Reality was real, but also painful. The sound of steps echoing through the ship, accompanied by the vibrations of machinery. Freedom came at a price, as all good things did. Then there were the smells – old blankets, protein meal, a must constantly hanging in the filtered air. Rough and scratchy clothing, although Trinity had taken great care to give her some of the softer items from the ship's stash after a week of misery and then a talk in private. The blue long-sleeved shirt was quite nice actually, on a good day.
Today was no good day. Switch had buried herself into her blanket, headfirst, the makeshift pillow on the back of her head and neck, blocking out the world and its sounds while providing a bit of pressure, a memory of a heavy comforter on her old bed back in the Matrix. She wondered whether her attic bedroom still existed, an archived piece of virtual space, a memorial to her past, or whether it had been reclaimed and remodeled for another pod-born personality.
She didn't feel like getting up, much less like speaking. Eight minutes to her next shift. At least it was night, according to ship-time, so less risk of meeting someone on the way. Grumbling, she extracted herself from her thin cocoon and trudged over to the mess room. She knew she really should eat something, but God, how she hated the texture of the slimy porridge-like food. Some days, she was barely capable of getting down a few spoonfuls. Maybe it would at least taste better with some cinnamon. Was there still cinnamon? Tank would know.
Switch decided to ignore the tiny bit of hunger for now, chugged a glass of water, and went to relieve Tank from his post. She didn't mind talking to Tank. He was the exact opposite to her, but so genuine and kind and happy, one of the few persons who could always make her smile, no matter her energy level, and he always gave her the space she needed, no questions asked, which was a rather unexpected trait considering his usual blabbermouth self.
"Cinnamon? Not sure. Remind me to have a look when we get to Zion, I'll see whether we can find something like that. Might have to resort to artificial flavoring, though." Tank's answer was better than nothing. He took a closer look at her, obviously reading her mood. "I'm not that tired yet. How about we split the next shift and I jack you in for a training sim?"
Perfect. "Really? If you don't mind, I'll take you up on that offer." Delighted, Switch bounced over to her usual chair for entering the Matrix or, like now, the Construct.
She knew the world she was about to see was not real in the physical sense, but it was real enough in her head, and provided a different kind of freedom. Hating what the machines had done to humankind didn't mean she had to hate and reject the means of escape they had provided. Sometimes, escaping for a while was the best thing.
Her surroundings changed, and she whooped with joy as the white room around her appeared and then changed again, leaving her standing on a rooftop, a cool breeze ruffling her short hair. She was better on the ground, but she loved the sense of freedom and solitude of running and jumping along the virtual training track high above streets; and still having much room for improvement justified the occasional extra training session. Savoring the soothing feeling of her own clothes, comfortable like a construct-white second skin against her RSI's skin, smooth and unirritated, she walked over to her usual starting point. She felt different from other people in both worlds; but in this one, it was on her own terms, now that she was free.
"Start the timing, Tank."
And with a big grin on her face, she ran.
*** Author's Note ***
A little gift for those who feel different and might be haunting these old parts of the internet during the holidays. I wrote this mostly as a treat for myself after realizing a story about Switch struggling with real world sensory input is the thing I didn't know I needed, but who knows, maybe someone here might enjoy it as well. Feels a bit like spamming to post again so soon, though what is time anyway these days.
Can be read as a possible prequel to my next story, "White Gun" (which I actually wrote first but needed to edit a bit); there's no real plot connection but they follow the same internal logic.