[ she uses different simulations to train; nothing else would make sense because familiarity lessens the training effect after a certain time. still, there is one that she returns to when others are used for their purpose and then discarded.

if anyone else were to enter the simulation, they would find rita vrataski surrounded by the whirring of metal, machinery designed to mimic the mimics. the air smells of oil and metal and her eyes are closed where she is resting the weight of her entire body on the palms of her hand, perfectly balanced despite the noise and the danger.

there is a sword strapped to her back, but she isn't wearing armor. ]

[ the anniversary of neo's truth always draws a crowd, and zion is celebrating right now. the music is loud, and rita's blood is pounding through her veins in time with the bass of a song she doesn't know.

most people are barefooted, some are half-naked or even closer to fully undressed; rita is wearing combat boots and black kevlar, hair pinned back but for the strands that always escape no matter what she tries. (some days, she thinks of shaving it all off, but she never actually picks up the razor.)

she isn't here to celebrate.

instead, she keeps to the edge of the crowd, her pace steady as she walks. anyone trying to draw her into the pulsing midst of the crowd is brushed off, not harshly but decisively. she has an objective, and it isn't dancing.

she ducks deeper into a corridor of the caves that remains unlit and then disappears. there's an exit ahead, and she wants to breathe the air up top, unfiltered and cold and bitter.

it's more real than any celebration could ever be, to her. ]