Work Text:
This short is part of the Matrices series, established in my Day 1 entry for Strattland Week. Go read that first for a full contex, but if you really don't want to, all you need to know is that Grace forces Stratt to watch the Matrix as preparation for them being subjected to a projected reality. The experiment goes wrong, and the two are left connected in more ways than one.
They’d finished the Matrix movies a few months back.
If you ask Eva Stratt what she thinks of them, she’ll tell you that it’s a ridiculous series that has no basis in scientific reality. But from a personal perspective, they weren’t quite as bad as she’d thought they would be. They were… good, in fact. Better than good, maybe. Bordering on great.
They were great. Amazing, if she must.
But she’ll never tell a soul this, especially not the soul named Ryland Grace.
After all, his “awful taste in cinematography”, as she’d proclaimed it to be after he’d hidden her tablet and refused to give it back until she “took a break” and “let herself enjoy an evening for once”, was the excuse she’d been using to dodge all his further attempts at getting her to sit down with him on the couch in his office and “enjoy” a movie night with him. And then he’d called her an “iPad kid”, Gott knows whatever that means, when she’d finally relented and watched the damn thing, and then went back for seconds, and maybe even thirds, too. It was highly important that she understood the neuro-interactive simulation used by the machines before they tested a similar technology on themselves.
Although it did not invent it, The Matrix (1999), is considered to be the film that transformed and popularised ‘bullet time’.
‘Bullet time’, also known as the Matrix effect, frozen motion, dead time, or time slide, is a visual effect that gives the impression of time slowing down or stopping altogether, while the camera appears to move through the scene at a normal speed. The effect is achieved by using a fast-moving camera that moves around an inanimate object, for example, a bullet or a frozen human actor, and allows the audience to see what the unaided eye could not.
It might have been cutting-edge, but The Matrix owes the origins of bullet time to 19th-century trickery, albeit with some turn-of-the-millennium technological innovation. It’s become so ubiquitous that it’s easy to forget or overlook just how astonishing it was the first time around, and while mileage may vary on whether it’s the best shot in the movie, there’s no denying that it’s the most iconic. And that’s how the technique received its name. From the bullets that glided through the air towards Neo on the roof of a skyscraper as he leant back to evade their paths.
This is all relevant, of course, to the fact that she can swear that time is slowing down as she sees the muzzle flash on top of a distant building and watches the bullet travel towards them through the night sky. But Stratt is not Neo, nor Trinity, and neither is Grace, and ‘bullet time’ is not something that actually exists. This is the real world, not a simulation. And Stratt cannot dodge a bullet.
They’re at a gala, unfortunately. Neither of them likes these things. Stratt especially not, as she’s forced to dillydally with less-than-intelligent ministers that keep her away from more important things, such as running the world and preventing literally everybody from dying of hypothermia slash hunger slash natural disaster slash war. The only thing that gets her through is the fact that she has entertainment in the form of Grace explaining science to world leaders like they’re twelve and sitting in his classroom back at Grover Cleveland.
And so, as custom, she’d dragged Grace up to the rooftop of the fancy-schmancy high-rise hotel that had rented out its ballroom to the hedge fund executive who was clearly trying to use donating to the Petrova Taskforce as both a tax writeoff and a networking opportunity, pulled out her packet of Marlboro Reds, and started chain smoking out of frustration. Security had come with them, as they always did. Something Stratt has never been sure is for her own safety or for the world’s.
It all happens within a second, but it feels like minutes, or maybe even hours. First comes the snap. It’s not a whizz, like they describe in the movies, the stereotypical whistle that they play as the bullets rush by. It’s much louder, and much more startling, like a miniature sonic boom that explodes right in her ear. Then comes the crack. The bullet slaps against the concrete of the roof and shatters both itself and the ground. The pulverised stone hisses behind her, the rock chips flying up in a cloud of grey and white. Then comes the whine. The bullet, now fragmented by the force of the impact, zings off into the distance, the tumbling shard of lead disturbing the air in a uniquely recognisable sound. That part, the movies got right, she thinks. There’s a tingle of something at her right.
There’s a second bullet, then a third, and by the time the fourth ricochets across the top of the building, the world has sped back up and she's lying on the floor underneath Grace, his arm curled around her head to protect it from the impact of being tackled to the ground. Ever since The Incident, Grace has been much more possessive than any subordinate has the right to be, but this has to be a new record for him in terms of thinking with his penis rather than his brain. He’s just as vital as her to the Taskforce, and putting himself in harm's way, using himself as a human shield isn’t doing the world any favours. If anything, she’s the expendable one. His eyes are wide, and he’s breathing heavily, the force of his exhalations tickling her eyelashes as he stares at her in a panic.
His forehead barely brushes hers before he’s ripped away.
He feels something sting in his side as the concrete explodes behind him.
He turns to Stratt, whose cigarette has fallen from between her fingers, glowing a bright orange on the concrete tile of the roof between their feet. She’s staring off into the distance, her eyes locked on a far away ember that flashes quickly twice more, and Grace has no choice but to pull them both to the ground as a third bullet fires off, the round cracking past them in the space that Stratt’s head just occupied. He moves his hand behind her neck to stop her fall and her eyes suddenly flicker to his, as if her brain has only just caught up to the world spinning around her.
His breathing is ragged, he’s not surprised it is, with the way he can feel adrenaline pumping through his body. There’s a ringing in his ears and the sound of his heart which thunders a rapid beat through his brain. One deep breath, then another and he leans down to press his head to hers.
Desperate hands tear at him from behind, pulling him to his feet and he’s swept up in the commotion of the guards that have finally burst into action. Another one collects Stratt, and together, they’re ushered quickly off the roof, manhandled down the stairs, and all but shoved into a dark room, the door locked behind them.
When Stratt said that the hotel had a safe room prepared for if anything were to go awry, this was definitely not what Grace was envisioning. It was a room, he supposes. But he certainly doesn’t feel safe.
It’s quite hard to feel safe when he’s in a glorified broom closet.
And when he can’t see a thing.
He tries to sit up, but his hand only finds purchase on something soft and wet beneath him.
“Mmh mm mmpm mmmph,” the floor says, vibrating against his hand.
“Ah!” he squeaks, his hand jerking back.
“That was my face,” Stratt repeats, her speech no longer muffled.
“Yeah, I figured that,” he replies. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologise, it’s not your fault that people with your eye condition often struggle to see in the dark,” she says, matter of factly.
“Hey…”
She ignores his protest, pushing herself up, and she disappears from his side, his body panicking at the loss of the only connection he has to her in the dark room. A few scuffles later there’s a clang against the floor, and he clambours up the wall behind him to try and find her in the dark, the ache in his side baring its teeth.
“Ow, fuck!” the blackness yells out.
“You alright?”
And there is light.
It’s not very strong, a pretty pathetic single bulb that flickers over their heads, but it’s enough.
Stratt’s near the door, rubbing her shin next to a pile of tools that some careless janitor had left right inside the entrance.
It’s definitely a broom closet.
There’s actually a broom in the corner, lying amongst a variety of other cleaning implements, and the walls are lined with shelves of spare paint and more tools and plywood and some rags.
Yeah, safe room his ass.
“Wait, how do you know my prescription?”
She chuckles, limping towards him. They meet in the centre of the room, both of their black suits now covered in dust and dirt.
“Remember Grace,” she deadpans, her eyes boring holes into his. “I know everything.”
“Stratt, you really scare me sometimes.”
“Idiot,” she flicks him in the shoulder, hard. “I spent three enlightening days trapped with your sorry excuses for eyes.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” he laughs, more at ease now that he’s not worried that she’s stalked him again. “That makes sense.”
“Although I did find your report from your last visit to the eye doctor. You are very blind, Grace.”
He looks at her. She looks at him. Her mouth starts to twitch. So does his. And the mirth comes tumbling out, his stomach burning as he doubles over in a hearty snort.
“You never answered my question,” he says, once the laughter transitions into silence.
“What question?”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, I am fine, Grace. It will probably leave a little bruise, but I didn't kick the drill very hard and it already doesn’t hurt.”
God, she is so frustrating sometimes.
“You know full well that's not what I meant.”
She scowls up at him, and he finally, finally, lets himself touch her again, bringing his hands to her temples to smooth out her expression.
“They shot at you.”
“They shot at us,” she contradicts.
“Eva,” he says, and her eyes dart away. “They shot at you.”
“I know,” she admits, still refusing to look at him. “But you were there too. And that’s what scares me the most.”
He tugs her to his chest, burying his face in her hair and breathing in the smell of her. She’s alive, and that’s what matters. She’s alive, and he is too.
They make it back to the wall, eventually, refusing to let go of each other as they stumble across the room, and Grace slides them both down to the ground.
The hours tick on, in their small little box, and he’s content to have her in his arms for the rest of the night, their tears meeting somewhere between them.
He leans towards her, his forehead finally meeting hers, and he nuzzles her nose, reaching for a kiss.
His side is really, really aching now.
Before her, Grace flinches.
She can tell he’s trying to hide it, but she knows his body inside and out. And he’s close enough, his lips only moments away from meeting hers, that she can see every single pained expression that troubles his features.
“Grace?”
“Something really hurts, Eva,” he whines, slipping down the wall until he’s lying on his back, clutching at his abdomen.
She inhales, and all of her fears appear before her. Her hands dig desperately at where his shirt is tucked into his pants, pulling out the hem and ripping open the buttons at the bottom, opening it up to his ribs. They cost a fortune, but she doesn’t mourn the losses as they clink away into the depths of the closet. She straddles his legs, her palms searching at his belly for any sign of a wound. Her left hand comes away red as it swipes across his side, the dark liquid painted against her pale skin.
“No…”
“Is it bad?” he whispers. “Give it to me straight, Stratt.”
She lifts up his shirt.
It’s barely a scratch.
She exhales, and all of her fears wash over her.
“Don’t do that to me again, idiot,” she sobs, bringing her head to the crook of his neck, leaning over him, her hands finding his hair and gripping it, desperate to ground herself in every aspect of him.
He brings his hands to her waist, holding her in place.
“Eva?” he says, his voice shaky. “You haven’t fallen in anything wet, have you?”
She looks up at him, but he’s not looking back. His gaze is fixed firmly to her right.
“No?”
And that’s when she feels it.
The tingle catches fire and blazes across her stomach.
Their positions are reversed as it’s her turn to lie on the floor, his turn for his hands to rip open her blazer and her shirt, both of which are black, both of which have hidden the blossom of blood as it spread across the fabric in the dark of the night.
It’s a bit more than a scratch.
She can see it in his furrowed brow as he tears off a strip of his dress shirt. She can feel it in the shake of his hands as he wraps it around her, and in the weakness of his grip as he struggles to pull it taut. She can sense it in his breath as he curls into her side, no other choice but to hope and wait and pray for help to come.
It's later, when she runs a hand over the scar, raised and unsightly, that she wonders if Grace can feel the tingle too, all the way from across the stars.
The burns across her arm have long since healed. They're gnarled and red but at least they share them too.