Author's Note: Once again, thanks to all my wonderful reviewers. You all make me feel loved. A special thank you to Bagpipes5K2 for helping me so much with this fic, as well as Greenhouse. Everyone who likes Space needs to go check out "Souls in Winter." It rocks.

Glenak—Thanks for the suggestion, but the non-traditional style is the main reason I'm writing this fic. After two novels and three novellas in the usual third person past tense, I wanted to try something experimental. So far I'm really pleased with the way it's turning out, and the response has been great. As far as it not being in novel-style, I cite for you Gregory Maguire's "Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister" which is written entirely in third person present tense.

Just a brief note to all my readers, I'm going to be drowning in tech and performances for my show in the next two weeks, so if I fall behind on updates, that's why. I'll get back on track at the soonest moment as possible—there's no way I'm abandoning my new audience. These two fics are rapidly becoming my children.

NOTE PLEASE READ sleeping awakeyou are absolutely right. :hits self on head: That, dear readers, is what I get for working at two in the morning. Thanks for bringing that up, it's fixed now.

Chapter 4—Neverland

It is the middle of the night when he wakes again, brought out of a fitful sleep by a sudden swell of uneasiness. It is too quiet here, he realizes suddenly, the ever-present hum of the engines strangely absent. He has never been able to sleep in a room without some sort of background noise; silence rings deafeningly in his ears, reminding him that he is alone. The silence leaves too much space for other thoughts to reverberate in.

She is lying with her back to him, though he can tell already from the sound of her breathing that she is awake as well. He leans up and kisses the back of her neck softly, her hair tickling his cheek. She rolls over to face him, smiling a little in the dark.

"Still can't sleep?" she asks softly, reaching out to touch his face.

He shakes his head slightly, eyes still locked with hers. Meeting her gaze is like stepping into an electric current; it is a heady, exhilarating feeling, but dangerous in its intensity. If there is one thing that has stayed with him from his previous life in the Matrix is the knowledge that anything capable of bringing such joy is equally capable of bringing pain if suddenly torn away.

"Then talk to me," she says softly.

He shrugs, suddenly unable to find any words. At this thought, a sudden wonderment strikes him—is it possible that they, so newly joined, have already run out of things to say?

She shrugs in return, a sparkle of amusement lighting up her ice-blue eyes. They seem somehow to glow in the dark, catlike. He has hardly ever seen her sleep and yet somehow she seems tired even less frequently.

"Anything. I hardly know anything about you."

He realizes then that she is right, in nearly six months they have barely spoken any more than necessary.

"I thought you knew my darkest secrets," he teases. "You watched me for a whole year before you made contact, didn't you?"

"Yes. But I want to hear it from you. Your story."

"But none of it's real. Why does it matter?"

"It's still your story. You'll find stories matter a lot here, since we have no recorded history. Stories are all we have."

"I don't know!" he repeats, feeling ridiculous. He cannot think of anything to tell her that will seem even the least bit interesting. "I'm just your average boring guy." He rolls over onto his back, not wanting to see the look of disappointment in her eyes.

"All right, if you're going to be like that." She sighs, but her voice is playful. She roles onto her stomach and balances above him, one hand on either side of his chest. One rogue piece of hair comes loose from behind her ears and falls across her forehead, just barely touching the tip of her nose.

"Then what?" he asks, grinning.

"Then I'll just have to tell you your own story."

Neo perks up, curious to hear what she has to say. He has spent nights lying awake wondering what she must think of him from her time spent observing.

"So who am I?"

Her smile widens, a private smirk that somehow seems to say that she knows things about him he does not even know about himself.

"Hmm…you're the most decent, sensitive guy I've ever met. That's the first thing about you that caught my attention." She leans over and kisses his chin, moving her lips up his jaw with each sentence. "You used to help your landlady take out her trash. You made sure she always had fresh groceries and a door that locked properly, and every Sunday night you cooked her dinner. You stayed up past midnight every single night, running searches on your computer and playing Tetris because you said it made you numb. Once you cried over a newspaper story about a little boy who was murdered. You said you couldn't stand to live in a world where people were capable of such hatred. You used to talk to yourself because you needed to remind yourself you were awake and not trapped in some perpetual nightmare."

"Trinity…" He finds his eyes suddenly wet with tears. He is touched beyond belief by her perception, in awe of the fact that another person can understand him so fully, and oddly homesick, though he has no wish to return to his old hell. He wraps his arms around her waist and rolls onto his side, pulling her with him. Her lips find his in the dark, and he is swept away in the feeling of skin on skin.

A loud knock at the door brings him back to rude reality. He falls back against the bed, groaning loudly and groping around for his clothes. He is suddenly disoriented, and he nearly falls over the side of the bed, getting tangled up in the sheets.

"Shit," mutters Trinity, quickly slipping on clothes in the dark. "I'll go."

Neo manages to find his clothes at last, and pulls them on as he listens to Trinity talking softly with their visitor. Their voices are low and hushed, but he can practically taste the tension that has suddenly entered the room. She comes back after a moment, taking him by the arm and helping him up without bothering to turn on the lights.

"It's Tank," she says hurriedly as she leads him to the door. "He…took something. We have to hurry."

Neo races down the dark corridor and into the lift, shivering despite the artificial heat regulated by the Zion climate controls. Morpheus is a few paces ahead of them. Neo's head swims with the gravity of everything that has happened in the last few hours. They reach Tank's apartment far too fast for him, and the fear intensifies. He cannot stand another loss so soon.

They are greeted at the door by a dark-skinned man in a brown shirt and ragged linen pants. His face, framed by long dreadlocks, fills with surprise at the sight of Neo.

"Who—"

A woman pushes her way past the man before he has a chance to finish the question, ushering them inside.

"No time now. Introductions later." She is tall and pleasantly curved, her skin the same dark chocolate of the man's. Long dark curls fall down her back, captured in a crown of tiny braids across her forehead.

The woman takes Trinity by the arm and leads her inside. Neo casts an uncertain glance at Morpheus, then follows him inside, feeling out of place. He has only known Tank for a few months; suddenly his presence here feels like an intrusion.

"What happened?" asks Trinity as they step into the dimly lit room.

"He walked out of the infirmary in the middle of the night," answers the woman in a trembling voice. "Overdosed on painkillers, apparently, and came here. He insisted that we wake you."

He is lying on a bed in the corner of the room, partially covered by an old tattered blanket. His eyes are open, though the lids are dropping heavily. Beads of sweat are visible on his forehead. He is shivering.

Trinity goes over to the side of the bed and kneels down, taking his hand.

"What happened, Tank?" she asks softly.

He perks up a little at the sight of her, turning his head toward her with a great effort.

"I couldn't…it's too much, Trin. Too much…hurt."

She nods slowly, eyes filling with tears. She stretches her eyelids wider, refusing to blink and let the tears fall.

"I know," she says softly, her voice sounding oddly husky.

Tank shudders suddenly, a chill wracking his body violently. His face is pale and gaunt, the usual smile gone from his eyes. He has lost far too much weight over the past few weeks, and his face looks eerily like a skull in the dim light.

"Tank…" She starts to say something, but her voice cracks dangerously and she trails off.

"Don't worry about me, Trin," says Tank softly. There is an odd kind of peace in his voice now, the strain wearing away. "I'm going to Neverland."

Neo shifts uncomfortably, lost. While he does not feel threatened by Tank, Neo knows that he has a history with Trinity that he can never equal.

"Tank?" says the woman, obviously lost as well.

Tank smiles a little, oddly, and gestures weakly at Trinity.

"She was our Wendy…when I first joined the crew, I was thirteen. I wanted to be with Dozer...Morpheus let me, but I realized the instant I was there that I wasn't ready yet, and she…she took care of me. Of all of us…She would tell us stories to make us go to sleep. Fairy tales. We called ourselves the Lost Boys because we didn't have parents. She used to tell us that we were going to Neverland someday, when the fighting was over…I guess I get to go there now." He trails off, exhausted. His head falls to the side, and his eyes flutter. He is fading fast.

The dark-skinned woman goes over and kneels beside Trinity, taking Tank's other hand.

"Tank," she says, her voice choked with tears, "tell Dozer we miss him and we love him."

Trinity leans over and kisses his forehead lightly, then smoothes the covers over his chest.

"Enjoy flying, Peter," she says softly, then sits back. He is already gone.

She looks up at Neo, and something in her eyes fills him with fear. She is so full of hurt he is sure he can never offer enough comfort.

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