Title: Blue Pill
Author: Lucifer Rosemaunt
Pairing(s): hints of Smith/Neo
Summary: Thomas A. Anderson has a very active imagination. Or so he thinks.
Word Count: 600
A/N: I guess shorter stories are the thing right now.
Story note: Hey, 600. :D Managed to round it out.
At night, Thomas A. Anderson dreams the craziest of things. He dreams of having taken a red pill and it leading him down a rabbit hole, down a chute with questionable liquid and even more questionable origins. He stands under sulfurous skies so toxic that his nose burns for hours after he wakes. He learns of the destruction of Earth, the enslavement of the human race, of sentient machines and a war that never ends, that will never end. It's a war that they're losing. Humans are losing.
Every night, he fights a horde of men in suits who are trying to kill him, not just kill, but destroy him. They try with their bare hands and guns and knives and entire cars, whatever is around them at the moment, removing light posts with ease. They have little care for neither themselves nor innocent bystanders. Somehow he knows that they're expendable, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he is not. His body moves in ways he had never before thought possible, smooth sweeps of coordinated limbs, gravity defying martial arts and a sense of detached calm that springs forth from a confidence he knows he doesn't have.
He dreams in the gritty noir of black and white. He feels the loss of soldiers who've looked up to him, whose faces and names he cannot even recall in the morning. He sees them die, expiring as quickly, as suddenly as though their time had simply run out. Their bodies just flop to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut. He dreams of those almost-heroes and sacrifices, of isolation and horrible choices. He doesn't just dream of such loss. He knows it intimately.
Those aren't the dreams that linger though. Those details fade in time, are gone the moment he wakes so that he can do nothing but grasp at a fog of impressions.
There's someone though, an enemy he thinks, because he's never felt such all-consuming passion for him. It would be easier if it were simply hatred, but there's so much more mixed in there that he hardly thinks there should be a single word to describe it. There's a connection, a reason he can feel him even when he wakes. He knows the dreams of this man are vivid - too vivid, maybe - sudden flashes of motion, emotion, and heat. There's such heat and struggling that he wakes up sweating. His heart races as though he's been running and running all night, never gaining any ground.
There are others he dreams of, a man's deep baritone voice, shouts, body-shaking cheers, of running his fingers through short hair, and a battle-hardened, lithe body beneath him, but it's not the same. They don't follow him into the waking world. He doesn't see a sleeve from the corner of his eye and expect to see them. He doesn't hesitate at the subway station for them, but he does pause to look around and scan the flush of bodies for a single person who he can only hope he'll recognize. They don't linger in his thoughts, make him turn hoping to catch a glimpse of a memory. They don't make him hard, hard enough, desperate enough that he has to resort to dealing with his problem at least once a day, chasing for that almost familiar heat, for phantom bruising fingertips, strong on his arms, his back and hips.
And every time he comes, a feeling settles deep in his chest, constricting and tight, taunting and teasing. It's like he's being consumed little by little and he doesn't even care.
A/N: Don't forget to R/R (Read and Review)!
Fic Review: Maybe he didn't take the blue pill, maybe they just finally succeeded in catching him and I guess erasing his memory? But he turned their enmity into something sexual.