In the Region of Sight, chp. 8
In which John tries to dither, but the Statistician isn't interested in his hang-ups.
Locke slips out of the cabin with one last, bruising kiss. John collapses onto his bed, still sweaty and shaken from his orgasm. He has absolutely no idea how to process what just happened. There’s no denying that he’s been attracted to Locke from the start, and who’d blame him? The man knows how to work those leather trousers. The idea that they have some sort of mystical, foretold connection, though... What are they supposed to be, soul mates? He can’t understand how Locke, with his philosopher’s nickname and fixation on data, would believe something so absurd.
Suddenly he’s looking forward to meeting the Statistician. He has a few things to say to her.
: : :
John pauses at the sight of so many people in the control room, prepped and ready to jack in.
“I thought we were just going to meet with this woman- is she that dangerous, then?”
“It’s not her we have to worry about, John,” says Fox. “It’s them- the agents. We’ve been in and out so often, lately, there’s a good chance that they’ll already be watching for us.”
“Like that man from the cab.”
“Not men- sentient programs,” Mycroft corrects. “They police the Matrix, essentially. They monitor the system, correct or eliminate any errant programming; in this case, that error would be us. Just as you saw that night, they can rewrite any program that still functions inside the bounds of the Matrix; that means that anyone you see there is potentially an agent. They are incredibly powerful; I've seen an agent punch through a concrete wall. Men have emptied entire clips at them and hit nothing but air. If they find us, don’t try to fight. Just run.”
The thought of facing an agent one-on-one should terrify him, especially after seeing one possess that cab driver. Instead, he’s filled with a fierce, terrible delight at the idea. At being back on the battlefield. He bites his lip to keep the grin from spreading across his face.
John settles into a chair as Anthea gives the count. “Three, two-”
: : :
They’re back in London; the smell, the sound of it instantly familiar. John’s gaze is roaming over back alley brick when Locke steps into his field of vision. It takes a moment to find his breath again; the snug black leather is no surprise, but the zip that runs from groin to ankle is... enticing. He can’t help but visualize the way they’d peel off.
A hand claps him on the shoulder. “Lovely jumper you’ve got there, John. Oh, and, ah,” Fox leans in close, “you might want to shut your mouth while you’re ogling him, next time. You’ll catch flies.”
Damn. He slams his eyes shut and summons the memory of clothes from his youth; nights of dancing and drinking, hard sex in dank alleys, feral challenge rolling through him. He’d found a home for it in the Army, balanced it by becoming a doctor, but before that... they were rough days. He opens his eyes and it shows. Gone is the frumpy little man, calm and patient-faced.
Pebbled leather smooths along compact, firmly-muscled thighs. Black cotton clings, defining the ridges of a torso that the lumpy jumper didn’t even hint at earlier. Belts wind round his hips, matching Sigs holstered into place. The deep red leather of his jacket grabs attention and digs its claws in, demanding blood and sex and teeth.
He strides over to Locke, sets a finger under his chin; tips his mouth shut.
“So, where are we headed?”
: : :
John looks up, and up further, at the glossy white edifice at which they’ve arrived. It reminds him of the over-priced electronics store his sister had tried to drag him into when he’d first been discharged, all plate-glass and glowing walls.
The lobby’s full of people, but no one so much as glances up from their tablets as a wall of leather and weapons enters the building.
Of course, if this woman can see the future, then she’s expecting them.
Nicodemus and Versai take up stations at the door, standing watch as the rest of them cross to the elevator. The soft hiss of the door coupled with the overwhelmingly white interior makes John feel like he’s on the Enterprise.
The elevator opens onto the forty-second floor, where pale carpet stretches towards floor-to-ceiling windows. A crisp square desk sits in what appears to be the precise mathematical center of the room; like the people downstairs, its occupant pays their entrance no notice.
Hermes coughs delicately, every inch the gentleman behind his knee-length trench coat. “A moment of your time, if we may?”
Cool, pale eyes survey them as she nods. “Him. I’ll speak with him.” A single finger beckons John towards the desk. He can feel sharp eyes on his back as he crosses to her.
“Don’t fret, John- they can’t hear you. Ask your questions.”
“Do you already know what I’m going to ask?”
“It’s better to say that I know what you’re most likely to ask. Locke told you that I experience the Matrix differently than you humans do; I look out on this world and see- calculations. Events triggering other events, chain reactions of time and space. Probabilities to the nth power.”
“Why did you tell them that I’m the One?”
“What is it that you want to hear, John? That I dispensed some sort of oracular nonsense, waving my hands and telling your future?” She shakes her head with the sort of fond amusement usually saved for fussy, temperamental toddlers. “I have been waiting for the One for a long, long time. Watching children grow, all that data forecasting the way their little lives would unfold, the changes they would send out into the world. You know how this works; small rocks make little ripples, but big rocks- big rocks make waves. And you, John, are a very big rock. You always have been.”
John shakes his head, slowly. “No, you’re wrong. How many times do I have to say this? I am. Completely. Average.”
“No, John. You came from a broken home, suffered abuse as a child, and yet didn’t give in to your family’s propensity for addiction. Likelihood: 37 percent. In the top five of your graduation class. Likelihood: 22 percent. Turned down an offer from a prestigious London hospital and a glowing surgical career to join the military out of a sense of duty and patriotism. Likelihood: 5 percent. Saved more lives than any other doctor in your unit. Likelihood: 2 percent. Survived your first brush with the idea of the Matrix intact, with no significant loss of sanity or humanity. Likelihood: 0.5 percent. Successfully disengaged from the Matrix, again with negligible mental trauma. Likelihood: 0.002 percent.”
He’s reeling as the odds come spilling out of the Statistician’s mouth. They’re true, all of them, as far as John knows, but to hear the numbers like that staggers him. He’s simply done what he could with what he had in any given situation, that’s all.
“John, you are... a paradox. Where you pass, the most likely possibility simply isn’t.”
“But I don’t- I don’t feel that. Hermes, Locke- they understand the Matrix like I never will, even after they crammed my brain full of information. It took me forever just to change clothes!”
“You’ve already felt it.”
“I don’t think-” and then it hits him. That moment, in the training sim with Locke, where everything coalesced. The way he felt the entire world inside himself, dissolving into it like a sugar cube in a cup of tea. How he could have reached out and wrapped reality around his finger, had he been so inclined.
His knees buckle, but the chair she’s just nudged into place keeps him from collapsing to the ground.
Remembering the moment with Locke trips another question. “Locke said that you told him. About us, him and... and me.”
“Ah, well, what I told Locke is his business. I will say this, though; it wasn’t some mystical hoodoo about soulmates and fated lovers. It’s math, John; numbers make the world go round. Person 1 has traits ABC, which makes them more or less compatible with Person 2 and traits XYZ. And the odds of you and Locke being compatible? The likelihood was very, very good. Better than I’ve ever seen, and still increasing.”
He’s gearing up to press for more information when a cell phone ring breaks the silence. “Ah, that’ll be your cue,” says the Statistician, as Hermes answers the phone.
“It’s Versai,” Hermes says, with a tiny downturn of the lips that would be a scowl on anyone less controlled. “They’ve found us.”
Locke slips out of the cabin with one last, bruising kiss. John collapses onto his bed, still sweaty and shaken from his orgasm. He has absolutely no idea how to process what just happened. There’s no denying that he’s been attracted to Locke from the start, and who’d blame him? The man knows how to work those leather trousers. The idea that they have some sort of mystical, foretold connection, though... What are they supposed to be, soul mates? He can’t understand how Locke, with his philosopher’s nickname and fixation on data, would believe something so absurd.
Suddenly he’s looking forward to meeting the Statistician. He has a few things to say to her.
: : :
John pauses at the sight of so many people in the control room, prepped and ready to jack in.
“I thought we were just going to meet with this woman- is she that dangerous, then?”
“It’s not her we have to worry about, John,” says Fox. “It’s them- the agents. We’ve been in and out so often, lately, there’s a good chance that they’ll already be watching for us.”
“Like that man from the cab.”
“Not men- sentient programs,” Mycroft corrects. “They police the Matrix, essentially. They monitor the system, correct or eliminate any errant programming; in this case, that error would be us. Just as you saw that night, they can rewrite any program that still functions inside the bounds of the Matrix; that means that anyone you see there is potentially an agent. They are incredibly powerful; I've seen an agent punch through a concrete wall. Men have emptied entire clips at them and hit nothing but air. If they find us, don’t try to fight. Just run.”
The thought of facing an agent one-on-one should terrify him, especially after seeing one possess that cab driver. Instead, he’s filled with a fierce, terrible delight at the idea. At being back on the battlefield. He bites his lip to keep the grin from spreading across his face.
John settles into a chair as Anthea gives the count. “Three, two-”
: : :
They’re back in London; the smell, the sound of it instantly familiar. John’s gaze is roaming over back alley brick when Locke steps into his field of vision. It takes a moment to find his breath again; the snug black leather is no surprise, but the zip that runs from groin to ankle is... enticing. He can’t help but visualize the way they’d peel off.
A hand claps him on the shoulder. “Lovely jumper you’ve got there, John. Oh, and, ah,” Fox leans in close, “you might want to shut your mouth while you’re ogling him, next time. You’ll catch flies.”
Damn. He slams his eyes shut and summons the memory of clothes from his youth; nights of dancing and drinking, hard sex in dank alleys, feral challenge rolling through him. He’d found a home for it in the Army, balanced it by becoming a doctor, but before that... they were rough days. He opens his eyes and it shows. Gone is the frumpy little man, calm and patient-faced.
Pebbled leather smooths along compact, firmly-muscled thighs. Black cotton clings, defining the ridges of a torso that the lumpy jumper didn’t even hint at earlier. Belts wind round his hips, matching Sigs holstered into place. The deep red leather of his jacket grabs attention and digs its claws in, demanding blood and sex and teeth.
He strides over to Locke, sets a finger under his chin; tips his mouth shut.
“So, where are we headed?”
: : :
John looks up, and up further, at the glossy white edifice at which they’ve arrived. It reminds him of the over-priced electronics store his sister had tried to drag him into when he’d first been discharged, all plate-glass and glowing walls.
The lobby’s full of people, but no one so much as glances up from their tablets as a wall of leather and weapons enters the building.
Of course, if this woman can see the future, then she’s expecting them.
Nicodemus and Versai take up stations at the door, standing watch as the rest of them cross to the elevator. The soft hiss of the door coupled with the overwhelmingly white interior makes John feel like he’s on the Enterprise.
The elevator opens onto the forty-second floor, where pale carpet stretches towards floor-to-ceiling windows. A crisp square desk sits in what appears to be the precise mathematical center of the room; like the people downstairs, its occupant pays their entrance no notice.
Hermes coughs delicately, every inch the gentleman behind his knee-length trench coat. “A moment of your time, if we may?”
Cool, pale eyes survey them as she nods. “Him. I’ll speak with him.” A single finger beckons John towards the desk. He can feel sharp eyes on his back as he crosses to her.
“Don’t fret, John- they can’t hear you. Ask your questions.”
“Do you already know what I’m going to ask?”
“It’s better to say that I know what you’re most likely to ask. Locke told you that I experience the Matrix differently than you humans do; I look out on this world and see- calculations. Events triggering other events, chain reactions of time and space. Probabilities to the nth power.”
“Why did you tell them that I’m the One?”
“What is it that you want to hear, John? That I dispensed some sort of oracular nonsense, waving my hands and telling your future?” She shakes her head with the sort of fond amusement usually saved for fussy, temperamental toddlers. “I have been waiting for the One for a long, long time. Watching children grow, all that data forecasting the way their little lives would unfold, the changes they would send out into the world. You know how this works; small rocks make little ripples, but big rocks- big rocks make waves. And you, John, are a very big rock. You always have been.”
John shakes his head, slowly. “No, you’re wrong. How many times do I have to say this? I am. Completely. Average.”
“No, John. You came from a broken home, suffered abuse as a child, and yet didn’t give in to your family’s propensity for addiction. Likelihood: 37 percent. In the top five of your graduation class. Likelihood: 22 percent. Turned down an offer from a prestigious London hospital and a glowing surgical career to join the military out of a sense of duty and patriotism. Likelihood: 5 percent. Saved more lives than any other doctor in your unit. Likelihood: 2 percent. Survived your first brush with the idea of the Matrix intact, with no significant loss of sanity or humanity. Likelihood: 0.5 percent. Successfully disengaged from the Matrix, again with negligible mental trauma. Likelihood: 0.002 percent.”
He’s reeling as the odds come spilling out of the Statistician’s mouth. They’re true, all of them, as far as John knows, but to hear the numbers like that staggers him. He’s simply done what he could with what he had in any given situation, that’s all.
“John, you are... a paradox. Where you pass, the most likely possibility simply isn’t.”
“But I don’t- I don’t feel that. Hermes, Locke- they understand the Matrix like I never will, even after they crammed my brain full of information. It took me forever just to change clothes!”
“You’ve already felt it.”
“I don’t think-” and then it hits him. That moment, in the training sim with Locke, where everything coalesced. The way he felt the entire world inside himself, dissolving into it like a sugar cube in a cup of tea. How he could have reached out and wrapped reality around his finger, had he been so inclined.
His knees buckle, but the chair she’s just nudged into place keeps him from collapsing to the ground.
Remembering the moment with Locke trips another question. “Locke said that you told him. About us, him and... and me.”
“Ah, well, what I told Locke is his business. I will say this, though; it wasn’t some mystical hoodoo about soulmates and fated lovers. It’s math, John; numbers make the world go round. Person 1 has traits ABC, which makes them more or less compatible with Person 2 and traits XYZ. And the odds of you and Locke being compatible? The likelihood was very, very good. Better than I’ve ever seen, and still increasing.”
He’s gearing up to press for more information when a cell phone ring breaks the silence. “Ah, that’ll be your cue,” says the Statistician, as Hermes answers the phone.
“It’s Versai,” Hermes says, with a tiny downturn of the lips that would be a scowl on anyone less controlled. “They’ve found us.”