In the Region of Sight, Chp. 3
He shakes off the arms at his waist and spins, staring at the sleek man in front of him. "I'm... sorry, have we met?" He's sure they haven't; six feet of pale skin in clinging leather tends to make an impression.
"Come now, John, keep up. You've been waiting here for me for nearly forty-five minutes."
This is their contact? "You're, ah, not what I was expecting."
The man's gaze crawls over him, inching up slowly, and then meets John’s eyes with the tiniest quirk of his mouth. "The most interesting things never are, are they?"
John catches at the man's sleeve as he turns and heads towards Berkeley at the bar. "How did you know it was me?"
The man laughs, so quietly John sees it more than he hears it. He bends down and whispers, plush lips up against John's ear, "I know a lot about you, John."
Long legs eat up the distance to the bar, and John trails in his wake, stymied.
: : :
"Call me Locke," the man says, after leading John and Berkeley into a private room at the back of the club.
"Locke? Like the philosopher? Tabula rasa, and all that?" John may not be good with computers, but he'd picked up a fondness for philosophy at University. Being a doctor was about more than just a knowledge of anatomy, after all.
Locke's eyes glint, that barely-noticeable smile catching at the corner of his mouth again. "Indeed."
John flushes as Berkeley nudges him none-too-subtly; a reminder that they're here for a very particular reason.
"Alright, then, Locke," Berkeley says, "you said that you could put us in touch with Hermes, with the right incentive. What do you want?"
Locke leans back against the wall, long legs crossed out in front of him. He locks eyes with John like Berkeley doesn't exist, as if they're the only two people in the room.
"Oh, it’s not what I want; it’s what you want that interests me. I already know everything you could tell me. I know what you saw. I know why you hardly sleep, John, and why you spend every night at your friend's computer. You're looking for Hermes because you've caught sight of the truth, and you want to understand it. I can read it in the way you hold yourself; there are glimpses of it in your face. It's the question that drives you mad, isn't it? What’s real, what isn’t... why we’re here; if any of it matters. You think Hermes can give you the answers; he can't. But he can show you the way."
John and Berkeley trade glances out of the corners of their eyes. Locke sounds absolutely mad, but then, the whole thing is insane, isn't it? Who are they to judge?
"Come find me, when you've made up your mind." He leans forward and tucks a business card into the pocket of John's trousers, then strides out of the room.
John pulls the card out of his pocket, feeling the phantom burn of Locke's fingers. There's only one thing on the black-on-black card; it's an address.
221B, Baker Street.
: : :
John feels strung-out and exhausted as he hails a cab back to his flat. He's so distracted that the cabbie has to ask for the address twice.
He comes back to earth pretty quickly when the driver begins to scream. It's over in seconds, but those seconds are a flashback to the horror he glimpsed when he was shot. The driver's face twists and stretches unnaturally, his body warping. John's hand shoots out, scrambling for the door handle, but the inside of the door is suddenly smooth and flat. It’s not just that the handle is suddenly gone; it’s as if it was never there at all.
When everything settles, the front seat of the cab is filled by a man in a perfectly pressed suit, sunglasses perched on his nose. Everything about him screams 'government spook’; medium height, medium build, thoroughly unremarkable and completely forgettable. Only that can't be right, can it? If the government had a way to possess people like that, the war would be going quite a bit differently, which means... he must be part of it. The Matrix. Something strange and separate; different from the way that John and Berkeley and everyone around them are a part of it.
The spook's face is chillingly calm, and his voice even more so.
"Hello, Doctor Watson."
"I have a phone, you know. You could have called."
"Hmm, yes. There were certain of my colleagues who advocated an approach somewhat less direct, shall we say, than this one. Your little minds are so fragile, after all. But we're men of the world, aren't we, Doctor Watson? We understand the value of... putting it all out there, as it were."
He knows he should be afraid; terrified, possibly, given the abilities this man seems to have. Instead all John feels is calm; the same unwavering steadiness that has washed over him before a thousand battlefield surgeries.
"Look, mate, whatever it is, I'm not interested, thanks. So do me a favor and just drop me off here, alright?"
"I'm afraid, Doctor Watson, that it's not quite that simple. It's not you I'm looking for, after all. You're only here because I think you'll want to do the right thing. That's the sort of man you are, isn't it? You've been contacted by a man named Locke, who says he can take you to a hacker called Hermes. Make no mistake about it, Doctor Watson; Hermes is a very dangerous man. Maybe the most dangerous man alive. You're in over your head, Doctor Watson, and I'm offering you a way out. Nothing you'd be uncomfortable with, just... passing along information."
He may indeed be in over his head, but he's not going to get out of it by handing over the only people who've offered him answers.
"No. Sorry, no."
"Give it time, Doctor Watson. I think you'll find that your decision might change, in the future. We'll speak again soon."
There's a sting in his upper thigh, and then... nothing. Everything just fades away.
: : :
He wakes the next morning to find himself in bed, half a dozen missed texts from Berkeley on his phone; apparently Berkeley had his own run in with a man-in-black last night. John texts back, lets him know he's okay, and then settles at his desk with a cup of tea.
There's a lot more going on here than he thought. Whatever truth there is to find, whatever Locke and Hermes can show him, someone- some thing- evidently doesn't want people to know it. He supposes that rules out the theory about benevolent overlords.
He’s aware he should stop and reconsider; make the smart decision. He knows himself better than that, though.
He’s never been interested in the safe choice.
"Come now, John, keep up. You've been waiting here for me for nearly forty-five minutes."
This is their contact? "You're, ah, not what I was expecting."
The man's gaze crawls over him, inching up slowly, and then meets John’s eyes with the tiniest quirk of his mouth. "The most interesting things never are, are they?"
John catches at the man's sleeve as he turns and heads towards Berkeley at the bar. "How did you know it was me?"
The man laughs, so quietly John sees it more than he hears it. He bends down and whispers, plush lips up against John's ear, "I know a lot about you, John."
Long legs eat up the distance to the bar, and John trails in his wake, stymied.
: : :
"Call me Locke," the man says, after leading John and Berkeley into a private room at the back of the club.
"Locke? Like the philosopher? Tabula rasa, and all that?" John may not be good with computers, but he'd picked up a fondness for philosophy at University. Being a doctor was about more than just a knowledge of anatomy, after all.
Locke's eyes glint, that barely-noticeable smile catching at the corner of his mouth again. "Indeed."
John flushes as Berkeley nudges him none-too-subtly; a reminder that they're here for a very particular reason.
"Alright, then, Locke," Berkeley says, "you said that you could put us in touch with Hermes, with the right incentive. What do you want?"
Locke leans back against the wall, long legs crossed out in front of him. He locks eyes with John like Berkeley doesn't exist, as if they're the only two people in the room.
"Oh, it’s not what I want; it’s what you want that interests me. I already know everything you could tell me. I know what you saw. I know why you hardly sleep, John, and why you spend every night at your friend's computer. You're looking for Hermes because you've caught sight of the truth, and you want to understand it. I can read it in the way you hold yourself; there are glimpses of it in your face. It's the question that drives you mad, isn't it? What’s real, what isn’t... why we’re here; if any of it matters. You think Hermes can give you the answers; he can't. But he can show you the way."
John and Berkeley trade glances out of the corners of their eyes. Locke sounds absolutely mad, but then, the whole thing is insane, isn't it? Who are they to judge?
"Come find me, when you've made up your mind." He leans forward and tucks a business card into the pocket of John's trousers, then strides out of the room.
John pulls the card out of his pocket, feeling the phantom burn of Locke's fingers. There's only one thing on the black-on-black card; it's an address.
221B, Baker Street.
: : :
John feels strung-out and exhausted as he hails a cab back to his flat. He's so distracted that the cabbie has to ask for the address twice.
He comes back to earth pretty quickly when the driver begins to scream. It's over in seconds, but those seconds are a flashback to the horror he glimpsed when he was shot. The driver's face twists and stretches unnaturally, his body warping. John's hand shoots out, scrambling for the door handle, but the inside of the door is suddenly smooth and flat. It’s not just that the handle is suddenly gone; it’s as if it was never there at all.
When everything settles, the front seat of the cab is filled by a man in a perfectly pressed suit, sunglasses perched on his nose. Everything about him screams 'government spook’; medium height, medium build, thoroughly unremarkable and completely forgettable. Only that can't be right, can it? If the government had a way to possess people like that, the war would be going quite a bit differently, which means... he must be part of it. The Matrix. Something strange and separate; different from the way that John and Berkeley and everyone around them are a part of it.
The spook's face is chillingly calm, and his voice even more so.
"Hello, Doctor Watson."
"I have a phone, you know. You could have called."
"Hmm, yes. There were certain of my colleagues who advocated an approach somewhat less direct, shall we say, than this one. Your little minds are so fragile, after all. But we're men of the world, aren't we, Doctor Watson? We understand the value of... putting it all out there, as it were."
He knows he should be afraid; terrified, possibly, given the abilities this man seems to have. Instead all John feels is calm; the same unwavering steadiness that has washed over him before a thousand battlefield surgeries.
"Look, mate, whatever it is, I'm not interested, thanks. So do me a favor and just drop me off here, alright?"
"I'm afraid, Doctor Watson, that it's not quite that simple. It's not you I'm looking for, after all. You're only here because I think you'll want to do the right thing. That's the sort of man you are, isn't it? You've been contacted by a man named Locke, who says he can take you to a hacker called Hermes. Make no mistake about it, Doctor Watson; Hermes is a very dangerous man. Maybe the most dangerous man alive. You're in over your head, Doctor Watson, and I'm offering you a way out. Nothing you'd be uncomfortable with, just... passing along information."
He may indeed be in over his head, but he's not going to get out of it by handing over the only people who've offered him answers.
"No. Sorry, no."
"Give it time, Doctor Watson. I think you'll find that your decision might change, in the future. We'll speak again soon."
There's a sting in his upper thigh, and then... nothing. Everything just fades away.
: : :
He wakes the next morning to find himself in bed, half a dozen missed texts from Berkeley on his phone; apparently Berkeley had his own run in with a man-in-black last night. John texts back, lets him know he's okay, and then settles at his desk with a cup of tea.
There's a lot more going on here than he thought. Whatever truth there is to find, whatever Locke and Hermes can show him, someone- some thing- evidently doesn't want people to know it. He supposes that rules out the theory about benevolent overlords.
He’s aware he should stop and reconsider; make the smart decision. He knows himself better than that, though.
He’s never been interested in the safe choice.