Disclaimer: I own nothing. Actually, tell a lie, I own Shadow, Allan, Pixel, Twitch, and the plotline - what there is of one. The rest, including concept, world and inspiration, belong to the Wachowskis and WB. I am writing for my own amusement/gratification/ twisted sense of humour/starved plotbunny and am making no money off this whatsoever.
A/N: Wow, two chapters in one day. A record for me. I decided against showing Allans unplugging, as we all know what will happen, with the pills, and the hallucinating, and the goo, and the machines, and... ugh. So, this takes place, after he had been released, a couple of hours after he has been told the truth. ("You've been living in a dream world" etc)
Allan sat huddled on his bed, the door of his cabin closed. He had his eyes shut and was trying very hard not to think about anything at all. His thoughts skittered one way and another, and he realised he was shaking. It had nothing to do with his thoughts, he was just that cold. After a while he lay down, curling up as tight as he could.
A knock at the door. It sounded hollow and metallic, but then, everything did here. He debated with himself for a long moment, then called softly, "Come in."
It was Shadow. She was no longer the blank-faced loner lost inside her huge coat, nor the intense leather-clad girl who had swept him away on her motorcycle to this strange, cold place. Her skin was ghostly, almost translucently pale, her mouth thin and compressed. Ragged clothes hung awkwardly off her skinny frame, and her long hair was braided close to her skull, giving the impression of baldness. She looked striking, stark and defined.
She stood in the doorway, looking at him, waiting for him to say something. She didn't ask him if he was alright. She knew he wasn't. She just waited for his questions.
He took deep breaths. "That talk you gave in class - it was all true, wasn't it? All the stuff about objective reality, and virtual reality... god, it was like you were trying to hit us over the head with it."
"But you were the one who picked it up and ran with it," she said, coming into the room and sitting on the floor, her back braced against the floor, feet against the bed. Short legs, he thought vaguely. Then he realised what she had just said.
"Is that why you released me? Because I liked your talk?"
She shook her head. "The talk's just a way of testing the waters. Seeing whose mind can stretch to accommodate the concept. Yours could."
"Is that why, then?"
"Not exactly." He looked at her. "I thought you had potential."
He laughed harshly. "And now what do you think? I freaked out in there. They all think I'm stupid."
She looked at him thoughtfully, then smiled. "Look at this." She pulled up her sleeve, revealing three parallel scars on the inside of her forearm. It looked like a big cat had tried to rip her arm open. The scars were shiny and healed, but a gentle pink against her paper-white skin. "Do you remember Twitch?"
He did, vaguely. One of the crew. A small, nervous man with a large nose and long, thin hands. "Yeah."
"He freaked out about ten times worse than you. I was trying to hold him down, tell him it was okay. He clawed me up pretty bad, and bit a chunk out of Pix."
"Bit a chunk out of her?" repeated Allan, shocked. He remembered Pixel as a tall, burly Asian-featured woman with cropped black hair.
"Oh, it wasn't a big chunk," she reassured him. "Only about the size of a quarter. From here." She indicated the point where her neck met her shoulder. "She was leaning over him to reach his other arm - this was just after he got me in the arm - and he just lunged up and took a piece out of her."
Allan stared down at the scars. "How long ago was this?"
She squinted, figuring it out. "Lessee, I was twelve. So about five years."
"Shit," he breathed.
They sat in silence for a few moments. She seemed absolutely comfortable, willing to sit in what looked like a very awkward position for as long as necessary. Allan's thoughts were crashing into one another. He tried to think of a question that wouldn't sound belligerent or inane. All he could come up with was, "Can I have something to eat?"
She looked up at him, her face slipping back to blankness. "Sure. Can you walk to the mess, or do you want me to bring you something?"
Allan thought about it, decided he really couldn't, and said, "I can walk."
By the time they reached the infirmary, she was half-carrying him. "I could have brought you something, you know," she grumbled good-naturedly.
"I know," he gasped, collapsing in a chair. "I thought I could make it."
The effort it had taken to walk less than thirty yards shamed him. He was trembling and weak as a baby. She looked at him without scorn.
"Don't push yourself," she said kindly while he tried to regain his breath, blinking away the spots that filled his vision. "It's always like that at first. You need to get your strength back slowly. The weakness will pass."
He nodded as she turned to do something at the bench on the other side of the room. "I have to warn you, the food isn't terribly good." She put in front of him what looked like runny porridge. "But it's a balanced diet. We can subsist quite healthily on this."
He picked up the spork, noticing as he did his hand was shaking. The utensil seemed bizarrely heavy. Or maybe it was his hand that was heavy. Shadow had turned her back again, quietly and efficiently tidying up the small space.
He had about three mouthfuls of the bland, tasteless stuff before the spork got so heavy he had to put it down for a rest. He could feel weakness spread throughout his body. His mind was awake and alert, but his body was a heavy, clumsy thing that refused to do what he wanted. He realised that there were tears of frustration running down his face. He couldn't even feed himself. He was useless, helpless.
Shadow looked at him compassionately. She remembered what it was like. She sat carefully beside him, straddling the bench he sat on, and pulled him over to lean against her, his head against her shoulder. She reached over and picked up the spork and began to feed him like a baby.
"I'm useless," he mumbled, before she got the first mouthful in.
"Oh, sure, now you're useless. You're doing well that you're even walking at this point. I remember when we unplugged this guy last year, he didn't feed himself for three damn months. We all thought something was really wrong. Finally figured out he was doing it so he could look down Pixel's top while she fed him."
"What'd she do?" he asked, mildly curious. She gave him another spoonful.
"Plugged 'em into the construct and told him that if he could land a punch, he could have her. Of course, this was before his training started, and he'd never seen any of us fight, so he had no idea what she could do."
"She kicked his ass?"
"Of course."
"I would never try to look down your top."
"I believe you."
Silence as she continued to feed him. As he swallowed the last spoonful, he said, "Only 'cause I'm scared you'd hurt me."
He startled when she laughed. It was a quick, soft sound, but definitely a laugh. "Now that, I believe."
He smiled, suddenly very sleepy.
"Tired now?"
He nodded, just a bit, too tired to talk or to move. He was so very comfortable agaist her shoulder - it wasn't as bony as it looked - and she was warm. The length of his body where he was pressed against her was so warm. He could feel himself drifting off.
