Mimic
Cause and Effect
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?
~~~~~~~
Through
the thunder outside and within the dim hallway footfalls could be heard. The richly decorated chateau stood
silent as evening drew closer and the skies outside darkened. Her heels sounded with purpose as she
made her way to where he was, no doubt basking in the glow of his power and
genius. When she opened the
doorway to his office and saw the smoke coming from the leather chair turned
away from her, she knew she had not been disappointed. “Did you think I would not know, my
love?”
There
was a pause, then slowly his chair swiveled until her husband faced her with
amusement sparkling within those handsome eyes, eyes that had been so different
an age or two ago. Merovingian
inhaled from his harmless human vice, blew the smoke from his lips and motioned
Persephone to sit across from him.
His rich, accented voice seemed bored and cold. “Know what, Persephone? What is it that you think you
know?” A grin spread across his
lips as he dared her to shock him.
Still,
Persephone cared nothing about his prideful stance. She was not above her own acts of condescension when it
suited her. The goal here was not
to threaten or impress, merely to gain information. “You changed the Smith program, didn’t you? Why?” She decided against mentioning the Oracle for now. One thing at a time with him or he
would grow too defensive to spill his secrets.
Merovingian’s
grin widened as he took another breath of smoke from his cigarette. “Ah, my sweet. Since when do you meddle in the affairs
of agents, hmm?” He kicked his feet
up on his desk and inhaled deeply, waving his hand apathetically. “Yes, I edited the agent. This is old news, my dear. Really, you should try and keep up if
you’re going to spy on me.”
She
allowed a little smile to cross her pink, full lips. Leaning against the arm of her chair, Persephone watched him
a moment, then sweetly said, “Why would you edit an agent program?”
His
cigarette found the ashtray on his desk quickly and her husband leaned over it,
his blue eyes alight in a dangerous glint. His smile remained fond, however. “Do you ever get tired of saying the same things over and
over? Living for the same purpose
for countless ages?” She knew of
what he spoke, of the path set before them, played out now coming on six
times. She knew of his secret
obsession with cause and effect, that like the changes made to Smith, her
husband was simply growing too unable to function within the same hear and do
parameters as always. Merovingian
saw the understanding within her dark brown eyes and leaned back. “Having fun, my dear. You should try it.”
“If
this affects the path of the One,” Persephone pressed, eager to understand what
he was driving for. “If the
Architect…”
Merovingian’s
face twisted in disgust. “The
Architect? What do I care for
him? He is nothing. Fuck the Architect.”
Persephone
pursed her lips and remained strong under his now irritated glare. So like a human, her husband. So like a child sometimes. She leaned across the desk and smiled
in an attempt cool his anger. “I
am sorry. I was only
curious.” It always worked. Always. Those pretty blue eyes of his that had looked on her in
passion once now looked that way again, but it was not the same. Never the same.
“Think
nothing of it,” he told her, wearing his devastating smile once more as he
reached to cup her cheek. “You
still care about me somewhere inside that cold heart of yours, hmm? Still watching me like a hawk,
precious?”
She
nodded softly and kissed his palm, causing him to smile in nearly surprised
interest. “Always, my love.”
~~~~~~~
Earthy,
serene and very clean kept, just as he had expected. Smith took a step into his apartment and paused without
closing the door behind him. His
briefcase found rest in a comfortable looking cream-colored chair near the
entrance and his newly purchased sunglasses were placed in his jacket pocket as
he examined his surroundings. He
knew where everything would be, knew there was a book waiting by his nightstand
and that his computer was for the greater part unused for anything other than
typing up documents for work.
Matthew Pryce was not a computer person.
“You’re
late, Matt.” Smith inhaled,
searched his new memory files and accessed a catalogue of soft female voices
for a match of the one coming from behind. Deirdre Tait.
He was supposed to have come home after work, freshened up and had
dinner with the woman across the hall.
Pryce was a kind man, quiet and prone to doing things he did not really
want to do because he lacked the ability to firmly state his wishes. He did not like hurting people. This woman was different. Pushy, arrogant and manipulative. “You couldn’t have called?”
Narrowing
his brow, Smith turned and looked her up and down. A beautiful scarlet dress hugged her tanned skin and was
accented nicely by her dark hair and matching lipstick. Her eyes weren’t nearly as agitated as
her voice would lead one to believe.
“I am sorry, Deirdre,” he apologized with blatant insincerity. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to
cancel.”
The
woman pushed herself from her door and crossed the hall, entering without
permission. Smith stood straight
and stared her down with the question of what she thought she was doing,
unwavering in his coolness.
Deirdre ignored it and continued approaching, then reached a hand
towards his person. She
straightened his tie and smiled.
“Dinner’s cold anyway. We
could still talk…or other things.”
Smith
gripped her wrist to prevent it from traveling to his face. Again, he said, “I’m going to have to
cancel, Deirdre.” His tone grew
sharper and he awarded her arm with a suggestive little squeeze.
Instantly
those dark eyes of hers became angry.
“What’s wrong with you, Matt?
Bad day?”
The
exiled agent watched her a moment as she glared, pondering the most effective
means of keeping her away. Being a
human was filled with disadvantages.
Were he an agent he could have just killed her, but now that was not an
option. He would have to
improvise. An idea came to
him. His expression diminished as
he pulled away and wandered to the kitchenette almost haphazardly. When he came to the counter he stopped,
took a breath and met her puzzled face.
“I’ve had a bad day. You
see at the office I work with a dozen or so individuals who are, for the most
part, pleasant and easy to communicate with. But there is one young lady who is not very considerate
towards others. You see, she is
insecure and in denial of that fact even to herself, so she pushes and pushes
and pushes herself into people’s lives, begging for the attention and praise
she thinks will prove her worth, demanding respect instead of earning it.”
A
knife in the sink beckoned his hand and Smith took it, looking down with a
smile. He hated the implications,
but he was not without a sense of fun, especially since the change. His blue eyes slid up to her wary gaze
in an easy-going manner. “What do
you think I should do about this situation?”
Deirdre’s
brow knit as she stepped towards the door. “Fine, Matt.
I’ll come back later,” she huffed, pushing herself through the
threshold.
“Don’t
bother,” he called and was rewarded with the slam of his door. Smith took a breath and tossed the
knife into the sink.
“Humans.” They were so
infantile in their existence, so utterly ridiculous to him. And now he was one—a breathing, feeling
and hungry human being. His
midsection was beginning to signal his brain of discomfort and hollowness,
which caused him to look unconsciously towards the refrigerator. No. He wanted nothing of having to cook. The idea of handling food seemed
repugnant to him. He wanted as
little of that as possible.
Which
made his choice odd, since most humans ate pizza with their fingers, but he
reasoned that it was fast and he could use a fork if he so desired. Matthew Pryce wasn’t much for pizza,
himself. He enjoyed steak,
potatoes and the occasional Chinese.
Yet his junk drawer inevitably held at least one sale paper for
pizza. “No home in America is
complete without one,” he mused unamusedly, taking the paper to his phone in
the living room to dial.
On
the other end of the phone a young girl picked up, took his order promptly and
issued him a 30-minute ETA before hanging up. An efficient human, if they truly did exist. Smith placed the black phone back onto
the charger and turned his attention to the PC nearby. He had every intention of not wasting
time here. The sooner he found Psyche,
the sooner Neo would be dead at his feet.
If he could he would make the rebel suffer in recompense of this
tiresome situation. Oh and how his
thoughts were turned on that event, his future and Anderson’s end. He thirsted for it, lusted for it and
would ultimately die for it.
Pulling
out the gray chair tucked within Pryce’s oak desk Smith sat, booted the
computer and watched as the Dell logo flashed blue onto the screen, then faded
into the operating system startup.
The desktop was simple—a picture of the moon, full and bright—and it was
clean, its icons easily accessed and necessary. He found Matthew Pryce at least somewhat agreeable to live
as. Of course Pryce was nothing as
himself, however, and would be everything now as Smith.
Dial-up
began and as soon as it did he was struck by a new sensation. It started subtly, the neurons firing a
signal that increased as the seconds passed. Smith’s lip curled into annoyance. It became all too apparent, as he tried to put it off, that
inevitably he was going to have to fall victim to one of humanity’s more
intolerable failings. Still, he
would not be human about this. It
was a fact of his misfortunate life and when the internet had connected he
stood up, exited his chair and wandered the familiar path of Pryce’s apartment
to a small blue room in the back.
Pryce liked the sea.
Lifting
the lid Smith exhaled his irritation, unzipped and stood for a moment,
uncertain as to how to begin this process. Oh sure, programs had access to how humans functioned. He knew what was going on down there
and knew what had to happen. But
the feeling, the start he had taken for granted—as all programs did—and had to
search through the memory of his unfortunate vessel until he accessed the
appropriate thought patterns and muscle reactions that would trigger his body
to respond.
And
when it happened finally the exile narrowed his brow, living the sensations in
a way Matthew had never taken the time to understand. It was both easier and harder to drive this body. Fundamentally different from how he
operated as software, yet not so dissimilar to how hardware functioned. It was the difference between riding a
bicycle and driving a car and instinct interacted differently with his
executions than it did a human body built to understand the information.
When
it stopped Smith was grateful. He
took the necessary steps, zipped up and stepped away, catching his reflection
in the mirror as his hand hit the light switch. But he did not make it from the bathroom right away. He paused a moment, suddenly interested
in his new appearance. His hair
was as dark as a raven and his eyes were like rain, clear and gray. Pryce did not consider himself as
attractive as women seemed to and Smith had no opinion on it at all. He could see imperfections in the color
of his irises, little flecks of stormy blue that interrupted the evenness of
the gray. Smile lines hugged his
lips, but not in an unattractive way.
So like his appearance, yet different. And human. That
was one fact he could not let go, would never let go of his resent for. Human.
When
his mirror shattered and tiny rivers of blood broke out across his hand, Smith
finally turned the light off and exited the bathroom.
~~~~~~~
Author: Ruse – jedinineofnine@hotmail.com
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