In the Region of Sight, Chp. 6
In which John begins to realize that life outside the Matrix may have one or two... perks.
A knock on the door startles John out of the dozing haze he’s finally managed to fall into. The digital display tells him it’s 06:30, and Anthea looks appallingly crisp for this hour of the morning.
“Morning, John. Hermes wants you on deck; we’re going to run you through some training sims.”
“What does that mean? And who’s we?”
“I’m the Munin’s operator- I’ll be overseeing the program itself, keeping an eye on you. This is a training session, so you’ll be in a closed program, no external threats, but on a run, I’ll be the one getting you in and out. Through the program, we can upload practically anything into your brain, but there’s a big difference between knowing something and actually using it, so Locke will be going in with you today. He’ll help you get a feel for things.”
Half a dozen people on board, and of course he was going to end up with Locke. John had ample time over the night to realize that he’d overreacted, but apologies aren’t his strong suit. What do you say to someone who told you that you were supposed to be the saviour of the human race, anyway? Thanks?
They walk onto the control deck to find Hermes and Locke in the middle of an intense staring contest. It’s subtle, all slight head tilts and tiny eyebrow twitches, but from the way they break off to watch him come in, John can guess that it’s about Locke’s late-night revelation. He’s willing to bet that Hermes intended to wait before springing that one on him.
He’s got precious little patience left after the last few days, so he simply brushes past them and drops into the chair. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Anthea crosses to her console. “We’re going to start you off with some of the basics, so that you can get comfortable working inside the program before we move on. Jacking in on my count: three, two-”
: : :
He blinks against the sudden light, facing Locke across a white room that stretches out in all directions. The man has somehow summoned up tracksuit bottoms and a tight black vest, while John is back to his jeans and bulky jumper.
“Okay, this is ridiculous. Show me how to change clothes.”
It takes half an hour and every variation on the word ‘idiot’ that Locke can come up with before John can manage it. He’s always been a kinetic learner, and he can’t seem to grasp the type of mental sidestep that Locke keeps describing. It doesn’t help that Locke’s pacing and waving his arms about, using computer metaphors that leave John completely clueless.
Finally Locke comes to a halt in front of him.
“You’re overthinking it. Start by closing your eyes.” Cool fingers come to rest at his temples- more soothing than they have any right to be, given how frustrated he is at their owner.
“Now- hmm. Alright. Imagine you’re standing in front of a wardrobe. Inside are all the clothes you can think of; every style, every color. Picture the clothes you want, hanging inside it. Consider each detail- all the buttons and zippers, shirt, trousers, all of it. Watch yourself taking off the clothes you’re wearing... yes, that’s it. Now, put the new ones on, one piece at a time. Feel them on your skin. Good, John- very good.”
John can’t help the tiny shiver that runs over him at that. The hands pull away, and he opens his eyes to see that he’s done it; jeans and jumper have been exchanged for sweats and a faded RAMC tee.
“Now we can get to the interesting part.”
: : :
Hours pass as they run through scenarios. John feels like he’s going to stroke out the first time Anthea drops a new skill, fully-formed, into his brain; the information overload is stunning. London-born and bred, John’s never learned to drive; now he could take the curves of the Grand Prix and come out in front. He’s already a excellent shot, especially since the nerve damage in his shoulder has disappeared, but Locke puts him through his paces: handguns, rifles, assault weapons, even a rocket launcher. Hacking 101, until John can understand at least half of the references Locke tosses out.
Eventually they move into hand-to-hand. Kung fu, jujitsu, baritsu, even capoeira, and it’s here that John begins to lose his grip, just a little bit. Sweat-soaked and shirtless, Locke throws himself effortlessly through the positions, fluidly demonstrating and then gesturing for John to repeat the movement. The knowledge is there in his head, but there’s no corresponding muscle memory; often it takes two or three tries to land a blow correctly.
Locke pressing up behind him to correct his posture doesn’t help, but John keeps his eyes forward and goes through the motions until he gets them right.
They begin to spar, arms and legs flicking out, near-misses and close shaves. The tempo picks up as John understands that Locke’s been holding back, and the realization sparks his barely-banked anger. He’s been trained for this- he can take whatever Locke can dish out, damn it. He won’t be coddled.
They’re in it, now, moving faster than his eyes can track, so he shuts them, relying on instinct alone. He can feel his mind take that little hitch sideways that Locke coaxed him through earlier; one step, then another, and suddenly everything... slows. Expands.
For a moment- just one, sharp and crystalline- he sees it all. Reaches out an arm, catches Locke around the waist, and tumbles both of them to the ground. Laughs himself breathless as they roll, tangled, across the floor.
They come to rest as time seems to catch up with itself. He finds himself blinking up at Locke, who looks at him with a befuddled expression, one that’s edging more towards wonder with every second. Not too familiar with people getting the drop on him, apparently. John’s not sure what happened, or how to describe it, but it felt good. Like he was... connected, to everything. The sense of it lingers in the way that he can’t pull his eyes from Locke, braced above him.
John’s eyes are still open when their mouths meet, and it’s only then that he allows them to slip closed.
The kiss reminds him of the night they met- dark and smooth, wrapped in leather; he pushes up into it, hands sliding down Locke’s spine to drag him closer. Locke catches his lower lip and bites, hard, licking John’s gasp back into his mouth.
Locke’s tugging at the bottom of John’s tee shirt when the ring of an old-fashioned telephone splits the air. John lifts his head, trying to see what’s causing the impossibly shrill sound; he doesn’t remember seeing a phone in their sparring room.
“Ignore it,” Locke mutters, tracing a meandering path across John’s chest. “It’s undoubtedly Hermes, who can just close his eyes and look the other way, the meddler.”
“What- wait- what? Are they watching us in here?” He scrambles out from underneath Locke, who pouts his lush bottom lip in response.
“Don’t be silly, John; get back here.”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I will not be putting on a show for Anthea and your brother, of all people.” He crosses to the phone, which has appeared, complete with side table, in a corner of the room. “Hello, Anthea? We’re ready; pull us out.”
: : :
John flushes from hairline to chin when the first thing he sees after opening his eyes is a matched set of smirks. He’s out of his chair and halfway down the hall before Hermes calls him back.
“John, just a moment. Don’t you think there’s something you’ve forgotten?”
He turns on his heel, forcing the blush down. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s ever been caught snogging someone.
“What are you getting at, Hermes?”
“Just that you did quite well today for a man with a psychosomatic limp.”
John’s mind clicks back over the day at double-speed. The target practice, the training, sparring- he hadn’t given his leg a moment’s thought, had simply fallen into the adrenaline rush of it all. He stares at Hermes, then at Locke, who gives him a smug smile, obviously convinced he deserves the credit for eliminating the limp.
John shakes his head once, twice, but lets the laughter fall from him; that night, for the first time in months, he closes his eyes in bed and simply... sleeps, deeply and without dreams.
A knock on the door startles John out of the dozing haze he’s finally managed to fall into. The digital display tells him it’s 06:30, and Anthea looks appallingly crisp for this hour of the morning.
“Morning, John. Hermes wants you on deck; we’re going to run you through some training sims.”
“What does that mean? And who’s we?”
“I’m the Munin’s operator- I’ll be overseeing the program itself, keeping an eye on you. This is a training session, so you’ll be in a closed program, no external threats, but on a run, I’ll be the one getting you in and out. Through the program, we can upload practically anything into your brain, but there’s a big difference between knowing something and actually using it, so Locke will be going in with you today. He’ll help you get a feel for things.”
Half a dozen people on board, and of course he was going to end up with Locke. John had ample time over the night to realize that he’d overreacted, but apologies aren’t his strong suit. What do you say to someone who told you that you were supposed to be the saviour of the human race, anyway? Thanks?
They walk onto the control deck to find Hermes and Locke in the middle of an intense staring contest. It’s subtle, all slight head tilts and tiny eyebrow twitches, but from the way they break off to watch him come in, John can guess that it’s about Locke’s late-night revelation. He’s willing to bet that Hermes intended to wait before springing that one on him.
He’s got precious little patience left after the last few days, so he simply brushes past them and drops into the chair. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”
Anthea crosses to her console. “We’re going to start you off with some of the basics, so that you can get comfortable working inside the program before we move on. Jacking in on my count: three, two-”
: : :
He blinks against the sudden light, facing Locke across a white room that stretches out in all directions. The man has somehow summoned up tracksuit bottoms and a tight black vest, while John is back to his jeans and bulky jumper.
“Okay, this is ridiculous. Show me how to change clothes.”
It takes half an hour and every variation on the word ‘idiot’ that Locke can come up with before John can manage it. He’s always been a kinetic learner, and he can’t seem to grasp the type of mental sidestep that Locke keeps describing. It doesn’t help that Locke’s pacing and waving his arms about, using computer metaphors that leave John completely clueless.
Finally Locke comes to a halt in front of him.
“You’re overthinking it. Start by closing your eyes.” Cool fingers come to rest at his temples- more soothing than they have any right to be, given how frustrated he is at their owner.
“Now- hmm. Alright. Imagine you’re standing in front of a wardrobe. Inside are all the clothes you can think of; every style, every color. Picture the clothes you want, hanging inside it. Consider each detail- all the buttons and zippers, shirt, trousers, all of it. Watch yourself taking off the clothes you’re wearing... yes, that’s it. Now, put the new ones on, one piece at a time. Feel them on your skin. Good, John- very good.”
John can’t help the tiny shiver that runs over him at that. The hands pull away, and he opens his eyes to see that he’s done it; jeans and jumper have been exchanged for sweats and a faded RAMC tee.
“Now we can get to the interesting part.”
: : :
Hours pass as they run through scenarios. John feels like he’s going to stroke out the first time Anthea drops a new skill, fully-formed, into his brain; the information overload is stunning. London-born and bred, John’s never learned to drive; now he could take the curves of the Grand Prix and come out in front. He’s already a excellent shot, especially since the nerve damage in his shoulder has disappeared, but Locke puts him through his paces: handguns, rifles, assault weapons, even a rocket launcher. Hacking 101, until John can understand at least half of the references Locke tosses out.
Eventually they move into hand-to-hand. Kung fu, jujitsu, baritsu, even capoeira, and it’s here that John begins to lose his grip, just a little bit. Sweat-soaked and shirtless, Locke throws himself effortlessly through the positions, fluidly demonstrating and then gesturing for John to repeat the movement. The knowledge is there in his head, but there’s no corresponding muscle memory; often it takes two or three tries to land a blow correctly.
Locke pressing up behind him to correct his posture doesn’t help, but John keeps his eyes forward and goes through the motions until he gets them right.
They begin to spar, arms and legs flicking out, near-misses and close shaves. The tempo picks up as John understands that Locke’s been holding back, and the realization sparks his barely-banked anger. He’s been trained for this- he can take whatever Locke can dish out, damn it. He won’t be coddled.
They’re in it, now, moving faster than his eyes can track, so he shuts them, relying on instinct alone. He can feel his mind take that little hitch sideways that Locke coaxed him through earlier; one step, then another, and suddenly everything... slows. Expands.
For a moment- just one, sharp and crystalline- he sees it all. Reaches out an arm, catches Locke around the waist, and tumbles both of them to the ground. Laughs himself breathless as they roll, tangled, across the floor.
They come to rest as time seems to catch up with itself. He finds himself blinking up at Locke, who looks at him with a befuddled expression, one that’s edging more towards wonder with every second. Not too familiar with people getting the drop on him, apparently. John’s not sure what happened, or how to describe it, but it felt good. Like he was... connected, to everything. The sense of it lingers in the way that he can’t pull his eyes from Locke, braced above him.
John’s eyes are still open when their mouths meet, and it’s only then that he allows them to slip closed.
The kiss reminds him of the night they met- dark and smooth, wrapped in leather; he pushes up into it, hands sliding down Locke’s spine to drag him closer. Locke catches his lower lip and bites, hard, licking John’s gasp back into his mouth.
Locke’s tugging at the bottom of John’s tee shirt when the ring of an old-fashioned telephone splits the air. John lifts his head, trying to see what’s causing the impossibly shrill sound; he doesn’t remember seeing a phone in their sparring room.
“Ignore it,” Locke mutters, tracing a meandering path across John’s chest. “It’s undoubtedly Hermes, who can just close his eyes and look the other way, the meddler.”
“What- wait- what? Are they watching us in here?” He scrambles out from underneath Locke, who pouts his lush bottom lip in response.
“Don’t be silly, John; get back here.”
“Ah, no, I don’t think so. I will not be putting on a show for Anthea and your brother, of all people.” He crosses to the phone, which has appeared, complete with side table, in a corner of the room. “Hello, Anthea? We’re ready; pull us out.”
: : :
John flushes from hairline to chin when the first thing he sees after opening his eyes is a matched set of smirks. He’s out of his chair and halfway down the hall before Hermes calls him back.
“John, just a moment. Don’t you think there’s something you’ve forgotten?”
He turns on his heel, forcing the blush down. It’s not as if it’s the first time he’s ever been caught snogging someone.
“What are you getting at, Hermes?”
“Just that you did quite well today for a man with a psychosomatic limp.”
John’s mind clicks back over the day at double-speed. The target practice, the training, sparring- he hadn’t given his leg a moment’s thought, had simply fallen into the adrenaline rush of it all. He stares at Hermes, then at Locke, who gives him a smug smile, obviously convinced he deserves the credit for eliminating the limp.
John shakes his head once, twice, but lets the laughter fall from him; that night, for the first time in months, he closes his eyes in bed and simply... sleeps, deeply and without dreams.