Mimic
Unmade
Brown and Jones have an interesting, albeit
strange, proposal for the exiled Agent Smith. But what of the cost of entering the real world to
assassinate Neo?
~~~~~~~
It
first occurred to him that this was, in fact, a malfunction, a setup or perhaps
some strange experiment being run upon him. He had often wondered why the others of his release number
had not been deleted or exiled, for that was the way of the mainframe. Agents could be deleted and remade many
times over—had, in fact, been cast to the virtual winds of the Matrix before
their version. So it occurred to
Smith that perhaps in this great oversight the mainframe had been mistaken and
allowed other so-called ‘faulty’ agents to run. The problem was certainly not systematic.
Humans
would consider the day pleasurable, he knew by gathered statistics. They attached emotional value to the
patterns of the weather and today in New York the sun was shining, the birds were
singing according to their proper mathematical formula and not a single color,
scent or tactile sensation was wrong.
No, the Matrix flowed with perfection, leaving the problem to those who
had brought him here to this street to peer inside a corner café in downtown
New York City to see what he now studied.
But
malfunction was not the only possible explanation and the next avenue of
procession led him to wonder if this were a setup, which he immediately
dismissed because it was completely unlike the mainframe or the agent programs
to waste such time. He could
easily have been taken the day previous.
It was entirely possible the mainframe wanted to study him, but he could
think of no real reason why. Which
led him to his final conclusion.
Smith
crossed his arms and watched the human they had chosen for him to inhabit. Dark hair, blue eyes and fair
skin. He sat within the café with
what assumedly were a few business associates. Yes, he had reconsidered and yes, he would do their
bidding. After all, it would be a
chance to fulfill what he had ultimately chosen to remain active for. Killing Anderson. The thought of living as a human,
breathing and sweating and sleeping like a human disgusted him. Yet they would never expect to be
fought upon their own turf. How
could he logically pass such a chance by?
Brown
and Jones seemed to watch the individual within the building with an absent
fascination, doubtlessly calculating Smith’s chances of success using such a
unit. He allowed a pensive frown
to cross his features almost without realization that he did so. “This will make my objective harder to
complete,” he observed to them dryly.
“Is my deletion that important?”
Jones
ignored the second statement, but offered an explanation of the first. “It is believed that taken out of your
usual context they will not recognize you, as all agents favor one another to a
certain degree.” He could hear it
within his memory as clear as if Morpheus were standing before him now. You all look alike to me. “And as well, not all humans of
Zion have encountered you specifically.” That explained little of what he wanted to know.
“You
searched for a human that was alike in appearance to me. Why?”
The
two of them exchanged expressions, then went back to studying the individual
within the café. He appeared to be
laughing. Jones replied firmly,
“We were given a search criteria that if possible, your vessel to Zion would
favor your construct by at least 60%.
We were not given reasons why, but it is likely the mainframe wishes
insurance that you do not grow comfortable with your new life in Zion and work
to undermine the Matrix. The
longer you remain in Zion this way, the more inevitable it will be that you are
discovered and distrusted.”
The
exile grunted his assessment of that and drew their momentary attention, but he
didn’t care what their opinions of his actions were. A good explanation on the surface, but he was not so ready
to accept that as the chief reason for such a reckless choice. Still, inhabiting a body that appeared
as he did offered up two consolations.
First that he would have something to identify with concerning his new
body. Second that when he killed
Anderson the rebel would understand just who it was that had beaten him. The second gifted him with a dark
smile.
Within
the café he could see his double removing his wallet from his jacket to pay for
lunch. Matthew S. Pryce, age 42,
who had a job as head of personnel for a software company. Personnel. A career based upon the understanding of humans. The idea aggravated Smith, admittedly,
but he would handle it. Anything
seemed worth getting to Anderson.
Anything.
Brown
turned to him expectantly. “Your
double will be exiting the café within moments. Are you prepared to follow through with your assignment?”
Smith
nodded as the glass doorway opened, allowing Pryce and his two friends an
exit. His reply was simple, for
assurances from neither he nor they would mean much to the other. It was a chance both parties took with
the other. “Yes.”
One
of the well-dressed men parted from Pryce and the other, heading towards some
unknown destination. Smith ignored
him once he was a good distance away and crossed the street. His double headed towards a parking lot
on the other side of the café with no indication that his partner would take
another route. Perhaps they had
carpooled. It mattered very
little. Humans were gullible. A quick blow to the head and a
fabricated story later would take care of the dark man that laughed now with
his co-worker. What would really
matter would be if the parking lot were empty.
If
he believed in a fate other than that which was forged by the mainframe, he
would have been thankful it seemed on his side. As it was the lot was dead and by the distance Pryce was
traveling, it seemed his car was not up front near the road. Smith straightened his jacket and
started into the lot, quickly disappearing within the lanes.
When
he was close enough he called out to his would-be vessel. “Mr. Pryce.”
The
duo turned and the human of interest looked him over. His appearance was quite similar, but little variations
could be picked up on. His eyes
were grayer and his hair darker.
By measure he was 1.2 inches shorter than Smith with a voice that was
free and easy. “I’m Pryce. Can I help you?”
The
ex-agent nodded and removed his sunglasses, eliciting startled expressions from
the two humans before him. “I have
a personal matter I wish to discuss with you, Mr. Pryce. I believe we may be related.”
The
dark man beside Pryce ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll say.
Matt, why didn’t you tell me you were a twin?”
Pryce
knit his brow, murmuring, “I’m not.
Who are you?”
He
would give the human exactly two minutes to accept his offer of privacy before
insisting. “I’ve traveled far to
speak with you. Does my appearance
say nothing of my intentions?”
His
double exchanged a gaze with his friend, who took the look as a hint that may
or may not have been intended.
“Right, I’ll see you back at the office.” Pryce narrowed his brow, but the other failed to recognize
the expression and stepped away before another word could be said. At the impression of his thumb to a
control pad on his key ring a blue Taurus beeped and lit up. Smith waited in silence, watching as a
predator while the darker man got into his automobile and pulled away with a
parting wave to the now easy target that was Matthew S. Pryce.
Looking
a little bewildered and dubious, Pryce took out his own keys and made a
tentative move towards his own vehicle.
His voice was troubled as he made an excuse to avoid this uncomfortable
conversation Smith was proposing, perhaps so he could speak with his parents or
escape all together. “I’m going to
be late for work. Maybe we could
meet somewhere. Do you have a
number I could reach you at?”
There
would be no telephone calls. Not
in the mood to be trifled with Smith drew the Desert Eagle that Jones had
returned to him and aimed it towards his double’s head with an audible click. Pryce’s gray-blue eyes widened and he
did the most pleasing and most logical thing he could in a situation like
this. He froze and raised his
hands. “What the hell do you think
you’re doing?” he demanded, swallowing as humans do when their throats have
suddenly gone dry.
Smith
darted glances around them, then closed the distance between he and Pryce. Waving the gun, he motioned to the side
of a nearby van that could obscure them should anyone enter the lot. “This will take only a moment.” Pryce was a smart man, if careful. He understood his danger well enough to
refrain from causing trouble. The
human backed slowly behind the cover of the van, his eyes betraying the
knowledge that this could be the place he died. He was very correct about that. Between the van and a small golden car they stopped and
Smith breathed in a deadly quiet voice, “Turn your back to me.”
This
was where Pryce backslid, refusing to cooperate until the agent took a
threatening step towards him.
“Take what you want,” his now slightly breathless voice offered. “Just don’t kill me. Please.”
The
exile pressed the cold nose of his gun against Pryce’s dark hair. Seeing this other’s weakness brought
Smith a cooler tone. “All humans
die.”
What
would have been Matthew Pryce’s last stand turned into nothing more than an
inconvenient struggle that ended abruptly. The human moved to try and save his life in some way, by
some miracle, but death would not come by the blow of a gun. Smith wrapped Pryce into a hold the
weaker could not break, pressed his hand firmly between his two shoulder blades
and proceeded with the upload. His
double gasped for air as it began.
It
was a strange sensation that stopped the human from struggling soon enough, a
feeling Smith lacked the words to describe. He could feel the data of his program meshing with the
construct of this human’s digital self, could sense the trace program working
to find the body in the crop yards, and felt new data entering his
storage. Bryan Hunt had been the
name of his dark friend and Antonio Capella was the other that had walked. The three had been laughing together
about women. Hunt possessed a wife
and a new child. Capella was
unmarried and Pryce suspected him of having an interest in his very own
sister. These small facts became
more detailed as the moments passed away. He could almost taste the memory downloading from the
hardware inside Pryce into his own subroutines. It felt invigorating.
And
when it was over only one stood to tell the tale. Agent Smith found he neither held anything nor was being
held, though he somehow had expected both. Pryce was gone and only Smith remained standing in his
place. Examining his familiar
black jacket he realized his program had overwritten the construct of his
double, a matter easily cared for now with the parameters of his upgrade. Accessing his perfect memory files of
his new appearance he quickly morphed and his black suit became navy, his eyes
grayed and his sunglasses disappeared.
For a moment he could only stare at his hands and let the new sensations
sink in. Agents were not
programmed to assimilate so many electrical signals for such a vast array of
feeling.
It
was…different.
When
he stepped from around the van he saw Brown and Jones still waiting across the
street. He paused for a moment at
the back of his silver Crown Vic, nodded once and when the other two returned
the gesture, entered his vehicle. His
vehicle. Smith could feel the
truth of that statement. He knew
where to drive, which elevator to get on and which desk was his, all with
flawless understanding. He felt
new. Both weak and powerful at the
same time.
Now
it would be only a matter of contacting the outside world by means of a Zion
rebel called Psyche, whom he would search about on the internet after
work. He had never once in his
existence asked what the Matrix was, but now it was that question that would
drive him.
~~~~~~~
Author: Ruse – jedinineofnine@hotmail.com
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