom? She picked at her plate, avoiding his gaze. He'd taken the damnable glasses off. It seemed somehow worse when he did. She'd always wished he'd stop wearing them everywhere; now all she wanted was for him to put them back on.

"I should have taken you to the doctor instead of bringing you here," he said in a way that sounded hollow to her hearing.

"No, it's alright. I'm fine."

He finessed his response. "You haven't touched your lunch. I'll arrange for you to take the rest of the day off. I'll see to Garrett and Amanda." He leaned forward slightly to show he cared, his expression almost committed.

"What is the Matrix, Owen? Can you tell me? Will you?"

At first he said nothing, slowly reaching for the dark glasses, his disguise and at the same time his badge of office. The new program specifications prohibited outward public displays of authority, limiting such to the necessary. He'd bent those specs pursuing Neo the previous day. The question Gillian posed hardly fell under the category of necessary force. Still he was tempted. He merely accessed the cortical implant, and her neural activity began once again to increase, though not at a level that would cause disruption in the flow of events here. Only a woman with a migraine. No need for a scene.

"I don't know. Probably something concocted by Neo and Trinity to explain why they can't live under the law like everyone else." He uploaded several commands, creating gaps in her short-term memory that she would attribute later to fatigue. He watched. Her face grew slack as if she'd quite forgotten what they were talking about. And so she had.

He let the pain grip her a moment longer before quelling it. Her relief was evident, and she smiled at him as she'd always done, with implicit trust. His to claim once again.

"Feeling better?"

"Much," she purred, pausing. "What were you saying?"

"Try the wine. It's really very good." She did as he asked, agreeing with him affably, and he allowed himself to flash her a smile in return.

Strike stood ready, poised with the device he'd created, similar in appearance to that used to remove bugs, extract them from those unwillingly poisoned by them. This device could perform that function, but that wasn't it's primary purpose. It's real use would be put to the test in seconds, for the first time. They'd either gain an informant or make their first real capture. If they did the latter dissection could begin.

The hairs on the back of Strike's neck were raised when Morpheus came through first. All around Strike the others were positioned, guns cocked and waiting. They could exit immediately, but these were old friends, and valued crew members from some of the most important hovercrafts and heavy cruisers in the fleet. To lose any of them would be a crushing blow.

"She just picked up the phone," Angel announced.

"Bring her through," Morpheus answered. Neo questioned Morpheus with his eyes. The Agents had learnt a lot of new tricks. Morpheus shook his head to say he wasn't sure. Strike's hackles rose in earnest then.

As soon as she was through, Strike fired. If she was Gillian, she wouldn't be seriously hurt, though the bug she carried would be activated in a pretty painful way before being sucked forcibly from her body. The older technology required that such debugging be done at closer range, the extractor barrel held against the individual, usually allowing the bug to be retrieved from the abdomen through the cavity of the belly button. This wasn't the case with Strike's creation. He'd take all the blame if it failed now.

The woman at first shrank back in fear, until the programming took control. Whoever this had been before they'd been chosen host wasn't Gillian Smith. Another advance by the Enemy. In less time than it took to blink the Agent was there, and just as quickly reduced to pure data and trapped within the waiting cylinder attached to the bottom of the device.

Strike set it down carefully when the Agent was within. The field was holding. Some of the others cheered and whooped. Strike rubbed his shoulder.

"Damned thing gets heavy."

"212 Agent Series," said Cross.

"Jones," Angel added.

"Welcome to the Lair, you bastard. Hope you find the accomodations satisfactory. Check out time is whenever we say." Strike spat viciously.

Cross hooted, flipping his middle finger in the direction of the cylinder. "Too bad it wasn't Smith."

"Settle down," said Neo. "We'll have to abandon the Lair for now. The Agent left a trace program in his wake. This pocket will be overrun in seconds. Let's go."

"We got work to do anyway," said Strike, putting his two cents in before they departed and Neo took the Lair offline.