a/n: After consulting with the crack addicts to this story (wink), I was told that a little bit of drama would not be a bad thing in this more than usually fluffyfiction. So this chapter takes on a more serious tone, while, I hope, staying light in some places. Again, I hope you enjoy it... the next chapter is similar. -Sydney

Chapter 18, part 1 of 2
Nebuchadnezzar, circa 2199

THEY STAND TOGETHER in the cockpit, in a platinum blue light which brings out the startling azure of her eyes, and the faint flush on the apples of her cheeks. He can't help notice it. The slope of her nose, the shape of her lips. Strong brow, stronger chin, dainty cheekbones, and hair the color of a raven's wing. His Trinity. Though he still can't completely believe it. That all this beauty could be for him.

Trinity takes his hands, and without a word, presses them between hers, trying her best to warm them. Neo pulls himself free, reversing the gesture so she is in the middle. She smiles, though it barely registers on her face, and she leans in a little closer.

They are still exploring this quasi-casual familiarity of touch. It's nice, and they take the opportunity to do it whenever they can. A comforting hand on her shoulder, a deliberate brush in the corridor, a kiss when they're sure they are alone. They haven't talked much. But they've touched.

The periodic affirmation of their feelings keeps them grounded and centered. Safe in the moment, safe in the present, they aren't distracted by the near imminence of another sentinel attack, or those five dead soldiers lying in the core.

Touching, it seems, has already become their choice method of survival.

More than anything else, her focus means their survival. While Morpheus and Tank tried to reestablish communications, Neo watched Trinity pick through the mangled electrical systems, like a neurosurgeon meticulously welding axons, rebuilding pathways. Following her orders, he held her flashlight, and brought her tools, raw materials, and mugs of hot water to keep her fingers from freezing. Without breaks, she labored for hours until there was nothing left she could do. Her patient died on the table. They'd just have to wait for rescue, she said, defeated. And hope it doesn't take too long.

And that was the last thing she said, before falling silent and idle, though her company is far from awkward. But he can't tell what she's thinking, whether she's in pain, or if she's worried. He is sure she's exhausted. Thoughtful. Introverted.

But still, they're touching.

She pulls one of her hands out of the sandwich, and places it on top. Neo grins at the wordless argument they are having, and is pleased with the compromise. She circles her four fingertips over his four knuckles, and then lightly pinches each one, making a tactile study of his hand. Neo turns it over so she can explore the palm, wondering if she'll see anything more interesting than the Oracle did.

Trinity traces his lifeline, which is long but discontinuous, broken twice in the middle. And then the heart line, bold and spanning the entire hand, curved upwards. Mystics and fortune tellers associate the latter marking with a playful, romantic disposition, but also warn against pursuing love at all costs. But Neo isn't a palmist, and something tells him that Trinity knows less about chiromancy than he does.

Still, she appears curiously pleased with what she sees.

"Neo, what really happened in there?" she asks into the dark. "After that agent… after we…" She pauses. "You stopped bullets. You destroyed a sentient. Explain to me how. I want to understand what happened to you."

The question surprises him. "Actually, I was hoping you'd explain it to me. I think you understand what happened better than I do."

"No, I…" She trails off, interlacing their fingers, and the corner of her mouth twitches upward. "I had faith. That's all. Just… belief . Or insanity, whatever you want to call it. I knew you'd come back to me, somehow. You had to."

He rests his forehead on hers, rubs noses with her a little, but Trinity pulls back to look into his eyes. "What I don't know is how. How did you do it?"

"Trin, the belief is the how," he whispers back. "The faith, the insanity... whatever you want to call it."

She gazes at him for a moment, then her eyes fall and she slips away to check on the instruments she repaired. "Fine, if that's the way you want it. Don't tell me."

The comment, which may or may not have been a joke, comes out flat and mirthless as she punches at the keyboard. Unsatisfied, he pulls her back against him, takes the blanket from his shoulders and wraps it around hers. "I mean it. I'm serious," he says, rubbing her arms, ostensibly to keep in the heat – but the truth is he needs the contact more than she does. "You kept believing. Against all logic and reason, even though I was shot and it was impossible. You didn't care; you knew I was The One. You knew it here…" He presses his hand on her chest, feeling the outline of a plug under her sweater. "That's where I had to know it, too."

Trinity pushes into his hand, and mirrors him, her palm on his heart. "And do you now? Trust yourself… here?"

"No." His lips brush her forehead. "That's where I trust you."

Like two magnets, they come together, her curves onto his body, her breath against his cheek. He kisses her temple, then finds her mouth, as the blanket falls around their ankles. She hums, a tiny vibration in the back of her throat, and for a moment they are lost. They couldn't stop, even if they wanted to. They've fallen, they're still falling, and there is no going back.

But even now, as he savors her like an exotic delicacy of the real, Neo knows there is something wrong. Maybe he's intuiting it from her, because Trinity's sorrow runs deep- he knows it must. She won't show him, but she's in mourning. So he hugs her tightly in the stillness, in the empty tin vessel that the ship has become. Over her shoulder, he glances out the windshield, into the sewers. It's quiet, and black. He feels ill, and again, the instinct strikes the middle C of his consciousness, loud and resonant. Something isn't right.

"Don't worry," she says. "Another ship will pick up the distress beacon soon. We'll be okay."

Her voice seems to come from a great distance, like an echo. "The sensors are online?"

Trinity raises an eyebrow, but turns to consult the computer. "Our range has been compromised. I have eyes out to a few hundred meters at best, but it fluctuates in and out."

He frowns, and she squeezes his arm in reassurance. "I've been in worse scrapes than this, Neo."

"Have you?"

"You doubt that?"

"No. I'm just... I guess I'm just curious about you."

She sighs. And swivels the captain's chair, picking up the blanket they'd dropped. Folding the tattered cotton in her lap and taking a seat, she reflects for a moment. "I guess there is a lot you don't know about me, isn't there?"

He sits opposite her, pivoting so they are facing each other. "Just the details, Trin."

A beat passes, and the expression in her eyes tells him she liked his answer. She nods slowly, as if considering this very carefully, and then bends forward, elbows on her knees. "When I was eighteen, I took a tiny scavenger vessel to the outer rim, near the tropics. A week's journey from anything. Nobody else would even consider going."

He mirrors her, pushing himself to the edge of his seat. "You went by yourself?"

"Yes. I was… a bit of a risk taker in my youth."

"Oh, well thank God that's out of your system. The last thing I need is a loose cannon for a girlfriend."

Her jaw drops, and she shoots him a sly look. The you-have-no-idea look. Only a few hours ago, she'd jumped from a plummeting helicopter, and wiped out an entire army of guards without breaking a sweat. But then again, hadn't the whole thing been his idea? Neo raises his eyebrows, and his partner in insanity (or whatever you want to call her), grins back knowingly. Choosing to leave it at that- another wordless confrontation- she continues, "There were rumors that the permafrost had cleared, that there was vegetation. A long shot, but the council was offering a fortune for anyone who'd try. Not to mention how much I could make bootlegging whatever I bought back."

"Bootlegging, Trin? I'd never have pegged you for… well, what do they call that in Zion? A dandelion dealer?"

Trinity smirks. "No, the botanical black market isn't my scene. I just needed the money. And I was… restless back then. I'd decided I was too good for the Academy, and so the army had decided it was too good for me. Can you imagine?" She scoffs. "Lock said it to my face. I was willful, arrogant, and a danger to myself and my fellow officers. Problem was, he was right. And the first chance I got, I was flying solo on a suicide mission, thinking I had something to prove. I really should be dead."

"What happened?"

"Something got me. God knows what it was... a machine of some sort, but not like any sentinel I've ever seen. It had these... golden eyes and a body like an insect. Wings that were blue, mauve, violet… all these colors that don't even exist anymore. Not really."

He tries to imagine such a creature. "Sounds beautiful."

She scowls. "Sure, take the machine's side. It hit me with an energy pulse and left me for dead. Two months I survived out there- no power, no radio. And hundreds of tiny metallic bugs, buzzing around, scanning me, driving me mad. By the time my food ran out, so had my sanity. One day, I'll introduce you to my bleach-jug first-officer and sock-puppet-crew."

He chuckles, but the sapphire stare that she pierces him with wipes the smile from his face in an instant. His heart skips a beat. Christ, she can be scary.

"It was a damn. good. crew," she says slowly, darkly. "And I was one hell of a captain. And we'll all be together again, soon. Once Morpheus is out of the way."

She could be teasing him, but there is no way to tell. Until she narrows her eyes, winks, and leans back in her chair. Twisted woman. What does she mix into her Tastee Wheat that affects her so inexplicably? Or it's just him. She likes to torture him. With Windex and bundt cake and bottomless riddles that end with knock, knock, Neo. His heart flutters again, a chill crawling up his spine. He's cold. What is that? The sound is like a skate slicing over fresh ice. He looks at Trinity's ashen face. She heard it, too.

But then, there is silence. And tap, tap, tap. From brain to blood to muscle and nerve, the ancient biochemical pathway coined as the fight or flight response drugs his plasma and activates his senses. Epinephrine. Norepinephrine. Acetylcholine. Sweat. Breathlessness. Pounding. He forces himself to whisper, "Trin, what was-"

A thunderous crack drowns out her scream as a jagged bolt travels down the centre of the windshield. It sprouts branches, fissures that radiate out like a tree growing in time-lapse photography. And - Bang! Bang! Bang! - gossamers blossom one by one, blooming like flowers, exploding like fireworks.

"Neo!" A chilling wind blows a hurricane of broken glass as Trinity collides with him and pushes them down, covering his body with hers. Metal bending metal, like the baritone cry of a whale, haunting and deafening, swallows them whole. The first tentacle lands so close it snags his sweater and grazes his skin, and her arms are torn away, her fingers are ripped from his collar. Calling her name, he rolls to avoid the second claw that comes crashing down, scrambling on his hands and knees, pulling frantically to free himself. He has never seen a live one this close before- an arachnidan daemon, a synthetic manifestation of the most terrifying technological evolution. And yet it moves as if it were organic. A glitch? Or a Darwinian advantage? The sentinel cocks its head up, as if distracted, and screeches as if in surprise. Writhes as if in pain, but Neo doesn't see any of it. He is blinded by the sizzling blare, so white it's painful. Raw electricity scorches his skin, numbing and singeing simultaneously like a chemical burn. Trinity must have reached the plasma gun.

"Tank, take the helm!" It's Morpheus' voice. The master alarm buzzes urgently. "Give me anything you've got! Move!"

"Fuel cell one and two, undervolted. She put it all in three. Eighteen hundred. Not enough for the EMP."

"I'm reading five more. ETA, one minute."

"We should bail."

"No. Go, now. Up. Break through a support line."

"It'll give out halfway. We'll fall."

"We'll make it."

"Sir?"

"Tank. Trust me."

Neo's skin tingles and his vision is scrambled with a kaleidoscope of color. Trinity. Why hasn't he heard her voice? He blinks around, desperate to find her. But as he stumbles to his feet, the ship knocks him against the hull, and it's all he can do to keep from falling over. The sensation is like ascending in an elevator that is moving too fast, and as blood drains from his head, he fights to stay up. Searches frantically.

Moments ago, they were talking. She was just teasing him, sadistically screwing with his mind. Touching him. Now, where?

"Trinity!"

Answer, please, answer. She has been in worse scrapes than this.

When the Neb surfaces, a second wave of cold hits him, much more intense and crippling than the first. And through the mangled nose of the ship, Neo sees the sky for the first time. Opaque, aubergine, with lightning netting the clouds together, flickering like a amethyst strobe. It's snowing. But Neo doesn't realize that the swirling flakes are volcanic ash, and the inclement weather is the angry symptom of a nuclear winter. The earth has been frozen like this for centuries, and Zion has been known to exile defectors to this awful place, to die on the surface to which they aspired to return in the form of bioorganic generators. But the fields are many miles to the south. This place is so forbidding, not even the machines will venture here. This place is what even the machines call hell.