Chapter Two: Building the Bridge
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Neo had become a leader, yes; but he had also become an emissary.
He found himself now called for by those who had heard of his message of Peaceful co-existence and Not destroying the Matrix and Understanding that all sentient beings have the right to survive, found himself more often than not fulfilling more of the role of 'the One' than he ever had in Zion. A figurehead; a symbol. Someone to be seen amongst those of the Machine empire, the Zion crews, the underground network of Exiles who never spoke of one another, but knew every other fringe program and being on an intimate level: survival makes you brothers. Always socially awkward at the best of times, he found himself both thrust into Thomas Anderson's worst nightmare and playing upon every ounce of Thomas Anderson's former dubious innocent charm. Trinity had told him once that the Matrix could not tell him who he was, but he disagreed with that, as well. To an extent. Because old habits did die hard, no matter what the books said, and when your every word and movement is being scrutinized by a dozen sentient beings – looking for the weakness, looking for the loophole, looking for the lie – and the success or failure of your very ultimate Purpose depends on the cant of an eyebrow, the sincerity of your tone… it was good to remember those little nuances, the body language that put people at ease, the slightly bewildered smile that turned your intentions transparent and put suspicions to rest… even if all of this was done on the deepest subconscious level.
It was good to have a buried memory of dodging drunken men at a nightclub, or knowing how to politely refuse an advance, of knowing who was watching the movement of your hips not with admiration of your grace but with a suppressed desire to hurt, to subjugate. Good to know how far was too far, in sacrifice.
Good to remember how to play the game.
And the fact that he was the One didn't hurt, in any case: the glitch, the Sixth Anomaly who, rather than simply fulfilling blind pre-destination and rebooting the program, had instead chosen destruction for neither side… and had the passion and the power to maintain that choice. To stand by it.
In essence of metaphor, Neo had begun to build that Bridge with his flesh.
And so he had found himself here: buried in the mass of people drinking alcohol manipulated by a few lines of clever code here and there – a tiny hallucination, just to spice things up, a taste more appealing than straight whiskey or with a bite more potent than wine – or drinking coffee; a heavy-bass thrum of music lying over the semi-darkened room like a living, throbbing shroud. He had wanted to speak to the Merovingian about the underground network he, Neo, had begun to set up – if anyone could tell him where the weak points were, it would be the Frenchman, with his innate grasp of point and counterpoint. The Merv, for his part, had wanted to ask something of Neo, a safe point for some of his people. So again, the dance: begun.
"Come, tomorrow night. There will be… some people: a little wine, a little music. A safe place to have a chat. Only the upper echelon, you understand: don't bring any of those idiotic children with their snap-holsters and their prejudices. It would be disgraceful, to say the least, in dynamics we always must be aware of whom has the power at any given moment, and who wants it. Only you, Neo, come alone and we'll talk. Consider this a private invitation. You are… privileged."
And here he was.
The steady rumble of the music was nothing less than hypnotic, threatening a sort of forced calm; almost absently, Neo found himself wondering if that was on purpose, too. He wouldn't put it past the Merv, who always seemed to have everything… under control.
Like now: there. In the corner of the room, moving through the throng of people like a blood-scenting shark through the rotted pilings of a pier: no motion wasted, just the right tilt of the head, the right word. A soft amused chuckle drifting to Neo over the music and conversation. The Merovingian had appeared there, like smoke, like a holographic projection turned on and off at whim: and, yes, there was a turning head, a nod. Some of them, at least, had now had their attention drawn to the presence of the One.
The Anomaly? Here? Oh, yes. It's true, really, it is. Over there. No, just to the left of the bust, there, that shadow isn't a shadow; it's the collar of his coat. No, I'm not worried… no need. Yes, I heard that he is working with the Merovingian… only benefits for us all, hmm? No, I don't know why. But the word is that he wants to keep the Matrix intact. Running. I know! A human, defending the Matrix. But that's what I hear. No, I don't know. Yes, he is young, isn't he? I haven't seen any trouble so far, but keep your eyes open: after all, I've heard that Agents have been deleted because of him. Looks cocky? I don't know. Yes, that's him. In the corner there. Maybe we should stick around, see what we can find out… it might be wise to find out where the power really lies. Maybe even to join in with this, if it suits us…
And Neo nods, carefully, subtly, acknowledging their acknowledgement. This is a part of the game he will never get used to.
He flexes the hand again: the tall glass is congealing with thin liquid that he's long since forgotten about. He doesn't drink, doesn't even partake in any of the Zion ritual beverages except on very rare occasions, and now finds himself in a situation that would have made Trinity either raise her eyebrows or throw up both hands in amused, frustrated resignation: what to do with the damn thing? For all he knew, the stuff was spiked with a code that'd explode if he tried to toss it into a potted plant, or something. An insult to Merv's generosity. Or whatever. He doesn't want to put it down – and, really, there's nowhere to put it down, in this massive, moving crowd – and he needs to make sure he keeps all his faculties intact: this is business, after all. Of the most important kind.
And he can't just keep holding the damn thing forever.
Lifting it between his fingers, his eyes only half-scanning the crowd, his vision picks up a single, subtle movement at the corner of his eye. The turn of a sleek, dark head. And suddenly, without needing to know how he knows, he is excruciatingly aware that all of the Merovingian's fabled attention is now – however temporarily – entirely fixated on him.
The older man nods once.
Barely.
The slightest incline of his jaw.
No one else even notices.
Neo pauses for the barest fraction of a second… and then in one raise-and-flex fluid motion, he re-directs the intention of his elbow and tosses back the entire contents of the glass.
Hell with it.
As he lowers the glass from his lips there is already someone there to take it out of his hand: efficient service, the Merv calls it, often with a sneer. Neo registers this, as he registers all other sensory input, simply as data to be filed, an unimportant detail that is already lost as he steps away from his place in the corner, moving through the dark moist crowd and toward the rear door of this massive room. The wine, or whatever it was, is a distant burning in his throat, his chest, somewhere around his hips; it will pass off after a while, and until then he will simply have to deal with it. Why not? It is a party, after all.
A party. Neo could almost laugh.
They used to party before executions, too. In the old days.
He nods to those he passes, but for the most part they simply part to let him pass: whether this is part of his image as the One or simple courtesy, it comes to the same end result… his booted foot on the bottom step of the rising marble staircase, one hand cool on the smooth stone. He'd fought here, once, filled to the brim with confidence and cocky splendor, as yet oblivious of the real truth. Fought just as much to show off as to survive… he could have simply followed Morpheus and Trinity, grabbed the two of them and the Keymaker and taken off with one deliberate motion. But he had been trying to make an impression… he didn't think he'd been doing it consciously, but in the end, did it matter?
"Mark my words, boy. I have survived your predecessors; I will survive you."
Several months after Neo had first come forth and presented his offer of peace, after the Merovingian had examined Neo's intentions in his meticulous jeweler's way, the Frenchman had summoned the One to him to "return the favor in kind": he had presented Neo with a set of weaponry from his arsenal, a stunningly gorgeous pair of chrome and leather sai, the blades wickedly sharpened – not for display or practice, these weapons – and the hilts leather-wrapped in black with embroidered gold braid.
For the sake of peace, he'd said, that infuriating smirk playing over his lips as he sat there, Neo facing him and flanked by his underlings. For we do have to fight to keep the peace, now, no? And I know you can fight for it. I've seen you use these. Just a favor, eh? Don't use these on any more of my men. A thoughtful pause, and then the Merv had hoisted an eyebrow and laughed. Or my furniture.
The sound of his footsteps is nearly inaudible beneath the conversation and laughter and music; he can make his way up above in silent anonymity. His chest loosening a little, just a little – again with the wonders of the subconscious, you never really knew how uncomfortable you were until you weren't – and the cooler air drying the thin film of sweat on his forehead, beneath the swept-back line of his hair. The staircase wound up and up, every single stone and cut a work of art -- even now he admired it, again, no matter how many times he's been up here to think -- at last spreading out into a wide, dark balcony high up, overlooking the room.
Cool, so cool. A step, two, the black cassock's hem swirling around his high boots. He can reach out, now, and put both hands flat on the smooth stone railing; he can move forward, lean over just a little, and look directly down on the party from above. Same place, different perspective, funny how a simple little change in angle can make everything look so different. There's a lesson there, somewhere. Maybe you should tell them that, the next ones. Tell them that if such a tiny little detail can shift the appearance of everything, then maybe they shouldn't rely so much on details to define their truth.
And Neo is not aware of how he must look, there: dark glasses still concealing his wide darker eyes, the line of his mouth set in that way he so often had these days. The high collar of his coat shading his pale jaw, his neck, the lines of the cassock long and deliberate down to the shine of his calf-high buckled boots, the coat split at his waist to hang loosely at his hips. Residual self-image was often more than a memory of oneself: he had often been surprised at how frequently people new to the truth had asked him this question. It wasn't about the idea of deliberately "looking cool": sometimes, it played itself out as a reflection of the inside. And sometimes, it needed to. Standing there, his black hair still damp with sweat from the overcrowded room, young and age-old with that unending drive, he is unthinkingly and unknowingly fulfilling that part of the cycle: the world's expectations of the One. An outward reflection of his own internal acceptance of his Purpose.
For a moment, he leans forward, looking down at the people he had just been in the thick of: same people, but distant, now. Simply people, rather than faces. Neo crosses his arms on the railing before him and leans his forehead against them… not tired, exactly, but aware in a bone-deep way of just how far there is still left to go.
All right, okay. Tired. Sue me.
With no precursor or warning, suddenly Neo pauses, like that child in the moment after someone's giggled and yelled Freeze!: utterly, absolutely still, like a predator; like the prey.
And he smiles wearily, almost cynically. Not turning, or raising his head. When he speaks it is quiet, dangerous, with the faintest undercurrent of amusement.
The way a rabbit is amused when it runs in a confusing, frantic circle, only to find the wolf superior, already lounging casual in the path to safety.
"I thought I'd had a head start."
The shadows behind him congeal, merge, swirl and seem to shift into a shape that hadn't been there only a moment before; but of course it had been. He had sensed the shift in the tone of the air even without relaxing into that brilliant green vision that was part of his gift, his weight. And even now, he doesn't move or turn: he looks down on the party below, watches them, as a hand slides out of the nearly solid darkness to rest smooth and warm against his right hip; so warm, even through the coat.
A moment, and the other hand is there as well. Something turns over slowly, gently, murderously, in the depths of Neo's stomach and somewhere in his thighs; where a moment before he had been lost in his own thoughts, it takes merely half that time to become lost in sensation. A hand on each hip, then, warm and demanding, and the greater warmth of a body, silk and cotton and cologne just over his right shoulder.
"Mmm, Neo, the day you can out-trick me we'd both better give it up as useless, hmm?" The fingers on his hip, tightening. "Because then we would both be past our prime: my needing your purity of intentions, your needing my cleverness to pursue this endeavor." The breath on his neck and without even thinking about it he rocks his head ever so slightly to the side.
Giving up access.
Giving in.
"Mmm." Noncommittal, and they both know it; this was never about sparkling dinner conversation, or about any truth that cannot be rendered in images and pain. Another time he might have had a more lengthy answer forced from his lips, through coercion in various forms; for now, it is not important.
For now, there is only this.
The hand on him, more insistent, the pressure of the body against him, and Neo takes in a quick -- almost involuntary -- breath that seems too loud, even above the noise of the gathering downstairs. He pulls back a little; starts to pivot on his heel, to turn around, to face the shadow-shape behind him… and the other hand, hot and rough, suddenly grasps him by the nape of the neck, fingers splayed. Pressing. Holding him in place, shattering all movement, all resistance.
"Non, 'tit chiot," whispers the Merovingian, in Neo's ear.