Chapter Text
I've still got your face
Painted on my heart
Carved upon my soul
Etched upon my memory . . .baby
And I've got your kiss
Still
Burning on my lips
The touch of her fingertips
Is left so deep inside of me . . .baby
~ Painted on my heart (The Cult)
It started with a dream.
Glass shatters, her body crashes through the window like a bullet in slow motion. She spins in mid air, turning toward her pursuer as she falls, guns poised, shooting, face set in razor sharp focus, consumed by her task. Bullets fly as her pursuer follows after her, her teeth gritted as each of them fires, round after round just skimming by. The inevitable is coming, she knows it, feels it, her face freezing, stunned as a bullet finally finds its mark, piercing her chest. Her face goes slack as she continues to fall, no longer able to defend herself, the ground approaching faster and faster, ready to swallow her up…
He has to save her. That is his only thought. He has to save her and he will do anything to make it happen. He blasts forward, everything around him blurring into streaks of colour, ignoring the destruction in his wake, closer and closer, her tiny black figure the only image in his sight. He’s going to make it. He has to. He has to. Just a little further, only a second away…
But then there is a sickening crash, the ear piercing screech of metal being torn apart, and a loud cry upon impact followed by silence, and then darkness, all encompassing, swallowing him up. The silence is deafening, imposing, the vacuum of nothingness imposing and wrong. So wrong. He knows what comes next. He wants to look away, would give anything to look away. This can’t be happening. Not again. Please not again. The darkness abates and he sees her lying there, pinned to the ground, iron rods pierced through her body and him—his other self—still unconscious, strapped into his seat, blissfully unaware of what he is about to lose. He wants to look away, but he can’t, trying to scream, but as hard as he tries he is unable to make a sound, stuck watching the replay in agony.
His other self wakes, calling out for her, his anxiety and dread growing with each passing second.
“Trin… Trinity?… Trinity?!”
He awakes with a start, panting and sweating, his mind still caught in the dream, trying in vain to calm himself, instead dissolving into heaving sobs. It takes a long time for him to come back to reality and remember where he is, slow his breathing, clear his vision. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting like this. It’s just a dream. A dream he has had nearly every night for as long as he can remember. You’d think he would be used to it by now, but it still feels so unimaginably traumatic every time for reasons he doesn’t understand; the disturbed feelings lingering long after the raging emotions begin to subside. He tries to push the images from his mind, pressing his fingertips into his bare thighs, repeating the mantra his therapist taught him over and over.
“My name is Thomas A Anderson. I’m awake, this is the real world, and my dreams are just dreams. My name is Thomas A Anderson. I’m awake, this is the real world, and my dreams are just dreams…”
He repeats it until his heart rate finally slows and he stops shaking, long enough for his eyes to adjust fully and remember where he is. Alone in his oversized bed in his oversized apartment—damn oversized life if he’s honest—that he doesn’t feel like he will ever be able to fill. He has no partner to share his space with. The raven haired, blue eyed woman who haunts his dreams isn’t real. He knows it, except when he doesn’t, and he has to remind himself with painstaking effort that she is nothing but a figment of his imagination. Sometimes he succeeds, but other times like today the feeling of familiarity lingers and he can’t focus on anything but the memory of her, beautiful and fierce, and his repeated inability to save her in his dreams. None of it matters though, because despite how desperately he wants her to be, she isn’t real, and she never will be.
So here he is, back in his depressing, mundane reality, the sky still dark outside as he gets up, the prospect of further sleep an impossibility now. He has been having the same dream nearly every night for as long as he can remember, never able to figure out where it came from. It comes to him in the early hours of the morning, usually leaving him too shaken to go back to sleep. Sometimes he thinks it would be better if he had someone to share it with, but he hasn’t been able to make a real connection with anyone in years. Maybe I should get a cat , he muses, letting out a self-deprecating laugh. The truth is most days he can barely hold himself together, let alone another living being. It’s not that he doesn’t want things in life, it’s just that for reasons he can’t explain, he feels like he doesn’t deserve them, a point his therapist has been trying to help him deal with amongst the ever existent, mind numbing loneliness and lack of purpose in his life.
It’s worse around the holidays, especially around Christmas when the entire city comes alive, overflowing with mirth and joy for the whole family. Except for people like him who have no close friends or family–none that he speaks to anyway–and inevitably end up spending Christmas alone with a bottle of scotch getting blackout drunk, and trying not to fall asleep on the streets or his balcony in the bitter cold.
Hoho friggin ho!
He collects himself, picking up his phone from the charger and moves to the kitchen to brew some coffee, clocking the date on his screen as he goes. December 22nd. Three days until Christmas. He finds himself wishing there was no shut down period in his job. His role as lead software developer for MetaCortex isn’t exactly his dream occupation, but it is a starting point he’s hoping to build on. They probably overpay him for the work he does, but he can’t really complain about his inflated salary when it affords him the high rise apartment he’s currently in. It’s not quite the penthouse, 5 floors down to be precise, but the view is enviable, better than most in this city could hope for. The only thing missing is her , he thinks before he can stop himself, and he lets out a long sigh, once again struck by how lonely he feels.
Some work would be a welcome distraction right now. He usually finds ways to occupy himself around Christmas, but this year he feels stuck, all of his usual distractions (coding, reading, and going to the gym) have left him feeling unfulfilled, empty, and on edge. He can’t explain why, but it feels as if there is something coming. Some kind of momentous force digging at him to push forward, though he has no idea as to what, or where, or why.
—
“Maybe it’s time you think about contacting your family,” his therapist suggests later in their bi-weekly session. “You said your parents and your sister are still alive. Do they live close to you?”
“Not really,” Thomas confirms. “I'm from Ohio. Born and raised. They never left.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been back since leaving?”
Thomas fiddles with his fingers, trying to remember a single moment of significance associated with his family, and coming up dry. “No.”
“And have they ever come to visit you?”
“Never.”
“But you still keep in contact?”
“Occasionally,” Thomas answers. “We email. Annual updates, birthdays. We always say we should make time for a reunion but it never really happens.”
“Tell me about that,” his therapist encourages.
“There’s not much to say. We were never close. Going back to visit after I left never really felt natural. I guess it was the same for them.”
“Interesting,” his therapist comments. “Was there any bad blood?”
“Not that I can remember,” Thomas answers. “We just never had much in common.”
The truth is he’s not sure what happened now. Any memories he has of his family are so vague that he’s sometimes uncertain if they even existed. But that’s crazy. A thought he generally keeps to himself, along with the missing years in his late 20s to early 30s he can’t seem to recall. His therapist probably already thinks he’s crazy enough. No need to add more fuel to the fire.
“Maybe it would be different now,” his therapist says. “Couldn’t hurt to try.”
“Yeah,” Thomas says noncommittally. “Maybe.”
—
The rest of his day is spent wandering in a park near his apartment, sipping coffee from his favourite café around the corner. There are a lot of things that feel disconnected in his life, but being here away from it all keeps him grounded, surrounded by this small patch of nature amongst the city and its chaos. All the talk of family with his therapist has somehow hit a nerve he didn’t realise was there, the sting of it lingering, the loneliness in his life somehow more present. He’s not going to seek out his family back in Ohio, that much he knows, but he can’t deny that there is a part of him lately that desperately craves companionship and connection that he can’t seem to find.
He could go out, he supposes. He could hit the bars or clubs, he could try dating apps or matchmaking services, but none of that feels right somehow. So tonight he chooses whiskey. Lots of whiskey, straight from the bottle, camped out on the rooftop of his apartment watching birds fly by. I used to fly, he thinks, then laughs at the absurdity of the random thought. Maybe his dreams are starting to bleed into reality, distorting his perception in his inebriated state. He should probably drink less, but the sad fact he’s all too aware of is that the only time he feels even remotely carefree is when he’s drinking. He stumbles back into his apartment and into bed shortly after, gone to the world within seconds.
—
He wakes to the sound of a voice calling his name. A voice he recognises, startling and exciting him all at once. He gets out of bed, following the voice out of his bedroom into the lounge where he finds nothing but the view out the windows to the city below.
He is awake. A strange thought to begin with, but at this moment there could be no more appropriate words. He is awake and aware for what feels like the first time in years.
Neo. His name is Neo.
The man he is when he dreams, the man he remembers being, the identity which was somehow taken from him. But now he remembers that life.
The Matrix. He is back in the Matrix.
Before he has time to allow that thought to terrify him, he spots the reflection of a figure in the window. There is a woman standing behind him, the one he has dreamed of all this time, the only woman he has ever wanted to see. He turns to face her, his gaze immediately settling on her angular face and striking blue eyes, his head spinning, certain that this must be a dream. If not then he has finally gone straight up around the bend crazy, because she can’t be here. She’s gone. He could not be more certain of that fact. And yet here she is.
“Trinity,” he whispers her name like a prayer in the hallowed halls of all things sacred. “Am I dreaming?”
“That depends on your definition of dreaming,” she answers, her face set into the same expression he remembers from that club all those years ago. For a moment he is back there, gobsmacked at the sight of her, his mind swirling with questions that only she can answer.
“What does that mean?” He takes a step toward her, then stops as she holds up her hand.
“It is a test,” she answers without really answering, her expression is level, giving nothing away. “What you believe in the end is up to you.”
He has an old familiar feeling suddenly, that distinct sense of not being able to tell if he is awake or still dreaming, his vision strangely fuzzy just around the edges, as if he is looking at the world through a lens.
“Why are you here?” he asks cautiously, still unsure if he can trust that she is really there or if all of this is just happening in his mind. Wouldn’t be the first time…
“I’m here because there is something you need to learn. But before we begin I have to warn you, it will not be easy, and if you want to proceed there are three rules you must follow.”
“What rules?”
“First, we are not allowed to touch. Second, you must follow where I lead and do what I say, no questions asked.”
“And the third?” He checks when she doesn’t continue, his entire body aching to reach out and wrap her in his arms despite his questions of whether or not she is real.
“You can’t look away even if it hurts.”
He stares at her, swearing he sees a hint of regret in her eyes as he tries to decide how much he trusts his senses. She can’t be real. Of that much he is painfully aware. That leaves only two possibilities to explain her presence. She could be a hallucination, in which case he really is going crazy and needs serious help, or she is a program and this is possibly the cruellest trick the machines could play on him. Either way, he needs more information, so he decides to go with it and follow her lead.
“Okay,” he agrees cautiously. “Where do we start?”
“Come with me.” A portal suddenly opens in front of them and she gestures for him to follow as she steps through.
He follows after her, the world around him blurring for a moment and then clearing into an image of him sitting alone on the edge of a bed inside a cabin, his head resting in his hands, elbows propped up on his knees.
Oh god…
He remembers, but not like this. It is as if he has become immersed in the world of his younger self, the setting around them so real it is as if he is actually there, but unable to participate or intervene, only observe. He watches as his other self removes his head from his hands, staring intensely ahead of him, his breathing accelerating, palms sweating in terror as he realises what he has to do. The image freezes on a picture of his furrowed brow, eyes wide and filled with dread.
“This was the moment you knew,” Trinity says, standing beside him about an arms length away. Close enough to make him acutely aware of the no touching rule. “You realised right then where you needed to go, and you knew you would not be coming back.”
“I remember,” he confirms.
“What was your first thought after you realised?”
“I thought of you.” He looks down, feeling his chest constrict. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”
“But you did.”
The image changes and he raises his head to see her stepping into the cabin with him, her entire body tense, her terror evident despite how strong she is trying to be for his sake. She was always so much more concerned about him than she was with herself. His heart clenches at the sight, swallowing hard, unable to do anything but watch as she takes his hands in hers and tells him she is ready to give everything and anything for him.
She kept her word.
The image changes and he is watching her standing in front of Morpheus moments before they said goodbye.
“Take care of him,” he says, his face heavy with concern. “And yourself.”
“You know I will,” she responds, doing her best to stay strong in spite of her fear. “Give them hell,” she says. “Take care of Niobe and Link and… if I don’t make it—”
“—Don’t,” he intejects. “You are coming back.”
“We both know that’s unlikely,” she argues. “Worth dying for right?”
Morpheus’ eyes glaze over with unshed tears. “Worth dying for,” he agrees, pulling her into a tight hug and then gripping her arms firmly, eyes focused on her as if trying to impart as much strength to her as he can. The air is thick with words unsaid, neither of them wanting to make the situation harder than it already is.
He watches the scene unfold as they all share their non-goodbyes, him promising Link to take care of her, Morpheus telling him he can only hope he knows what he is doing, when both of them were all too aware that he didn’t.
The image freezes as Neo takes his place beside her in the elevator, and the other Trinity speaks up.
“Tell me what you see,” she orders.
“Denial,” he says honestly. “None of us wanted to admit we were probably going to our deaths.”
“Everybody wants to believe they can cheat death,” she says. “You most of all.”
“But I didn’t,” he says sadly. “Neither of us did.”
“The fact that we died isn’t the point,” she says.
“Then what is?”
“You were so afraid that you were going to your death. You were ready for it. But there was one thing you never seriously considered.”
“I don’t understand,” he says.
“I think you do,” she insists. “There is one thing that haunts you even now. You don’t want to say it, but you need to.”
He stares at her, taking in her focused gaze, her eyes piercing into him. He knows what she means, and he hates that she wants him to say it out loud.
“You need to say it,” she repeats.
“Why?”
“Because you promised to do what I say, no questions.”
He swallows, his mouth going dry as he contemplates the uselessness of the sentiment. “I should have asked you not to come with me,” he says, his voice heavy with regret. “I should have at least tried.”
“But?”
“I knew that you would never agree to let me go alone.”
“And?”
He sighs sadly. “I needed you,” he admits. “I needed you with me so badly that I didn’t think…” he trails off, the thought of saying what he knows is true nearly impossible to utter aloud.
“You didn’t think what?” she prods, her voice still level and calm.
“I never thought that you would die,” he admits after a long moment, his voice trembling with every word. “I was ready to die, but I wasn’t ready to watch you…” he cuts off, unable to continue, ashamed of the foolish arrogance he’d possessed, that he could keep her alive through sheer force of will.
The images fade and they are back in his apartment, staring at each other, her eyebrows knit together, a brief crack of sadness breaking through her facade.
“My death was out of your control,” she says. “One day you will understand that.”
He shakes his head miserably, unable to utter another word, his body frozen, on the verge of tears. A clock chimes and he looks around the apartment in confusion. He doesn’t have a clock, not one that chimes anyway, which means… oh god, he must really be losing it, or this is another dream.
“I have to go,” she says, and this time the sadness is plainly evident in her voice. He turns to her, panicking at the idea of saying goodbye to her again, even if it is only a dream. “I‘ll be back tomorrow night as soon as the clock strikes twelve,” she informs him. “Until then, remember…”
Her voice echoes as she fades away, vanishing as if she was never really there…
And suddenly the room is clear again, the fuzzy distortion in his vision cleared away. He stumbles backward and takes a seat on the couch, burying his face in his hands, his entire body covered in a cold sweat.
“What the hell,” he gasps, rubbing his hands over his face, racking his brain for something, anything to ground him in the present, in reality.
He sits up taller, pressing his fingertips into the flesh of his thighs. Feel the sensation of your hands on your legs and count to ten, he reminds himself. Another technique his therapist has taught him, simpler than a mantra. One, two, three… he focuses on pressing the tips of his fingers together, one by one …four, five, six… back to the legs, tracing long lines… seven, eight, nine… clasp the hands together, fingers interlaced, feeling the connection, strong and steady… ten. He breathes in and out, deep long breaths until he feels level headed again.
“They’re just dreams,” he reminds himself, standing and going to the lounge room window to see the sun just starting to peek out over the horizon. “Just dreams, just dreams…”