Mimic
Control

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?

~~~~~~~

When Agent Smith opened his eyes, he did not see correctly.  They had given him the red pill, talked him through a rather uncomfortable situation during which their operator attempted to local Pryce’s body and with a sudden, parting smile from the female captain he had accepted the choice from, he had been plunged into madness.  It had all happened at a rapid rate.  Dim images came to his thoughts in his first few minutes of awareness.  He could see glass pods filled with pink liquid, a large machine stopping its task to investigate his awakening and then everything went black from there.  He had a vague sensation of being pulled down, down and down until he gave in to the current and accepted his fate.

His fate, he had thought, would be to terminate.  The human vessel had failed the task and he had been flushed out of the system, Matthew Pryce had become garbage to be recycled and swept back into the great circle as food to perpetuate the maintaining of his ungrateful race.  This had not been his fate, however, apparently.

Smith had never quite felt like this before.  He had seen it often enough, the battered and weary state of a human who had just suffered interrogation.  Morpheus had looked such a way once upon a time and he had, admittedly, taken a degree of pleasure in seeing it, never bothering to wonder how it really and truly felt.  Now he knew and there was no pleasure in it.  Lacking the experience, he lacked the language to describe it except to say he had experienced something less terrible than this, yet similar, one morning when Deirdre had disturbed him from a dream one morning.  Of course this made him considerably more irritated, but unfortunately he did not have the luxury of awarding those responsible with a threat as he had then.

His eyes were having trouble focusing.  It seemed very strange to him, to have one’s vision change.  As an agent he had been programmed with an exact resolution and color depth at which he would process data and that figure never changed.  This was intolerable.  The darkness kept back most of the information of this world he could be analyzing and studying.  Somewhere inside Matthew Pryce’s instincts called for him to raise his hand over his vision to block the light coming from an overhead lamp nearby.  Yet his arm failed to comply.

He was too weak to move, to do anything except lay there and that troubled Smith to a fundamental degree inside.  It was like a glitch, only perpetual.  When something changed in the Matrix all was stopped for the barest of seconds.  Agents simply ceased to function, halting whatever actions they were performing for that tiny fraction of time.  They even ceased to think.  This was like that, being frozen, but different in that he could go on mentally.  He could see, could choose, could rage inside and yet do little to express that.  Questions raced through his thoughts.  What was this?  Had something gone wrong?  How long would this last?

After a moment of futile emotion he realized his sensory perception was tracking other things than just his inability to see or move.  He could hear things, quiet things being moved and set down, the steady beep of a monitor.  Through dry lips, with tightened fists Agent Smith hissed, “Where am I?” into the dim.

A breath hit the air that was not his own.  Steps identified to him that he had not been left unattended.  When a dark-haired, dark-eyed young man came into view above him, his first impulse was to take hold of his throat and demand answers.  He would have had he the strength.  Looking down, the boy skimmed along him before meeting his eyes.  “You’re awake,” he said cheerfully and Smith was tempted to revile him for such an obvious statement.  “Good.  Good.  I’m Steel.”

Licking his mouth as the boy left him to view a monitor, Smith made no attempt to hide his ire as he breathed raggedly, “Steel.  Would you mind telling me where the hell I am, Steel?”  He assumed his whereabouts and despised having to pretend just now.  He wanted this pathetic state of weakness to end.

The youth laughed as he reclaimed his place at Smith’s side.  “You’re cranky,” he observed in an offhand way.  “They’re always cranky when they first wake up.  I can imagine why, though I wouldn’t know personally.”  He held up his arm and Smith saw it naked of ports.

The former agent grunted, grateful his eyes were beginning to show a slight improvement.  “I would be glad to remedy that for you.”  He grunted dryly, watching a smile grace the boy’s features.  The medic spoke with a soft British accent, seemed generally intelligent and was difficult to ruffle.  Steel only grinned, then there was a distinct pinching sensation on his thigh that caused Smith to glare.

The boy help up a long, thin needle attached to a wire.  “You have quite a few of these that need to come out, Mimic.  It won’t be the most pleasant thing in the world, but at least it will be taking place just there.  In the world, the real world.”  He pulled out another, looking to his patient’s face when he groaned.  “Do you remember what Psyche told you?”

“I remember,” Smith answered testily, shifting his gaze to the ceiling.  He had known there would be inconvenience upon awakening, any knowledge of medicine would conclude the body making a rough transition between zero functionality to use, but he had not expected such vivid sensations and emotions.  It was bothersome, how out of control his anger seemed.  He began to try and bring it down by force of will.  “Where is she?”

Steel began to remove the needles a couple at a time.  “Sleeping.  Not for long, though.  She always asks that I awaken her when the newbies get up.  She’ll want to talk to you if you’re able.”

The simple act of controlling his irritation wore Smith out.  He did not enjoy this reality and could not imagine why humans would want to inflict this upon their fellow man.  Too tired to keep everything in check, he gave in to his impulses and closed his eyes.  “I would like to talk to her as well.”

“Yes, I imagine you would.”  Smith reopened his eyes to view the human again.  Nodding, Steel retreated to a panel at the side of the room, hit a button and waited.

Long moments passed before a sleepy feminine voice replied, “Is he awake?”

“Yeah,” Steel answered softly, watching the former agent from across the way.  “He wants to talk to you, of course.”

She said only one more thing before the comm. went dead.  “I’m on my way.”

Again Smith closed his eyes.  He did not desire further communication with his young caregiver just now, so he opted—somewhat bitterly—to conserve his pale strength for the captain of this vessel.  He did not even realize he had fallen asleep until voices stirred him back into unfortunate awareness.  Smith slowly accepted the onslaught of feeling, remaining still as he allowed their words to filter into his consciousness.  It was Psyche, speaking in a hushed voice with Steel.  “It seems we have so little time.  Do you think I did the right thing?”

“Does it matter what I think?” the soft-spoken medic replied.  That obviously did not sit well with his captain, for his next words were, “I’m sorry.  I know I’ve never experienced this, so I do not know, but they suggest age limits for a reason.”

“I have my own reasons for bringing him here,” Psyche replied firmly.  There was a moment of silence between them that Smith did not interrupt.  Often learning did not come from asking, but from observing.

The next bit of information he took in was interesting.  “You never did say what happened at the conclave.  What did the other captains have to say?”

Psyche exhaled.  Smith heard one of them move a few steps as if pacing.  “We’re to follow orders and return to Zion, but Morpheus asked someone to remain behind in case the Oracle tried to make contact.”

“Of course,” Steel said derisively.  “Did he ask you?”

“No, no.  Ballard offered.”  She laughed lightly, sounding closer.  “Niobe had something rather disturbing to say, though.  There’s going to be an attack very soon.  A major attack, Steel.  Morpheus thinks the end is near.”

Grunting, Steel breathed, “Maybe it is.  That doesn’t make Neo a god.  What do you think would happen if we came to the council, proclaiming Mimic was the One?”  Inwardly, Smith smiled at the idea.  Of course it was merely a jest, but it was an interesting, entertaining notion.  It occurred to him then that he had not fully tested Matthew Pryce’s abilities in the Matrix, having assumed he was no different than any other human.

“He can do some amazing things,” Psyche mused, winning a disgusted groan from her companion.  “He knew agents were there.”  What was it, Smith wondered, that ultimately made Neo so special?  He certainly did not believe it was something so mystical as divinity.

“So I have heard,” the male commented dryly, adding, “Let him fly around the real world, though.  Then I’ll consider what his captain claims.”  Footsteps trailed to where Smith lay and he got the impression of someone standing above him.  A hand rested against his shoulder, shaking gently.  “Mimic, wake up.  We gave you another hour.”

It was an effort.  Slowly bringing his eyelids separate, Agent Smith peered into two faces above him.  Captain Psyche was not nearly as impressive in appearance as she was in the Matrix.  She wore no leather, no sunglasses.  Her hair that had been stylishly kept was held back in a ponytail.  Her lips were not painted red and her eyes appeared shadowed and tired.  Yet she smiled as if it did not matter.  “Hello, Mimic.  How do you feel?”

Agent Smith gave her an honest look, flashing contempt within his gray eyes.  “Like I have been dragged through a long, wet tube to my death, too weak to fight back or save myself.  And you?”

She laughed at this irritability as if it was some endearing quality and he frowned darkly at the inanity of humans.  Her hand rested against his forehead and he could do nothing to remove it.  “I know.  You must be wondering where you are, what I’ve done to you.  I can answer your questions, but you may not truly understand until I show you.  Unfortunately I don’t have time to show you everything.  But I can try.  What would you like to know?”

His first question was of a selfish nature, rather than designed to continue his masquerade as an ignorant.  “When will I be able to move?”

Rolling his dark eyes, the medic intoned smartly, “2.25 hours,” winning a small slap from is captain.

“Shut up, Steel,” she commanded, pushing him away.  “You’ll get used to him.  He’s annoying.”  The look she shot over the bed as Steel checked through his scans suggested their banter was not vicious, but rather more of a type of foreplay, a thing Smith considered pointless and distasteful.  “I don’t know, Mimic.  That all depends on you, I imagine.  How quickly you heal.”

“You should be okay by morning,” Steel added a little more conclusively, turning around.  “Enjoy the rest while you have it, because I have a feeling when you show the least little bit of strength dear Psyche here will have you working like an animal until we get to Zion.”

Attempting to sit and with almost immediate regret, Smith let go and accepted temporary defeat.  “Zion?” he pressed impatiently.

Psyche and Steel exchanged glances, then she gave his shoulder a pet.  “Maybe this should wait.”

The former agent drew his strength from his desire to have this over with, gripping her wrist before she could step away.  She looked down and he saw a flicker of surprise, which awakened in him the old stirrings of the hunt and kill.  He tightened his grasp as it mixed with human excitability, then remembered himself when she met his intense gaze with wide eyes.  Letting go, unsatisfied and tired, Smith reigned in his desires in favor of the mission.  Within he knew he should not be having such trouble, but he could not examine himself now.  He had to go on.  “Please tell me,” he implored, averting his gaze.  He searched himself for some pitiable human phrases that would make her more apt to speak.  “I have nothing, do I?  No home?  No life?”

The captain bit her bottom lip and relented with a soft _expression, laying her hand on his shoulder again.  “You have a home.  You have a life.  It’s just a little different.  That’s all.”  Her dark eyes seemed to drink him in with that same exploratory interest she had back in the car.  “What you choose to do with what I have given you is up to you.  Try to let go of who you were before.  Get some sleep.”

She stepped away from him then and he chose to chance another question out of morbid interest.  “Who is Neo?”

Psyche stopped and turned around with a mild look.  Instead of her, it was Steel that spoke, muttering something about a ‘nut job’.  She rolled her eyes patiently, then offered Smith a smile.  “Don’t worry about it now.  In the morning I’ll come back and we’ll talk.”

~~~~~~~

Author:  Ruse – jedinineofnine@hotmail.com
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