Mimic
Invitation to the Real World

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?

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There was but one source of illumination giving the room some sense of life and even that was slim.  Shadows wrapped around corners and caressed long fingers down the walls in reflection of various things catching the light bleeding off the monitor.  It was a cold light, sickly and green from a desktop image too dark to offer much vision to the corners of the room.  Not that he cared.  He was not human enough to require the comfort of having a light on unnecessarily.  Exile Smith sat with his back against the chair, his brows knit and beneath those were two gray eyes that were closing of their own volition.

He was not above sleeping.

She had not two minutes ago said she would be right back and he waited with transcendent patience, for his goal was within sight.  Smith looked beyond the little message screen bearing their names, his eyes fixated upon a picture of Anderson he had found while looking for information on the rebels.  It was a shot taken by human police during a chase after Neo and his little band of merry men had been caught in a warehouse, hacking into a government file.  These little shows were necessary, Smith had reasoned, so that other hackers out there unaware of their own reality would know who to turn to, who to look for to quell their curiosities.

In the photo Neo was running away, but had stopped a split second to turn—presumably watching out for his friends—and the perfect pose had been captured, cropped and posted to all the usual places—post office, newspapers, internet wanted lists.  His brown eyes were set slightly wide, almost in fear and Smith liked to imagine Anderson was watching his beloved Trinity die by the exile’s own hands.  Smith could almost feel her neck within the grasp of his hands, now that he understood warmth so well.  He could feel the softness of velvety skin, the shiver of a swallow and the force of a struggle.  Then it would be all over.  With a crack she would be gone, one less rebel to prolong his endless task.  Anderson would stop, would turn and look at her lying there almost just like this picture.  And then he would fall.

There was a small indicative ring which called his attention away from his dark thoughts.  His key to Zion had returned from wherever it was she had stolen away to.  He wondered, then, if she were sitting upon some ship in the Real World speaking or ‘jacked in’ as they liked to put it.  This rebel called herself Psyche and at first had seemed a bit standoffish until he had hinted at suspecting the Matrix.  He had even gone so far as to theorize the government might be running experiments upon the citizens of America, altering their brain patterns to hide certain truths about their country—that he wasn’t sure, but knew something was wrong with the world.  After that comment she had been quiet, then asked a simple question.  Have you ever heard of the Matrix?

He called himself Mimic, a title he thought appropriate even if he thought these overdramatic handles were pointless.  Mimic had gone on to say he had heard the term and read something about a ‘mind simulation’ but that he had not understood the whole story behind it and was curious to know more.  Three days ago that had been and since then she was online every night, talking to him about seemingly random things, skirting around the issue of the Matrix so she could feel him out he imagined.  He did not push her too much, but was certain to hint at his curiosity enough to keep her questioning whether or not she should tell him the truth.

Tonight things were different.  Tonight there was no random chatter, no talk of the weather or health or politics.  She was finally ready to tell him those things never really mattered, proven by what she had just typed to him.  Would you like to meet?

A small smile curved Smith’s lips as he gazed at her words written in a red font.  An odd color, he thought.  Red like blood.  I must admit I have been eager to meet you, Psyche.  Our chats have piqued my interest in this ‘Matrix’ you speak of.  Will you now tell me what it is you have been hiding?

There was a pause then, as if she were still considering whether or not she should.  Perhaps she was conferring with another rebel or taking a sip of coffee.  But she did not remain away for long.  Her choice had been made.  I think you’re ready to know.  You may be in danger if we go through with this.  You aren’t usually the type my people talk to.

What type of people do you talk to, then?  I am not worried over danger, he replied, waiting for an insight into why they chose who they chose.  The Mainframe calculated the choice was likely derived from various factors including age, awareness of the Matrix and general technological understanding.

Her response was typical of her enigmatic façade.  It’s not important.  I’m warning you, Mimic.  What I may choose to tell you tonight will change everything you think you know.  If you really want to do this then go to the corner of 5^th and Oak around midnight.  Wait there.

A seemingly innocuous place to go.  It was a few blocks away with a little camera shop at the corner.  Not a place usually populated in the dark hours of night.  Smith shot a look at the corner of the monitor and saw it was 11:43.  That would give him just enough time to get there.  All right, he typed and sent, with the intent to type more, but she logged off quite immediately.  Smith grunted his assessment of that and closed the chat window down, leaving a newspaper clip of Morpheus on the screen and that image of Anderson he was so fond of.  How different things would have been had he obtained those codes instead of letting their captain slip threw his fingers.  If only he had at least killed the wretched human in retribution!

As he pushed back his chair the intense silence of the room was suddenly violated by a loud knock upon his front door.  Smith looked again at the time and cursed, then raised his voice, saying, “I warn you, Deirdre, I am in no mood.  Leave my door or suffer the consequences.”  On and off she had returned, throwing herself at him with crass charm and low cleavage.  Each time he allowed his disgust to show and yet she returned.  How paradoxical humans could be, and utterly stupid.

But it was not his night stalker that called.  The voice that called back was familiar and laden with concern.  “Yo, Pryce!  It’s me.  Tony.  Open up, will ya?”

Smith grit his teeth in irritation, but showed no other signs as he stepped from his desk and came to the door.  He unbolted the latch and opened the door to Antonio Capella, his friend and co-worker.  He had curly black hair, warm brown eyes and tanned skin.  His head was tilted and his face was both troubled and a little miffed when he noticed the cold stare that came back from what should have been a friendly welcome.  “Tony,” Smith said in a curt tone, standing defensively before the door to his apartment.

Tony looked beyond him into the dark room, knit his brow and met Smith’s gaze.  “Geez, what’s up with you, Pryce?  Haven’t seen you at work, you haven’t picked up or answered any of our calls.  You’re fired you know?  I didn’t think I’d find you dead, but it looks like a tomb in there.  What’s happened to you?”

“A realization,” Smith replied, urging Tony back as he exited the apartment and closed the door behind him.  “Now if you will excuse me.”

Tony put a hand on his shoulder.  He was a man of larger build than Matthew Pryce and if it came to a struggle, Smith would lose the time he needed to get to 5^th and Oak.  “Whoa, don’t you blow me off like that.  We were tight as brothers and you’re acting like I’m some stranger?  This isn’t you.”

Gripping the other man’s wrist tightly and shoving his hand off his shoulder, the exile let the full depth of his coldness bleed through his gray eyes and dark tone.  Unblinking, he moved his gaze between Capella’s hard, glassy eyes.  “You’re right.  It isn’t me.  I have somewhere to go.”

“Are you doing drugs?”  It was a typically human question, perfectly logical for the times in which they lived.

Yet Smith could not refrain from laughing.  It was a soft laugh, amusement sharpened to a dangerous edge as he turned away and left without saying another word.  If he did not in any way conceive of the possibility that he was being watched by those outside the Matrix, he would have gladly killed his friend right there in so-called cold blood, but he knew better.  He would save the fun for he who mattered most.

His keen ears caught the sound of the doorknob of this apartment being twisted, the small creak of the door behind swung open.  He didn’t care.  Let Capella look at his computer.  Let him see the truth for himself.  If he waited for Pryce to return, Smith had a feeling he would be waiting a long time.  Tonight he planned on seeing for himself what drove these humans to their foolish mission of freeing minds.  He would see just what it was that made the outside world so desirable versus having all one’s desires at the mere distance of a fingertip.

So he left with that in mind, his driving purpose carefully concealed from the outside appearance.  To Psyche he would be the very picture of what he thought a rebel might be.  No, he did not believe they were all ruthless junkies that burned underwear in protest of authority.  No, he did not believe they were all depressed individuals with no life other than that which the net and the possibility of another reality could provide.  From his studies he quite honestly viewed a number of them as highly intelligent individuals—hackers, for the greater part, but not all of them despised the government, pop music and the mask portrayed by the mask—the Matrix that is superficiality opposing truth.

The picture he would portray would be that of a typical male of his age and persuasion.  He would be receptive, if somewhat skeptical.  Not overly eager, yet not willing to let them go without being led out of the Matrix.  As he left the apartment building and took to the night, Smith reasoned and calculated based upon all available data how he thought he should act, what things he believed he should say.  He forgot one thing up until actually meeting the humans he so sought after.

The street life was abuzz this Saturday night.  Cars could be heard in the distance and various eating establishments were open for business.  A soft wind dragged a piece of crumpled paper past his feet and the scent of drinking and dance.  Smith brushed a stray piece of raven-colored hair from his face, watching as it floated by.  Could the real world be any different?  You could give a human paradise, but could he ever treat it as such?  The ex-Agent looked at the orange, street-lit sidewalk stretching before him.  He did not believe humans capable of that.

Smith crossed several streets before coming to 5^th and Oak just a few minutes before midnight.  His programming negated the need for a watch, fortunately, but even if he were late he had a feeling the humans would show up late as most do.  There was a certain drama, after all, in knowing you controlled someone else’s time and therefore controlled their attention, for if you are late, do they not wonder where you are?  The exile grunted, leaned against the cold concrete wall of the camera shop and crossed his arms.  These people knew how to hold attention.  She had said and done all the things most humans would fall for and become ensnared by after testing him to see if he was what they wanted.  All for their foolish cause—freedom.  Did they not realize that they were trapping themselves in yet another prison?  One of poverty, war and strife?

The moments ticked away and he waited until about ten after midnight, when a dark blue car with black-tinted windows pulled up.  An electronic hum accompanied the lowering of a window and there in the driver’s seat was a human male of about 30 years.  “You Mimic?” he asked gruffly.

Smith pushed himself from the building, wearing knit brows and a small smile.  “And if I am?”

The human threw his thumb towards the backseat of the vehicle.  Indulging drama, the Agent said nothing and got in.  When he sat down, he realized he may have made an error in not wearing sunglasses.  The woman in the backseat with him—Psyche by her description of dark eyes, tan skin and dark hair—removed her sunglasses and widened her eyes when she saw him, but seemed to pause and consider.  She gasped and in an instant there were two guns on him from the front.  “What is it, Psyche?” the driver asked, eyeing Smith with the utmost of caution and dislike.

She did not reply right away, merely studied him as if she had seen him before, and Smith tensed.  So she recognized him.  He would have to abandon this mission.  And yet…  “Nothing,” the woman finally said, shaking her head.  Those eyes of hers had made the decision that perhaps she had not seen him before after all, or that even if she knew his face, it could not be who she thought it was.  “You looked familiar, but I couldn’t place where I’ve seen you before.”

The exile relaxed his guard only slightly.  “I couldn’t say.  Do you live around here?”  Of course she didn’t.

“Maybe that’s it,” Psyche replied, her eyes covering perhaps another thought.  She made no mention of it, however and that fact threatened him.  “So you are Mimic.  Strange name.  Where did you come by it?”

His answer was flawlessly schooled.  “My friend gave it to me when I first took an interest in computers.  I was not the quickest study on codes, so he teased me, saying I was not a true hacker.  Only mimicking one.”  He flashed her a soft, almost embarrassed smile.  “I suppose the name stuck.”

“This friend, he was a hacker?”  Smith nodded and she continued in her deep voice, curious caution bleeding off her inflections.  “What was his name?  Perhaps I knew him.”

The exile cocked his head, wearing that smile again.  “He called himself AJ.  My friends and I claimed it stood for ‘abnormal joke’ as he was ever fond of telling and we were ever fond of accusing him of being.”

She tilted her red-painted lips up slightly, commenting, “Nice friends.”  Her dark shades quickly found her nose once more and the car began rolling.  “You’re a different one, Mimic.  Not usually the type I look for.”

“Really?” Smith asked, turning his gaze towards the back of the seat before him.  Another human male was seated, red hair giving Smith the only clue as to what he might look like.  “What a shame.”  He gave her a grin that went unanswered.  Humans were truly strange.  His window was unfortunately too dark to look out.

“Still,” Psyche continued on, “You know a lot.  You don’t seem too easily surprised, therefore I believe you may be able to handle the truth that I offer.  And…”  Now it was she who smiled, he who declined to return the expression.  “I like you.”

The ex-Agent cocked an eyebrow.  “Indeed?”  She nodded without modesty, without hint that those feelings were anything but the mere interest a person might have in a stray animal.  “So what is this shocking truth you offer?”

There was no speech, no preparation, no waiting for him to understand the possibilities before the revelation.  “The real world.”

~~~~~~~

Author:  Ruse – jedinineofnine@hotmail.com
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