This fits into the timeline of Death and Rebirth, a few months after chapter 14, but it could easily stand on it's own. I personally think I'm getting good at angst - tell me if you agree.
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Bloodstain
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The mattress on Trinity's bed was thin, lumpy, and almost completely useless. She hated it. She wanted her old bed, from her bedroom in the Matrix. She wanted a decent night's sleep that didn't leave her with something aching in the morning. The metal desk chair was much more comfortable, and she sat there most of the time, forgoing the bed as much as possible.
But none of those registered, now.
She was numb. Utterly and completely numb. She could not speak, could not hear, could not register the sights before her eyes, could barely move. She could not even think. Sitting on the corner of her bed, against the corner of the room, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, brought against her chest, she could only replay a moment in her mind.
An alley, or a building, somewhere - she couldn't' think clearly enough to remember - police, and they were sorely outnumbered... Agents.... Hell, she didn't even remember who had taken her in, or why, or how they got out, or anything other than that moment. She only remembered her training, and her training had taught her that in a situation like this, it was imperative to separate yourself from all those plugged into the Matrix, for they could be used as hosts for the Agents. And it was that same training that had taught her that that sometimes required less-than-desirable means. So many simulations, practice runs and lessons had given her an instinct. A cold, heartless, terrifying instinct. That impulse was to reach to the back of her belt, pull out two guns, one for each hand, and pull the trigger.
She didn't see how many each of the others killed. She knew only that by the time they were finished, only the Nebuchadnezzar's crew was left standing - each and every one of the cops was dead. She knew that at least three had died because of her.
That was how Trinity had come to find herself here, locked in her cabin, motionless, thoughtless, meaningless.
Hardly meaningless to those people's families, though. Her first thought in ten hours. They had probably found out by now, that a person they loved was dead.
A flood of emotion and invented images swept over her, breaking her thoughtless trance. She saw the wife of one of the men - tall, dark hair, dark eyes - crying her eyes out in the living room when her son came in, about to hound her for missing his basketball game. He saw her crying, and instinctively knew what had happened.
Another, what she remembered to be the only woman in the group - her brother, her only family living in the same state, was the first to be told. He was burdened with the task of stilling his hands and sobs long enough to dial the number on the telephone, and speak clearly enough to explain what had happened to his parents, and everyone else.
Another - she had seen his face clearly, this one, his nose must have been broken three times, and he had a small scar over his left eyebrow. A boxer at one point, probably. He was supposed to go out with his friends that night. He would never show up.
It was only more images to taunt Trinity, more things to torture her mind, and rip her heart to shreds. She had never thought herself as such before - and why should she, this was her first encounter like this - but, now, she could clearly see just how much she had strived to mend the rift only she could see in the world, before she was unplugged. And now she could see what she had never considered before: that the cost of righting these wrongs might just be too high.
The rest of the crew had not bothered her since she jacked out with them, let her stumble back to her cabin without speaking a word to her. And aside from the light footsteps outside her door several hours ago, and the quiet clank of a food tray being set down, she had not been disturbed.
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She woke from her restless sleep with a blood-curdling scream, though not a sound escaped her lips. She bolted upright into a sitting position, tangling her arms and legs in her sheets. She struggled against them, not yet fully awake, but only managed to tangle herself more. Finally, she freed herself of the bedding and came to her senses. Only the faint glow of the night lamp illuminated the room. Her nightmare was a replay of her Matrix run. Trinity's hands fell into her lap, and she stared at them, turning them over and over again, examining them, looking for something she would not find.
There was no blood on her hands.
The very notion of that was sickening. It was as if someone were telling her that none of it had ever happened, or that she could pretend that it hadn't, and go on without having to feel a speck of guilt for the lives she had taken so carelessly and brutally.
She was startled when something warm and wet fell into her palm. Another, and she realized that she was crying.
Oh, God....
She had murdered people.
Suddenly, silent sobs were racking her body, and she buried her face in her hands. She did not stop crying.
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They told you it was like this, she thought, nearly a week later, when she still refused unnecessary contact with the rest of the crew. Morpheus, in an act of mercy, would not take her into the Matrix for a while, and assigned her little work around the ship. You knew it was like this.
"Why is it that so many people die every time you show up?" Her own words to Morpheus echoed in her ears, from so long ago, when she was offered her choice of the pills. "You won't understand the answer to that right now," he had said. "But we are in the middle of a war, Trinity. And unfortunately, because of the nature of that war, innocent people die."
Innocent.
These people were not the enemy. They were simply trying to make their way in a world that meant something to them, to make a living to support their families. Families who loved them, were greatly saddened by their passing, and who would undoubtedly hate whoever had taken their life.
As she stared down at her hands, the reality hit her that, to do what she knew she must, to fulfill her purpose in this world, she would have to play by the rules of human war. Rules where anything went. Rules that had been part of what opened her eyes to the truth that everything was not so kind and good and simple as she thought. The truth that something was very, very wrong.
Trinity stared harder at her hands. She could see the blood, now. She would never be able to wash it off completely, she knew, and by the time she got even a tiny shade of the stain to fade, there would only be more blood spilled by them, onto them. More and more and more, faster than she could ever hope to strip it away.
No. This was but the beginning of a stain that would stay on her hands for as long as she lived.