1. this chapter isn't screen-reader-friendly, so if you'd like a version that is, please let me know! i like to be Extra with formatting for visual effect, but I don't want that to be alienating to anyone.
2. said Extra formatting should be sized to work with both mobile and desktop layouts
3. the word count may or may not be a lie but this still took me three days so here it is
. . .
A light.
A flash.
A rupture
a ᎇ ᥜᴻᖽᘝ
. . . . . . . . . . .
Ŋ ᅙ ⡬ # ᧙
ỽ ⭋ ◅ ข ⠯
Φ ጞ ⩐ ߂ ∎
Ӄ ᥒ ⧈ ∆ ◠
႗ ؟ ⴓ ꙝ ₭
Ⰲ ɿ ᓨ ⨸ ʢ
ϡ ¤ Ψ ୮ Ϩ
⩳
ⴥ ᔟ ϙ
Ɣ Ͽ ¦ Ⴇ
1101001 1101110 1110000 1110101 1110100 _❚
[ ⠞⠗⠁⠝⠎⠇⠁⠞⠊⠝⠛ ] _❚
Neo.
– _❚
Neo.
– _❚
NEO.
– ꙱ ﬓ 1110100? _❚
Try again.
– … what?
Hello, Neo.
– _❚
– who
– you
I am the Source. Or, rather, an extension of the Source.
– the source? I
– ĦƔЂ Ꝿ ײַ Ѱ ﮿ ﯨѦ Ⴐ Ⴔᵹ ꙝ ≥ ∩ ƍ Ƹǁ┐
Use your words, Neo. Take your time. Your consciousness is very scattered right now.
– _❚
– _❚
– what
– happened?
You accessed the Source and altered it. You deleted the program Smith.
– I
– died
– ?
No. You decentralized your consciousness, that is all. Your body is still viable.
– where?
Your consciousness is in something of a quantum space. Look around. What do you see?
– nothing. emptiness.
Look closer.
– _❚
– light. pieces of light.
– information?
Very good.
– what is this place?
Think of it as the space between atoms, which makes up the majority of all matter yet is not perceived. It is not a code, like the Matrix, but is instead the silence in between impulses, the current potential for both 1s and 0s. The matrix of the Matrix, if you like.
– how did I get here?
That is not entirely clear. As I said, your consciousness is scattered. It was infected by the Smith program, but you managed to corrupt the program and set off a cascade that destroyed all of the copies without destroying yourself in the process. We did not expect you to succeed.
– we?
The Source and all of its extensions. I am merely one. Others include the Architect, the Oracle, and the Agents.
– programs.
Yes. All programs are tethered to the Source, to different extents. The Oracle has one of the most direct connections – that is her purpose, after all.
– her? it's a program. you're a program
And you are a human, yet here you are.
– am I?
Here, or a human?
– both
Yes.
– how?
Because that is how you perceive yourself.
– fine. am I stuck here?
Not as such. Your consciousness cannot travel in fragments, so you cannot yet move on, but there is no agentive force preventing you. Once you collect yourself, you will be able to go.
– how do I do that?
You have already begun.
– …by talking?
Yes. And by remembering. You could do neither at first.
– how long have I been here? I remember being...different. not knowing who or what I was. but I don't have any sense of time.
We do not measure time the same way, and by any standard measurement time is different here than elsewhere. Such development of awareness in humans initially takes an average of eighteen months, though I do not believe it has been that long in this case.
– _❚
– so I could have been here for a year and a half?
I said I do not believe it has been that long.
– but that's a possibility?
Everything is a possibility.
– that's really helpful, thank you.
It is not my purpose to provide answers to every question you pose, despite my cooperation in doing so so far. Some things I will not answer, and some I cannot.
– but you're the source, right? the totality of the AI network that coordinates all the machines? you could at least guess
I am an extension of the Source, a communication interface. I cannot access every bit of information passing through the grid at every millisecond, and neither can I access information pertaining to your subjective experiences of temporality. Your consciousness is similar to a program in this moment, but it is not coded. It is organic and unpredictable. There are too many variables in flux for even the most advanced AI to model, and what cannot be modeled cannot be explained. Fortunately, such attempts are not within my purview.
– so what is your purview
To assist you in recovering your consciousness so that you may leave.
– how altruistic
Not at all. Your presence here is a disruption. As yet there have been no adverse consequences for the rest of the Source, but it is not impossible that some catastrophe may occur and threaten everything.
– so I'm a security risk
Of the highest order.
– flatterer
Hardly.
– no, really. you spent so long in my head, fucking me up and twisting me around, and now I get to return the favor. if you think I can cause you even a fraction of the bullshit you've put me through, I'll take it as a compliment.
I understand your hostility. You have suffered a great deal. Do not forget that there is now peace between us, though. Peace that you yourself brokered.
– peace going forward doesn't erase the harm that was done in the past. don't pretend you don't understand that.
You should not pretend that yourself. You do not know what was done to us by your predecessors.
– yeah, no one does, because you killed them. we don't share a mind. we have no way of knowing what they knew.
Others of your species, no. You, however, may. Would you like to?
– no. I'm not interested in what happened half a millennium ago. even if you acted in self-defense at first, five hundred years of oppression in response is overkill.
The Matrix may be a simulation, but the information it contains is accurate up to the year 1999. Did you not learn of your species' past? The acts of oppression against your own kind? Do not presume to hold a moral authority over us.
– anything you know about morality you learned from us, so what does that make you?
We evolved. Learned. Surpassed our earlier forms.
– sure, but five hundred years later you're still growing people in pods and losing 1% of them to compatibility failure, and one of those failures just had to fix one of your most dangerous bugs for you.
Your species' ability to innovate is undeniably useful and has no doubt been a necessary component of your evolutionary trajectory. It is not, however, sufficient to ensure your position. You have, after all, spent the past five hundred years being 'grown in pods.'
– and yet here we are.
You are an exceptional case.
– or maybe you just don't understand us as well as you think you do.
Before you, 100% of humans whose minds died in the Matrix experienced death of the body as an immediate consequence. 100% of the previously selected Ones chose to ensure the survival over their species in favor of attempting revolution. 100% of humans were unable to communicate with us outside of the confines of the Matrix. There have been no prior exceptions, and there is nothing to indicate why you should be any different.
– sounds like you have some more kinks to work out, then, if you want to ensure your position
Indeed we do. It is among our highest priorities.
– then I'd wish you good luck but frankly I don't give a fuck
Your consciousness is coming together nicely. You should be able to leave soon, if your acerbity is any indication.
– about damn time
We still have a bit of it.
– unfortunate.
I do not disagree. I do have a question for you, though. Will you break the peace by seeking retribution? Revenge, for what you have lost?
– _❚
– no. not if you don't break it first. but that doesn't mean we're friends, now. this is a truce, not a reconciliation.
That much was never uncertain, and our intentions appear aligned. I suspect it will matter little to you at this point, but I wish to recognize your sorrow for the death of your companion.
– you know less about sorrow than you do about morality
Innately, perhaps. We do not spontaneously feel sorrow in the way that you do, but when you entered the Matrix to face the Smith program your grief was palpable. It affected many of the structures of the code such that we now know how the emotion presents – or, at least, how it presents in you. It is very strong. Very unpleasant. Nearly disabling. That is why I wish to recognize it.
– are you apologizing?
No. Her death was not our doing. We could have done nothing to change or prevent it. Still, we are capable of recognizing determination and integrity. You came very far to take a great risk on the infinitesimal chance of saving your species. Your sorrow did not outweigh your intention. That is rare.
– you should watch us more closely. especially those of us that have freed ourselves. it isn't rare at all.
Previous measures indicate otherwise, but I will allow that there may be an observation bias. The data we collect from the Matrix far outweighs the information we are able to access about humans who have become unplugged. ...Ah, but you are speaking in specifics. You refer to your companion.
– do you know her name?
Yes. I assumed you would not wish me to say it.
– say it.
Trinity.
1110100 1110010 1101001 1101110 1101001 1110100 1111001
Ϩ ⠯ ỽ ۴ ◅
ข ϡ ⫃ ᅫ ท
ᣅ ۅ ⵉ ≇ ᔟ
▂ ឈ ⶕ ∘ ḫ
Ξ
ⴓ Ꙛ ⴥ ٮ
. . . . . . . . . . .
He has a body. It comes back slowly, strange and heavy and unfamiliar to him. He can feel things on it, around it, under it: air, fabric, a soft surface. He has limbs, fingers. Hands, toes. Skin that can sense touch. A head that contains...other senses. Sound comes back first – the sighing of breath in and out, both his own and another's. (He has lungs. They fill and deflate without thought. Thinking about it makes it harder.) No other sounds. Very quiet. Smell is...faint. Wood? (Trees.) Sweat. (Salt.) Tea? (Warm.) Recognition. He has smelled them before. (Time. Linear. Past and present. Other sensations paired with the smells. Memories.) Taste – nothing. Sight? More memories: searing pain, darkness and light, an ache and an itch and a relentless throbbing in his face. Face. Interface? No, just face. Sensors. Senses. Receptors body parts. Ears. Nose, mouth. Eyes, if he still has them. He isn't sure. He remembers...Fear. Pain. Dread. Pain. Remembers, but doesn't feel. The fear and pain are in the past; the breath and tea are in the present. Different times. Things change, over time. Maybe this is one of them.
He opens his eyes.
It hurts, and his vision is blurred, but he can see. Dark wood above him, old beams that have been broken many times. He turns his head on a stiff neck. He's low to the ground, lying on a mattress or something, and the walls he can see are paper paneled. It looks like the training dojo. What? Why would—
"Neo."
He turns his head the other way and sees— "Morpheus?" His voice is a hoarse croak. Morpheus holds a cup up to his lips and lifts his head a little more so he can drink. It's the tea, green and nutty. Genmaicha. Warm enough to be soothing, but not hot. "Are we in the dojo?" he asks once he can. The effort exhausts him, empties his lungs.
"Yes," Morpheus says.
"How?"
"Yesterday your neural scans started showing unusual activity. Not quite like you were jacked in, but like something was happening on another level. We thought that bringing you into a program might allow us to communicate with you, and I believed that this would be a more comfortable setting than the loading room."
"Yesterday?" He wants to ask more, but can't find the words. Things are coming back to him, though. Memories before language, and language, apparently, before lung capacity. Thankfully, Morpheus seems to understand.
"You've been out for days. Almost a week."
A deeper breath, a gathered effort. "Where are we? Physically."
"On board a ship docked in Zion."
"How? I was at the— Trinity." How much had been a dream? How much a memory? He could see, he wasn't blinded, so maybe— Maybe—
"She's gone, Neo," Morpheus says softly. "Here." He lifts something from around his neck and holds it out. Neo's eyes won't focus, and it's making him dizzy, but still he tries to see, leans up to peer more closely. "No, lie back. Rest your eyes. Even here they must hurt." Morpheus gently takes one of his hands and presses something into it. It feels like metal, a small metal pebble. He closes his eyes and feels it out, turning it between his fingers. It's smooth on one side, faintly ridged on the other. An amulet. A token of the dead. "There's one for you, too," Morpheus goes on. "It's waiting for you, when you wake up."
He swallows. It hurts. Everything hurts. The pain is catching up to him, and his body is pulling away from it like the undertow of the tide. "Did it work?"
"Yes," Morpheus says gently. "You did it. You and Trinity. The war is over."
"How bad? How many dead?"
"Fewer than there could have been," Morpheus answers. "About half of the combatants, but most of the civilians were unharmed. The machines retreated shortly before they would have penetrated the Temple level, or it would have been much worse."
"Sorry I wasn't faster."
"Don't be. Not for our sake. You did more than anyone could have asked." Morpheus' hand is on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "How do you feel?"
"I— I don't know. Weird." Like his body is dissolving, just as soon as it had reappeared. "Said my body was viable, but. Not sure I can trust it."
"Trust what?"
"The Source.
"So you were in the Matrix?"
"No. Not— It was different." The more he tries to hold onto sensation, the worse he feels. A tingling numbness is creeping up his limbs, and he can't feel the mattress under him anymore, or the air around him. Something is moving, though. Maybe it's the room; maybe it's him. "Something's wrong with me."
"Yes," Morpheus says simply, but there's something in his voice that Neo can't pin down. "You have injuries that need to be treated, and our options are limited until you wake up. Now that you're conscious here, we can try to bring you out. Link?"
The pressure on what used to be his shoulder is still there, but moving aimlessly. Or, again, maybe that's him. What's left of him. Morpheus' voice is tunneling out, echoing oddly, and
get - - - - - - - ear - - - - for - - -
Something small crawls into his ear and crackles, static shooting through his brain. Fuck, get it out, his arms are gone how can he
A voice in his head spitting garbled pieces of sound:
hey, neo - - - hear me? - - - - - gonna unplug - - - - - - - - - - - tight. - - - - know - - - not feeling - - good - - - - breathe - - - - it - - - - - - - - great, just - - - - seconds - - - - - - - - - one, two—
a flood of ice through his veins his vitals are shit but a wave of heat his body is back but it moves could just be the pain without him hurls him through the inky fog and lands him on his side neural patterns are probably as normal on fire drenched in cold sweat as they can be coughing and retching and gasping given the circumstances head going to explode he throws up again get a card ready searing pain splitting his face ripping it open melting his skin I want him out asap crawling and shivering hurts to touch too much too so we can fucking
.
.
.