[He feels itchy. He knows it's a castoff of programming but he feels like he's still not quite himself. This is reality, he has to remind himself, and he rubs his hands together, as if the feel will jar him out of things.
He's never been fond of green-ish light, courtesy of his home world, but he knows he can find some peace here if he tries. He's whole here, there's no danger of losing himself, figuratively and mentally. Simons' is leaning against a railing, watching the people of Zion bustle about. The sound of feet on metal is calming, at least, though he'd still kill for something he can mentally hold on to, here. He's yet to adjust. Especially to the lack of cigarette smoke courtesy of one Johnny Royalle.
Something shifts in someone's footsteps and he glances over just in time to see someone nearly trip. Simons has always kept to himself (or himselves), yes, but he's never been an asshole. He snaps his hands forward to catch the person--or things they were about to drop--with expert reflexes, quietly tilting his head to the side. It's his way of saying, 'are you okay?']
B. matrix
[ His appearance here and the real world never changes--he prefers a shaved head. The only difference is that he has his powers here--much like he did in that fabricated reality he called home. The problem is that, while there are multiple copies of him, he still feels their pain.
It's just three of him this time, two with their guns firing, the third running to grab his teammate that just fell. ]
Get up. [ It's the clone trying to drag him upwards. ] We've got to keep moving. [ They've got to get to an exit. ]
Simons | Powers
[He feels itchy. He knows it's a castoff of programming but he feels like he's still not quite himself. This is reality, he has to remind himself, and he rubs his hands together, as if the feel will jar him out of things.
He's never been fond of green-ish light, courtesy of his home world, but he knows he can find some peace here if he tries. He's whole here, there's no danger of losing himself, figuratively and mentally. Simons' is leaning against a railing, watching the people of Zion bustle about. The sound of feet on metal is calming, at least, though he'd still kill for something he can mentally hold on to, here. He's yet to adjust. Especially to the lack of cigarette smoke courtesy of one Johnny Royalle.
Something shifts in someone's footsteps and he glances over just in time to see someone nearly trip. Simons has always kept to himself (or himselves), yes, but he's never been an asshole. He snaps his hands forward to catch the person--or things they were about to drop--with expert reflexes, quietly tilting his head to the side. It's his way of saying, 'are you okay?']
B. matrix
[ His appearance here and the real world never changes--he prefers a shaved head. The only difference is that he has his powers here--much like he did in that fabricated reality he called home. The problem is that, while there are multiple copies of him, he still feels their pain.
It's just three of him this time, two with their guns firing, the third running to grab his teammate that just fell. ]
Get up. [ It's the clone trying to drag him upwards. ] We've got to keep moving. [ They've got to get to an exit. ]