Truth or Dare

by caradhwen

Her whole life was a lie...as of 17 Dec the last two chapters are now here.

3. Chapter Three

The Resistance had struck it's most recent blow since the coming of Neo against the Agency. The hardline hadn't been severed swiftly enough to retrieve the Agent now in enemy hands. They had tried without success to deactivate the Agent, but that too had proved futile; neither could they receive any data from the captured program. It was of a lesser design; still Smith and his colleagues could face a serious setback if the Resistance somehow managed to hack into the captured Agent's core memory. An Agent could move in and out of any software hardwired to the system.

Smith refused to contemplate such an odious possibility. Human logic was flawed; their inherent weaknesses would avail the Agency as they had always done. The Resistance had made strides. The Agency would simply redouble their efforts as they had done in the past and regain what had been taken. Regain, or destroy. Either way the Enemy would be left with nothing.

Smith surmised several ways in which he might accomplish this. The most appealing of these plans would take time, which he had in abundance, and would expend a personal resource. He was willing to make the sacrifice. Anything to see Neo and Trinity and Morpheus dead at last. They had gravely underestimated the knowledge and ability the Agency and his entire race possessed. It was this most of all that would ensure success.

Gillian moved through her days in a numb sort of fog, though no-one seemed to notice it but her. She knew Owen was feeding her mood stabilisers somehow, though she had no proof. A simple doctor's visit and a blood test could confirm it. Why bother? Owen would only force the situation in his favour by coercing the doctor to lie or altering the test results himself. It didn't really seem to matter all that much. Owen wasn't going to allow anyone or anything to supplant his authority or subvert his aims. She was only another obstacle, though she'd been vigilant in making herself seem agreeable, and passive, and content. Nothing was amiss at home. Nothing but her own internal life which was in such turmoil that she balked at her own thoughts, rejected her own emotions rather than risking madness.

Owen had been affectionate, more so than ever, and this both drew and repelled her, deepening her confusion. Part of the plan? He was just as she'd always wanted him to be now. It was this which terrified her most of all.

She'd screwed up everything she'd ever touched before he'd come into her life. Maybe she was just willing it all to failure because she expected it. Setting herself up to fall. It was Garrett and Amanda who kept her from fleeing, from seeking a distant place where she could hide, and think it through. Even if she were childless, she'd never manage it anyhow. He'd simply find her.

Gillian encountered daily some sign of Trinity and Neo's presence, and often saw them passing on the street, in the grocery, near the kid's school, idling as if waiting for their own children. She longed to speak to them, too afraid to draw Owen's notice. He was rarely home with some internal crisis brewing at the Agency, yet she was ever mindful of just how quickly he could be near if he'd a mind to.

So she bided her time, and went about her business. She performed at work with more diligence than ever, and gave the performance of her career at home, daily, and by the time she closed her eyes she was utterly drained. She feigned whatever she perceived he wanted to see and hear, catered to his momentary whims, and no-one was the wiser, herself least of all, as far as she was concerned.

Strike had commandeered nearly an entire deck of the Epiphany and a good part of its crew in the monumental effort of dissecting the Agent program. He felt only a little closer to understanding the programming than he did at the beginning, and spirits were sagging, except for his and Tank's. They loved this shit, lived for it. If they could pull off what he was hoping it wouldn't matter if he tore apart the design of the Agent piece by piece. He already had every bit of relevant information, every routine on hard copy and stored in the ship's memory. They might have to wait until later to fully study the inner workings. The mission took precedence. In time they might even be able to construct their own Agents and wreak some real havoc in the Matrix. Thus far the containment field had held beautifully, and Tank and Strike cooked up an idea, exuberant when they finally approached Morpheus and ran their idea past him.

The main deck was quiet. They were near broadcast depth. Zion was on highest alert, and there was nearly no communications being sent or received. The state of alert was due in large part to the treacherous cargo now aboard the Epiphany. If the Agent were somehow loosed and accessed Zion's mainframe, all they had suffered for the sake of freedom could be a footnote in a history no-one would ever know of.

Morpheus considered it. "It's dangerous. If they realised too soon-"

"We know. We know she might be killed, too."

"She'll have to be given the choice."

"Then we risk her telling the Agent."

"This is true. Either way it's a risk. Truth or dare."

"Think Trinity would be willing to be the messenger?"

"You'll have to ask her."

"A little proof would go a long way in the convincing department," said Tank.

"Neo and Trinity and Strike could handle that end of it."

"The Oracle said it would come to this. She said 'one from the fields would take the chance.' She never said whether that one would succeed or fail, though."

"Or give us to the Enemy."

"It's a chance worth taking." Morpheus didn't add the words "what have we got to lose?" The answer was everything. Still those unspoken words hung between himself, Strike and Tank, and seemed to permeate the already stale and canned air they breathed.

Trinity entered moments later and settled next to Morpheus for her shift, raising an eyebrow at the Strike and Tank. The news from Zion, what little there was, was both hopeful and disturbing. They were all praying that Strike would somehow find a way, and fearful that the Agent would break free and get to them first, strike at their very heart. Trinity cocked her head. Tank was a little too jubilant.

"You up to a challenge?" Strike asked her.

"Always."

Sundays had become a sort of living hell for Gillian. The kids seemed more unruly than usual, more determined to impress Owen and capture his undivided attention. It was their one day with him, unless he was called away. Gillian was content now to leave them to him, yet it never seemed to work out that way, and she felt his eyes on her wherever she was in the house; following her, seeking entry into her thoughts. She managed to smile seductively at him whenever she caught him watching her, as if she welcomed his attentions, when in fact she felt strangled by them as if every glance tightened an invisible noose around her neck. If she slipped even once, the chair would be kicked out from under her.

She'd begun to develop an immunity to the mood stabilisers, or to whatever form of control he was using, and the struggle to appear as nonplussed as she'd been before Neo and Trinity had come to her door became her daily battle.

How she wished she could somehow just ask Owen about everything and receive honest answers in return. A large chunk of her heart still clung to all they had shared and all she believed he meant to her. She couldn't seem to let it go, no matter what truth waited out there, no matter what war was being waged unseen. They could've devised no better weapon than her own heart to use against her. In this respect she felt she fought on the front lines. Against herself.

She yearned for the truth now as she had once yearned for him. Maybe the truth was no further than her front door. That afternoon, she took the kids to the park; they were restless and argumentative, and Owen was reading peacefully. There was a roast waiting to be cooked in the oven. He seemed grateful when she bundled the kids up, intent on hustling them off, and she kissed him goodbye.

Trinity moved into position, stationing herself behind a restroom made to look as if it was fashioned from stones. Very quaint. Gillian trundled along soon enough, the kids in tow, scarved against the cold wind that had stripped away the remainder of autumn. Another simulated season beginning. For a few tense moments she watched, until Gillian was approachable.

Gillian settled on a cold wooden bench. There were few others here, yet Amanda had already made a new friend, and they were chattering amiably atop the ladder that led to the slide. Garrett was sullenly kicking at the bark that covered the breadth of the play area. Gillian knew he'd rather be home with Owen. Garrett would sooner or later put up a wall to guard himself against Owen's emotional distance. Still, her heart was rendered by the look on Garrett's face. He would be too old to come here soon. Perhaps he already was.

"Hello, Celt," said Trinity, and sat down beside Gillian, hands hidden away in the pockets of her black leather jacket. Gillian looked her way.

"That jacket doesn't look very warm," she remarked.

"It isn't. I'm used to being cold."

"And hungry, I'll bet."

"Yeah. That too. It's all part of the deal."

"Freedom."

"That's right. Sacrifices have to be made."

Gillian stared absently at Garrett. "Trinity, what's happening to me?"

"You're beginning to see the truth. Beginning to see the world here as it really is."

"Fake."

Trinity nodded. Gillian had never seen eyes so blue. There was nothing hidden in them. Nothing but stark reality. It occured to Gillian that if cold had its very own hue it would be the same shade as Trinity's eyes.

"Am I real?"

"Yes, and no. I can show you, Celt. We don't have much time. We need your help."

Gillian looked away, then turned back. "Then you just add the chicken and you're done," she said in a saccharine way. Garrett stood in front of them watchfully.

"Hadn't we better go?" he asked sagely. "Its too cold to mess around out here. Dad said he'd take me to the arcade at the mall after dinner."

Gillian knew Trinity grimaced at this, but kept her cool. What was she going to do now? Garrett was peering at them in a canny way Gillian had never seen before, and her heart felt like a block of ice about to shatter.

"I was just sharing a recipe with Terry here."

Trinity's phone was already to her ear. "Now, Neo." As soon as Neo acknowledged her clipped request, Trinity rose and took Gillian's arm with all the gentleness she could muster. It wasn't going to be easy.

Gillian gaped at the first sign, her mind unwilling to grasp it. Neo's skill was brought to bear, and life began to slow, and then to crawl, until it seemed to cease altogether. Nothing moved, not even the air seemed stirred by her exhalations. Tears found their way down her cheeks, though such movement was too minute to fathom. Somehow she had stepped outside the borders of reality, or been dragged there. She rose, waiting for the ground to melt away beneath her feet and reveal nothingness. She reached for Garrett, his eyes and face like stone.

"Oh, God, is he dead?" she wheezed, pain knifing through her chest.

"No. Neo has frozen a section of the program. Neo is special, unique among the free. He's what we call 'The One.' His destiny was to be the one who could manipulate the Matrix, twist the programming to his own will. He's still learning. When I first met him, he thought I was as full of shit as you did. Look what he can do now."

"Garrett?"

Trinity shook her head. "You'll come to understand. We can't free you yet, Celt. We need your help first."

Gillian nodded mutely. "I'm afraid to leave them."

"I know. Neo and I have a daughter too, Celt. Her name is Promise. We named her that because we made her a promise when she was born, a promise that mankind would be freed by the time she was grown. Let's take the next step for her sake, and for theirs." Trinity gestured to Gillian's motionless children.

"Can they be freed?"

"Yes. It's not too late."

Gillian let Trinity lead her to the restroom, where three men waited. Neo was huddled in the corner, resting against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. Beads of sweat from intense concentration had formed on his brow and upper lip. Gillian felt a strange and deep empathy for him that she couldn't explain.

"This is Strike, and he's Tank." Gillian nodded sharply, her breath rising in small clouds and growing more rapid at the sight of whatever the man called Strike held. It looked like an enormous gun, or microscope. He spoke.

"You've been bugged, Celt, by the Agent. You've carried that bug for quite a few years. It's how Trinity and Neo first found you. More recently the Agent gifted you with another sort of bug, an implant that now resides in your cerebral cortex. I can't remove either bug right now or he'd know right away, otherwise I would. It's the newer implant that I need to access now."

"Why?"

"We recently captured one of the Agent programs. We can use your implant to access Agent Smith's CPU and get the data we need to fully understand the mechanics of these programs. Once we have this knowledge, we hope to infect the Agent we've captured with a virus, and send him back to mingle with his friends."

"A computer virus?" Gillian asked shakily.

"Yep. If it works, a whole lot of people can be unplugged. Maybe even enough to seriously threaten the power plant and bring the beginning of the end to the freakin' war."

"That's all we really are to them, Celt. Fuel," added Tank.

"Batteries. The energy source."

Gillian reeled, bile rising in her throat like vomit. Everything they'd said echoed Neo's earlier words to her, on that day when she's refused to even listen.

"She's gonna spew," said Tank.

"Hold on, Celt." Trinity gripped Gillian's arm steadily. "I told you we could prove it. Strike can use your implant to show you the fields, with Neo's help. Are you ready to see the world as it really is?'

"Yes," Gillian rasped. "Show me."

Trinity eased Gillian back into one of the stalls, urging her to sit down on the floor, with the metal divider that served as a wall to rest against. Strike crawled over Gillian and sat down on the toilet. Gillian squeezed her eyes shut forcibly as the device Strike held was brought closer until what seemed the open end rested against the side of her head. It felt strangely warm Even still, she gasped.

"I'm gonna access the Agent first, then I'll show you the fields."

"It's gonna feel kinda weird," Tank added. "It won't hurt, though."

"Except the part when your heart breaks at what you see," thought Trinity.

Gillian went rigid, her jaw clamped down as the device sprang into life and into action. Instantly she was everywhere at once, and at the same time nowhere. Self-aware, and unaware, intent on only the next task, and its ending, and the next task.

"Downloading the central database," Strike announced with triumph, his eyes fixed on the display.

"Hurry," Trinity urged.

Everything was founded on rules, geometrically fixed by that which could not be bent or altered. The many were the one, and sentience only one line of the equation, all of which led back to the absolute, the pure and untransmutable truth which defined existence both for the predator and the prey.

"Almost there," said Strike softly. Trinity knelt near Gillian but didn't touch her. This was one of many trials that lay ahead, and the journey was private. Celt was experiencing what it was to be an Agent program in a way no-one had ever done. This, too, could aid them later.

"I got everything I could access," Strike announced gleefully. "It's a helluva lot, too"

Gillian's eyes fluttered open. "That's all there is," she whispered. "That's all he is."

"Take a deep breath now, and let it out slowly," Trinity advised, drawing back from the pain in the other woman's eyes. She couldn't help the surge of pity she felt. As much as she hated the Agents and all they represented, for a very long time they'd meant the opposite to Gillian. It wasn't hard to get behind Celt's eyes for a second.

Gillian exhaled. She knew the next bit was going to be even worse, and she leaned back, her eyes half closed again.

"Celt. There's a danger he might have realised what we've just done. There are failsafes."

"He didn't. You'll have to trust me this time. Is it even possible for you to come to harm here?"

"We die here, we die there," Tank answered.

"Jesus."

"That's right man, get religion."

"You sound like Cross, Strike."

"Get on with it!" Trinity snarled, glancing worriedly at Neo.

"You ready?"

Gillian nodded numbly, her gaze mercurial. Trinity clasped Gillian's hand between her own, doubt seeping in. How deep was Celt's loyalty to the Agent? What would it take to bend it, to break it?

Trinity like the rest of them took a leap of faith. "It's not the year 2002, Celt. It's closer to 2202 by our estimation. We took a gambit developing AI. Went a lot further than we should. Became dependent, then over-dependent. Lost our edge. They won. Nuclear winter. We burnt the sky, thinking we'd burn them too. We thought if we put out all the lights they'd go away. They found the light and the power within us more palatable than even the sun.

We gave birth to them, to our own end. Now we are harvested to give them continued existence, and the Matrix is their remittance; control. Billions of people have lived their lives within the digital illusion, never knowing that's all it was. We're going to show you the fields now, where we're grown. The power plant." Gillian seized Trinity's hand but soon could no longer feel it.

Before and above her stretched row upon row of what looked like elongated incubators, each containing a human being. She was somehow brought closer to one such tank. Along the length of a boy's spine were attached plugs, connectors of some sort. They looked very much like spark plug covers to Gillian. After a fashion that's exactly what they were, she reckoned.

Plugs. Black tubing. Down his throat, in the back of his neck. She was moved away, whether by perception or in reality she couldn't tell. The view widened, and the phantasmagoria of it all came into sharp focus; the tanks were attached to towers. She craned her neck; up they went, and down, far below her, and on into infinity it seemed, and amongst them machines worked, tending, hovering, guarding their prey; some massive, teetering on endless spiderlike legs; others small, individual, black and ravenous as specialised hornets ready to mete out their ministrations one by one.

"Now she's gonna blow," Strike predicted smugly. Gillian retched, Trinity dancing out of the way just in time. Gillian curled up in a ball on the floor.

"Get me out of here," she pleaded. "Get me out of there. Take me with you."

"We can't yet. Nothing would alert the Agent to what we're attempting better than you and your kids suddenly gone. I give you my word, all three of you will be freed. I promise."

Gillian knew what it meant now for Trinity to say that word.

"They're not really my kids, are they?"

"They're as much yours as you want them to be," Neo answered. "We have to go, now. One more minute and this place will be crawling with Agents. I have to let go, I can't hold it back much longer."

"You can do it, Celt, Hang on. Just do what you've always done."

"He's drugging me-" she said desperately.

"It's the implant. It's control. Play along. You'll be free soon."

They were gone before she could say anything more, and she crumpled to the floor again, wrecked, slipping in her own vomit. Amanda found her, though Gillian was unaware of how much time had passed when she did. Maybe none.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, baby. I'm here."

"Are you sick?"

"I fell and hit my head. I'm alright now."

"Should we call Daddy?"

"No, Amanda. I can manage on my own." Gillian gritted her teeth and rose, and went and washed up as best she could in the frigid water of the restroom's spigot, and fetched Garrett. It was getting dark.

Owen was asleep in his chair when they got in. Gillian was shivering, and nauseous. She showered quickly, and went on with the cooking, and made leaden small talk with the Agent, trying not to choke on the nightmare they'd promised to wake her from. She'd have to endure the dream until they did.

Trinity's footsteps echoed off the deckplates, unyielding beneath her feet. Back and forth she paced until her body was satisfactorily warm and her mind clear. Humankind had once lounged beneath the warmth of the sun. For fun. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to imagine being enveloped in such steady warmth. It was beyond the realm of her experience, even in the Matrix. Promise was warm in Zion, and would never know the falsehood of existence within the system.

"Cold?"

She was drawn back into herself, and reached for Neo's hand. "Yeah. So are you." She squeezed his fingers, her eyes warmer than she felt.

"It's not so bad."

She nearly smiled. Neo never bitched about anything. The rest of them could take a lesson from him sometimes. He'd been nice and cozy in the Matrix before she and Morpheus and Neo's own destiny had extricated him. Better to be really cold for a purpose than warm only in your head. Better to be unplugged than force-fed reality by design. Still there were moments of weakness, moments they all buried.

"You missed breakfast."

"Yeah, right," she said sarcastically.

"The glop was extra tasteless today. Strike and Tank both made it sound like it was biscuits and gravy."

"Sounds good. Too bad it wasn't." She sighed inaudibly. "Their excitement is pretty infectious."

"This could be one of the better weeks for us."

"I hope you're right."

He pulled her close. "I miss her, too. It's safer for her there, Trinity."

"I know."

"We'll get a message through soon."

She pulled away, attempting a nod, her eyes distant, focused on something only she could see. "I'm supposed to be on the flight deck," she mumbled.

"Let's go see what Scribe's up to in Ops first."

Reluctantly she agreed and followed Neo. She still missed the Nebuchadnezzar, which had sustained too much damage to be salvaged after the last attack, the one in which they'd all been led astray, distracted long enough for the Agent to move. Their near-fatal error had been their position at broadcast depth; the Agent had somehow traveled down the line, ridden the pirate signal they'd been broadcasting to Zion, just another line in the code. They'd been forced to abandon ship, and onboard another Morpheus had given the order to destroy the Neb in an effort to prevent the Agent from gaining full control of Zion's mainframe. Somehow the bastard had escaped them. And now all their fears were focused on whether the Enemy knew Zion's exact position and all its secrets, and whether the last place they could call their own was soon to die. They'd been operating in a near radio-silence mode ever since, sending and receiving only the essentials. Agent Smith's demise was personal to them all now. The Epiphany had been built just for Morpheus and his crew, which had grown steadily during Trinity's time here.

Scribe was thoughtful, hovering over banks of battered terminals. Rows of monitors before him displayed billions of lines of code in constant transit, this staggering amount of information only partially comprising all that was the Matrix. Scribe was peering at the enumeration of something or someone sadly. Scribe rarely gave in to emotion, and Trinity moved warily closer. She had deep respect for Scribe, who had been recording the history of the Resistance since the beginning of the war, preserving every detail in any way he could for future generations; ensuring that someone would remember the struggle as it really was, regardless of who won.

Trinity began to feel even more ill at ease. "What is it, Scribe?"

"We're running out of time. Your friend's implant is malfunctioning. It's also leaking. The seepage will poison her before much longer. She's probably feeling the effects already. Strike and Tank had better move soon." Scribe pushed his gray hair back from his face, and rubbed his eyes. He was one of the oldest of the freedom fighters, and possessed a wealth of experience, and his wisdom was well-trusted.

Trinity was crestfallen. She never even felt Neo reach for her hand until she brushed it away gruffly. "I promised to free her," Trinity spat. "There has to be something we can do. How long?"

"A week, at most. Could be a controlled leak. Most likely is. She knows too much. The Agent probably wants her out of the way. He can alter the records to make it look as though she died of an illness. Hepatitis, or some blood-borne pathogen. I'm sure he'll be in mourning for all of a nanosecond."

"What if we unplugged her now? Could we save her?"

"I can't say. We've never encountered this before. The implant is of a much higher grade than any we've dealt with in the past. Re-engineered, just like the Agent programs themselves."

It just got harder all the time. Never easier, never a real end in sight. Trinity's resolve was only heightened by this, yet she wondered why, why they continued to fight for a ravaged planet and a decimated society on the brink of utter extinction. Most of them fostered a secret hope that once they had freedom and the machines were defeated, they could reap what technology remained, combine it with their own and achieve the kind of flight that would take them far from here, away to a fresh start, a future where only the living were sentient.

Celt was about to become just another deletion. Trinity could well envision the hell Celt had been living in since she'd learnt the truth. She'd be clinging to the hope that it would soon be over. Either way, it would be. A promise was a promise.

"I'm going to talk to Strike. Neo, could you go and tell Morpheus something? Anything?"

"No problem. I'll take your station. Go find a way. Just be careful."

All was ordered in the inner core of the Agency. The Agent's colleagues flanked him on every side, awaiting orders. The Agent speculated briefly on his options, analising all the information at his command, correlating the old and the new, multi-tasking in ways the others were incapable of. At the same time he monitored Gillian, who was failing hourly, though still unaware of the gravity of her situation. The Agent would know a personal loss when she was gone.

It was necessary. Gillian had betrayed him. A sentence must be imposed when humans attempted to move on the level of machines, they must be met with stern opposition and made an example of in the most subtle of ways. No-one second-guessed an Agent. He had briefly considered sparing her. It was not to be, and such weakness on his part would damn all his endeavours thus far and undermine his authority. They were too close to victory now to take unnecessary risks.

"Give the order," one of the others drawled.

"A most opportune time," Smith deadpanned in agreement. "Very well. Implement the first phase." Plans within plans. He would launch an offencive of his own. Vengeance would become reality and his reputation for excellence would be unquestioned for all time.

"We're almost ready."

"Almost isn't good enough, Strike!"

"God damn it, Trinity, it's not like we can test this shit out whenever we feel like it. Agents aren't exactly standing by waiting to see if they're immune-"

"I know that! I also know it's got to be Smith."

"I agree," Tank grunted. "Zion, and now this. He's gotta be stopped. Once he is the others will scatter, and we can use the weakness to buy us some precious time."

"I'm going in. Come and set me up, Tank."

"I'm going with you," said Scribe, who'd been listening unseen from behind them. "Cross is at Ops. I want to get this woman out. I don't know why, but it matters. Her, and her kids."

Trinity gestured agreement swiftly and stalked away, Tank scrambling after her, carrying the prize. Strike watched them go, then clambered down the corridor behind them. Trinity lifted an eyebrow when she saw him.

"Strength in numbers," Strike offered, grinning. "Besides, its my baby." Trinity gave him a stoic smile in return before Tank jacked them all in and they accessed the Construct to gather what they'd need.

Gillian felt faded, as if daily part of her disappeared. She'd like to believe the aching joints and lethargy and fever were only the flu. She knew better now. Some invisible execution was being slowly exacted. No need to question by whom.

She was allowed to leave the Agency complex at lunch time. What did it matter to them? They knew when she breathed, or slept, or despaired. She wandered seeking fresh air, or the mental representation of it. For a few splendid moments she sat in the simulation of a sunlit square, a bench all to herself, and breathed until she felt almost human.

She'd finally mastered the ceaseless wondering about the where and when. Had Trinity failed her? Would they come for her? Would it hurt? Would the kids make it out? Would they fight beside Trinity, or hate Gillian for ripping them from the system?

Wearily she lifted her head. She could hardly bear now to let the children out of her sight, and despised more the time they spent near the Agent, and most of all the automated aneurysm he'd installed in her head, his invisible shock collar, guaranteed to force her into submission, to drain her of all inner will, drop by drop. He held the fuse, and if she said one wrong word he would detonate it. Maybe he already had.

Her thoughts like her vision grew dull, until someone tapped her on the shoulder. A UPS delivery man. She almost whimpered in terror, until he spoke. His eyes were a cool gray under equally gray, bristling brows. Still Gillian backed away. He could be the Agent, any Agent.

"Got a delivery here from Trinity."

Gillian blanched. How could she dare to believe him?

"Promise," the man added, proffering a bogus clipboard with a phony receipt for her to sign. He laid the box beside her as she signed one word at the bottom. Celt.

The delivery man pointed at himself. "Scribe," he said softly. He gestured casually at the package. "Enjoy your day, ma'am, and happy birthday." Scribe doffed his hat at her and strode off, and Gillian's gaze drifted after him, taking note of his direction, though she tried desperately to appear as if she wasn't.

Hastily she rose, picking up the box, the tapping of her heels on the pavement obscured by the hammering of her own heart. She tried not to break into a run as she sought a place to hide. The heels hobbled her, as though she balanced on nails, fearing to be pierced if she fell, the same as she had every minute of all the weeks past.

She staggered at last into a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant. The place was packed, its patrons watching her entrance. The air was heavy with the odours of salt and grease and permeated with soy. Nausea rose in her, roiling up from within, threatening to force her to her knees. She held her head stiffly high. Everyone who watched seemed to know she was sick, and cringed away when she passed as if constructing some unseen barrier against her infection. She leered back at a few of them.

She begged the manager to let her use the restroom, and he was about to refuse her until he saw the genuine tears that sprang to her eyes. He urged her away from his customers, only too happy to leave her in the ladies room, which was nothing more than an area large enough for one person to turn around in. Gillian locked the door gratefully and sank down onto the closed toilet lid.

The floor was damp, dotted here and there with saturated masses of toilet paper. Too bad she hadn't time to vomit.

She held the package between her knees while she clawed at the wrapping and ripped open the box, which came apart easily. It was the sort cakes are delivered in. Happy Birthday. Inside was a cell phone and a gun. As soon as she picked up the phone, it rang.

"Celt, it's me. Are you okay?"

"I've been better."

"I'm sure. I've got bad news. It's the implant. It's leaking. Ready to melt down."

"I reckoned as much. I haven't had any memory lapses lately. I just feel like shit."

"Sickness?"

"Yeah, like the flu. And early arthritis."

"It's going to get worse."

That was the moment Gillian knew, the moment it was all as crystal clear as if she'd lived her entire life for this one realisation. It was the one true revelation she'd ever had that hadn't been generated by the Matrix. Maybe this was what they'd used to call fate. Or acceptance.

"No, Trinity. It isn't going to get worse. Didn't Scribe tell you? It's my birthday. By choice. Someone's got to make it out, someone's got to live. Please, let it be my children. Tell them I love them. Tell them to remember. I know what I'm meant to do. Let me do it."

"Celt, if we can get you to the Epiphany-"

"I've just gotten there now, Trinity. You'll find freedom by your epiphany, as will I. It's too late. I want him to see it done to him before he can do it to me. I want him to die. All of them, Trinity. Shut the whole fucking works down if you can, and take my kids to the Promised Land."

Trinity's reply was strangled. "Are you sure?"

"Dead sure. I promise."

"He's coming, Celt."

"I know."

"Get out of there. Meet us at the old arena on Warren. Two blocks south. Strike's already there. The gun fires an electro-magnetic pulse. It can only be used once. Make it count. You'll know when. Run like hell and don't look back."

Gillian kicked the discarded brown wrapping out from underfoot and took off, the gun tucked precariously inside her jacket. She felt free in a way she hadn't in a very long time. Maybe for the first time ever. There was no illness now, only purpose.