Agent Charles Arthur "Art" Weaver is an ordinary FBI agent who also happens
to be a covert Resistance Fighter as well as a bit psychic. In "1998" his
life is once more turned upside down when he is assigned to help
investigate the assault on the Government building and meets the Agents for
the second time in his life; the first time was after he had taken the blue
pill.
It's Weaver, -er, -ER, not -ING, and most definitely not -SLEY! AAAGH! And besides, he looks like Guy Pierce. No, I take that back: he looks like Hugh Jackman in "Van Helsing." No, more like Colin Farrel in "straight arrow" mode. Actually he looks like a grownup manga Harry Potter or Sirius Black. Nope, actually, he looks like grown up detective Ken whatsis name from Digimon season 2. Aw what the heck... you'd never mistake him for a Matrix Agent, that's for sure (actually, if you did he'd probably punch you).
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It was a cold Tuesday evening in the City. FBI agent Charles Arthur "Art" Weaver made his way to the ruined Christopher O.R. Evener Government building, which amazingly was still standing in spite of the bomb that had ripped through it some hours before. He greeted the cops who were guarding the door, went inside and was immediately hit by a wave of nausea.
Weaver had only been inside the building a few times during his career and he hated that place. It wasn't that he'd had any unpleasant experiences within the building (that he could recall), it was the sickening "feeling" he got the moment he stepped inside the lobby, a "feeling" that would intensify with each floor. Whenever he was asked about the slight grimace on his face he would always reply "A headache, that's all," but it was something much worse: he had felt as though his mind was being unraveled, being picked through by an unseen force. After the third visit he had vowed never to go there again, and if he absolutely had to for some business he'd try to send an intern, preferably one who annoyed him. Such was the burden of having trace psychic powers, but still it was disturbing and even painful for him. It was with some satisfaction that he heard one cop remark to his partner that they would probably have to tear the whole building down.
Flashback, about thirteen years ago: "Are you sure you want to do this? It would mean that we can never return for you, and you would be at risk for being taken over by Agents."
Morpheus spoke in his most soothing, concerned voice to the young man who sat before him. The man, named Charles but nicknamed Art, had chosen to take the blue pill and remain in the Matrix. It had not been a selfish decision but one guided by logic: he was 20, and he felt that he was too old and probably too attached to the material world to be of any real use to the Resistance. No real use unplugged anyway.
"If I stay here I can be of better help."
"How?"
"I can. I can sabotage things from the inside."
A shadow of worry passed over Morpheus' face. Art was an intern in the FBI and was planning on becoming an agent. Yes, there were plugged-ins who had volunteered to take such a risk, but very few of them had lived more then a week after revealing their decision.
"Is that your ultimate choice, Art?" Morpheus' piercing gaze searched Art's face.
"Yes."
With great reluctance, Morpheus handed Art the blue pill. "You will remember this meeting. I can sense you are special, and I think you know it too. You may yet survive.." Art gulped down the pill with a glass of water and was immediately unconscious. When he came to he was back in his own apartment, memory intact. Right then he made a vow: he would aid the Resistance and the human race in anyway he could, even if it meant his life. or his mind.
The present day: "Horrible, just horrible what they did to these guys." Callie Walker, a young crime scene investigator (CSI), glanced around at the charred bodies of the guards and SWAT units as they were swathed in sheets and placed into body bags. "At least they were dead before the bomb went off, that's one thing." Agent Weaver nodded his assent, and they moved outside (the nausea immediately left Weaver) and onto a hydraulic scaffold where they would be taken up to the window where the two terrorists had gone to rescue their leader.
"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," he thought to himself, something he'd learned during the course of his FBI training. Naturally he sided with the "terrorists;" they were working to free the world and they had everything going against them, including the government he worked for. It had been most fortunate that during his thirteen years with the Bureau he had never had to come into close contact with the members of the Resistance; though they knew who he was and what he was doing, he would have had to shoot them in order not to blow his cover.
He had been fortunate. His little bag of luck had not run out just yet; throughout the years he worked and trained at the FBI, documents about certain hackers and important terrorists would mysteriously "vanish" and were never found again or crews of Rebels would be able to escape due to a well timed explosion, and all the while not one iota of suspicion befell him. Yes, he had been lucky, and he was in constant awareness that one day his luck might run out..
"We're here," said Callie, breaking Weaver's reverie. They stepped off the scaffold into the shot-blasted room, still flooded with an inch of water from the fire sprinklers. As soon as his foot came into contact with the carpet a tidal wave of nausea struck Weaver once more and he flinched as though he had been hit. "Is something wrong, Agent Weaver?" asked Callie, concerned that a piece of glass might have stabbed him in the foot. "N-no, nothing, I have a headache. It, er, (cough), there's stuff in the air, I think." Callie stared at him for a moment, decided he was fine and that there may have been some dust in the air, and then began describing the scene and how the two terrorists had gotten from the lobby to the roof to the helicopter to the room. Weaver barely heard a word, for he was staggering towards the gaping hole that was once a window, trying to look as nonchalant as possible and not pass out.
Flashback: About a week after his meeting with the young Resistance leader Morpheus, Art Weaver was walking back to his office after a coffee run to Starbucks when a man stopped him on the street. While he certainly looked the part, the man was certainly not a fellow FBI agent, nor a CIA agent, or even a "Black-ops" agent; he seemed to be someone who was associated with a higher intelligence. Indeed, if not for his olive drab suit this particular individual could have been called a "Man in Black," someone specializing in intimidation, disturbing secrets, and mass deception.
"Your name is Charles Arthur Weaver?" the man asked him. There was something a little "off" about his appearance; if the Agent had been a statue he'd have been sculpted by someone who had only observed humans at dusk. Or in morgues.
"Yes sir, do you need anything?" Though Art knew a thing or two about the furtive "MIB" Agents, he was still very naïve.
"Come with us." At once, two other Agents appeared and roughly "escorted" him to a black sedan, where they drove off to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Art's Frappuchinos lay splattered on the pavement, forgotten and melting.
Present day: The keening, insectile "noise" was slicing through his brain like an army of minute ninjas armed with all manner of sharp objects, eager to break into his mind. The flooded room was used for interrogations; the "psychic residue" of the suffering inflicted upon the unfortunate Resistance Fighters captured here was tormenting Weaver to no end. He wanted nothing more then to escape this room, dash out the window and take the scaffold to the ground and run, but he couldn't; Callie Walker was still prattling on with what she figured was vital information to help with the investigation. ". and I believe we know who the two 'rescuers' are: the man's name is Thomas Akira Anderson, alias 'Neo,' and the woman is Celeste Mirabelle Huntington alias 'Trinity'; huh, with a name like that I'm not surprised she changed hers. Astounding, you'd never expect this from a pair of hackers."
Weaver, who was trying (and failing) to look nonchalant by leaning against the wall next to the shattered window gagged a little and then said "Hackers? You mean they were computer geeks?" Callie grinned a little. "In a sense; from what I've heard from Intelligence they're the best 'geeks' in the whole country; if the world was 'Vice City' they'd be mob bosses with access to all the cheat codes." "Interesting, uh, analogy, Miss Walker. How do you suppose." Weaver's voice trailed off as the door to the room opened and a man dressed all in black entered.
Flashback: Art sat silently in the cramped interrogation cell ("room" was simply too kind a word to describe it). He had been waiting in there for about three-quarters of an hour with nothing to do but stare at the camera which whirred quietly in a corner of the ceiling, or the darkly reflecting two-way mirror on the opposite wall. For the last ten minutes he had been meditating, appearing to nap while reaching out with his mind to find any information he could. All he got in return for his mental grasping was a vision of a strangely blurry black and sparkly green void and a vague sensation of pain.
This was not good.
At last something happened: the door to the cell opened and a man entered. Art recognized the man as one of the two other Agents who had accosted him earlier. The Agent was carrying a fat file marked "Jonathan Emmanuel Mitchellson, alias Morpheus" and a much thinner file marked "Charles Arthur Weaver."
Definitely not good.
Present day: "Hey Art, you're needed downstairs." Max Silvers, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation (and fellow covert Resistance Fighter), entered the room greeted his friend and nodded politely to Callie Walker. Weaver nodded to his friend and superior and politely but hastily got onto the scaffold and descended to the pavement as quickly as was safely possible. "Man, I'm starting to flip out," he thought to himself as the scaffold swiftly met the sidewalk below. Something in the back of his mind was telling him that this was it; something, he wasn't sure what, was starting to happen. Maybe "Neo" was the "One," the savior of the human race that he had heard about in rumors. Perhaps the end of the Matrix was upon them!
The soft thud of the scaffold stopping broke Weaver's train of thought, and he went to the entrance to find the person who wanted to speak to him. He asked around, but none of the cops or other agents could give him any information; more then a few of them looked at him strangely as if he had asked something nonsensical. Confused and annoyed but in no hurry to reenter the building, he remained outside and watched as the last ambulance took the bodies of two SWAT members to the City morgue. He leaned against a lamppost and was just about to relax for a moment when he heard a voice behind him: "Mr. Weaver, I need to speak to you. Now."
Weaver grimaced as he turned around and faced the person behind him; he'd heard that voice before. It took all he had not to punch the speaker's lights out.
Flashback: "Mr. Weaver, my name is Agent Brown and this is a matter of urgency." Art stared; all precepts of decorum were forgotten, mainly due to being forced to wait in a room for almost an hour and the fact that the Agent in front of him looked barely older then he did. "'Agent' Brown? Sir, if you wish to make me comfortable enough to aid this interview you would've told me your first name as well and leave off the 'Agent' part." He was not going to be intimidated by a piece of software, especially one who took part in the deaths of uncountable Rebels.
Agent Brown did not react. It was atypical for Matrix Agents to have to interrogate human government agents (they usually answered their inquires without hesitation) but on rare occasions the subjects could be just as obstinate as Rebels. "First of all Mr. Weaver, I am your superior and you shall address me as such. Second, we will be needing your help. We have been informed that you have been in contact with a man who calls himself 'Morpheus.' We were hoping that if this information were true, you could be of help capturing him. This is his file -" Agent Brown nodded to the thick file he had placed on the table "as an employee of the FBI you are granted access to it. You will notice that he has been responsible for the deaths of a number of agents, law enforcement, and military personnel."
Art glanced at Morpheus' file and then at his own. He had as yet nothing to hide (aside from his two little "meetings") and he was an excellent liar. When you know what cues to look for when a person is lying, you get pretty good at avoiding them. Having a strong psychic barrier for your mind helps too.
Present day: "What do you want? I thought you were through with me after that little 'meeting' thirteen years ago." Weaver's aggravated countenance would have intimidated other men, but the man in front of him was not quite human; one mark of that was the fact that the Agent had not aged at all since the said "meeting."
Agent Brown stepped back, a bit surprised that Weaver even remembered him and shocked that he had dared to address him in such a manner. "Y-you remember me? But that is impossible!" Now it was Weaver's turn to be a bit shocked. Was that fear in the Agent's voice? Matrix Agents don't express fear; anger, aggravation, and most undeniably superiority, yes, but most certainly not fear. Weaver sized up his opponent. He knew fighting was out of the picture, as was running and shooting, so for the time being they would talk. It was about then that Weaver noticed something about Agent Brown's appearance apart from his fear: he looked as though he'd been running, not as a hunter but as prey. Perhaps this was another sign that "something is beginning." A moment later he also noticed something else about his former interrogator: the Agent's ubiquitous earpiece no longer snaked out of his collar but was being clutched weakly in his fist. Agent Brown was no longer connected to the Agents' hive mind and was now on the run from deletion.
Flashback: Art Weaver looked Agent Brown straight in the eye as best he could since the Agent was wearing dark sunglasses and spoke with an unflinching tone. "Agent Brown, sir, I must confess that I have met this 'Morpheus' but it was only in the merest nature. He was in a café that I was eating at and I overheard him talking to an associate over his cell phone. It was not until I got home that evening that I realized who he was. That is the extent of any contact I've ever had with this 'Morpheus.'" This was true; he had first met Morpheus at a café but it had been Art he had been talking to over the cell phone.
The Agents in the room behind the dark mirror were scanning Art thoroughly, but could find nothing to incriminate him or Morpheus. Agent Smith remarked to his colleagues Agent Jones and Agent Black whether it would be wise and practical to go on. Agent Black sent a stream of information over his earpiece to the Source; a moment later they got their answer.
A few seconds later Art was back on the street walking back to his office, Frappuchinos in hand as though they'd always been there. As he looked ahead, he swore that he could see a man in the back of a black sedan glaring at him before it turned the corner and disappeared. Had he been younger Art would've returned the glare by sticking his tongue out and going "Nyaaah!" but as it was he could only pretend he didn't remember anything and keep walking. "'Agent' Brown. Feh. Agents are supposed to protect people, not kill and manipulate them, at least not without a good cause," he thought as he returned to his office and went immediately to the bathroom to make sure he had not been bugged. Using a small penknife he quickly sliced the implant out of his leg and returned to work, "accidentally" whacking his leg against a table and walking with a limp for several weeks.
Present day: When he wasn't acting conceited, Agent Brown could be a pleasant person, but since he had been permanently set on "conceited" he was at the most semi-tolerable while he explained to Agent Weaver what had happened after the helicopter had departed with Neo and Morpheus dangling underneath it like a pair of daredevil spiders. Weaver absorbed it all without comment, but mentally he was wildly dancing in celebration: "So it is true! The end is indeed nigh!"
"So let me go over this one more time," said Weaver as he offered Agent Brown a cup of coffee (which he politely declined) from a nearby snack table set up by the CSIs. "Neo was dead, shot eight times in the chest at pointblank range. Then, as the three of you were about to leave he got back up again. You and your two partners shot at him from down the hall and he stopped your bullets in midair like a Jedi -" "A what?" "- Um, never mind. Agent. you said his name was Smith? Smith gets pissed and goes after Neo by himself. Neo blocks his punches with one hand and then kicks him across the hall, then dives into him and blows him up." It took all of Weaver's willpower to keep from smirking as he said the next part: "And then you and Agent Jones ran off" ("like a pair of cowards," he wanted to add) "when Neo reappeared with his wounds healed and he 'flexed the walls,' as you say." Agent Brown nodded. Now he was showing embarrassment and shame, emotions that no properly-functioning Matrix Agent would ever express even if he were being forced to. With each passing moment Agent Brown was becoming more human, his programming becoming enmeshed with the homeless young man he had possessed in order to pursue Neo.
It was then that Callie Walker and Max Silvers came outside to see what was taking Weaver so long. "So did you find the one you were looking for?" asked Max, who hadn't really known who wanted to speak to Weaver, only that someone wanted to talk to him. Weaver looked from his two colleagues to the almost youthful-looking Agent who was rapidly becoming all too human.
"Yeah. This is, uh, Agent Brown; he pursued the three terrorists on foot to a hotel but was unable to capture them." Silvers looked at the vaguely familiar looking young man; Rebels don't usually spend time trying to differentiate the Agents, they just run. "You chased them to their place?" Brown nodded; now he was blushing. Weaver discreetly snorted into his coffee cup, disguising the noise as a cough.
Callie looked at Brown, the most overwhelming feeling of déjà vu coming over her. "Have we met before?"
The burn on Brown's face deepened another shade of red. Risking another wave of nausea, Weaver dashed into the ruined lobby and quietly had a laughing fit behind a charred column. "This was it," he thought, noiseless laughter making him gasp....
(I'm stopping here before the slashies start manifesting themselves... My god, it's easier to write slash then I thought, especially if you're looking at pictures of Doujinshi (fancomics) while you're writing! Yeah, I know it's not much)
It's Weaver, -er, -ER, not -ING, and most definitely not -SLEY! AAAGH! And besides, he looks like Guy Pierce. No, I take that back: he looks like Hugh Jackman in "Van Helsing." No, more like Colin Farrel in "straight arrow" mode. Actually he looks like a grownup manga Harry Potter or Sirius Black. Nope, actually, he looks like grown up detective Ken whatsis name from Digimon season 2. Aw what the heck... you'd never mistake him for a Matrix Agent, that's for sure (actually, if you did he'd probably punch you).
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It was a cold Tuesday evening in the City. FBI agent Charles Arthur "Art" Weaver made his way to the ruined Christopher O.R. Evener Government building, which amazingly was still standing in spite of the bomb that had ripped through it some hours before. He greeted the cops who were guarding the door, went inside and was immediately hit by a wave of nausea.
Weaver had only been inside the building a few times during his career and he hated that place. It wasn't that he'd had any unpleasant experiences within the building (that he could recall), it was the sickening "feeling" he got the moment he stepped inside the lobby, a "feeling" that would intensify with each floor. Whenever he was asked about the slight grimace on his face he would always reply "A headache, that's all," but it was something much worse: he had felt as though his mind was being unraveled, being picked through by an unseen force. After the third visit he had vowed never to go there again, and if he absolutely had to for some business he'd try to send an intern, preferably one who annoyed him. Such was the burden of having trace psychic powers, but still it was disturbing and even painful for him. It was with some satisfaction that he heard one cop remark to his partner that they would probably have to tear the whole building down.
Flashback, about thirteen years ago: "Are you sure you want to do this? It would mean that we can never return for you, and you would be at risk for being taken over by Agents."
Morpheus spoke in his most soothing, concerned voice to the young man who sat before him. The man, named Charles but nicknamed Art, had chosen to take the blue pill and remain in the Matrix. It had not been a selfish decision but one guided by logic: he was 20, and he felt that he was too old and probably too attached to the material world to be of any real use to the Resistance. No real use unplugged anyway.
"If I stay here I can be of better help."
"How?"
"I can. I can sabotage things from the inside."
A shadow of worry passed over Morpheus' face. Art was an intern in the FBI and was planning on becoming an agent. Yes, there were plugged-ins who had volunteered to take such a risk, but very few of them had lived more then a week after revealing their decision.
"Is that your ultimate choice, Art?" Morpheus' piercing gaze searched Art's face.
"Yes."
With great reluctance, Morpheus handed Art the blue pill. "You will remember this meeting. I can sense you are special, and I think you know it too. You may yet survive.." Art gulped down the pill with a glass of water and was immediately unconscious. When he came to he was back in his own apartment, memory intact. Right then he made a vow: he would aid the Resistance and the human race in anyway he could, even if it meant his life. or his mind.
The present day: "Horrible, just horrible what they did to these guys." Callie Walker, a young crime scene investigator (CSI), glanced around at the charred bodies of the guards and SWAT units as they were swathed in sheets and placed into body bags. "At least they were dead before the bomb went off, that's one thing." Agent Weaver nodded his assent, and they moved outside (the nausea immediately left Weaver) and onto a hydraulic scaffold where they would be taken up to the window where the two terrorists had gone to rescue their leader.
"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter," he thought to himself, something he'd learned during the course of his FBI training. Naturally he sided with the "terrorists;" they were working to free the world and they had everything going against them, including the government he worked for. It had been most fortunate that during his thirteen years with the Bureau he had never had to come into close contact with the members of the Resistance; though they knew who he was and what he was doing, he would have had to shoot them in order not to blow his cover.
He had been fortunate. His little bag of luck had not run out just yet; throughout the years he worked and trained at the FBI, documents about certain hackers and important terrorists would mysteriously "vanish" and were never found again or crews of Rebels would be able to escape due to a well timed explosion, and all the while not one iota of suspicion befell him. Yes, he had been lucky, and he was in constant awareness that one day his luck might run out..
"We're here," said Callie, breaking Weaver's reverie. They stepped off the scaffold into the shot-blasted room, still flooded with an inch of water from the fire sprinklers. As soon as his foot came into contact with the carpet a tidal wave of nausea struck Weaver once more and he flinched as though he had been hit. "Is something wrong, Agent Weaver?" asked Callie, concerned that a piece of glass might have stabbed him in the foot. "N-no, nothing, I have a headache. It, er, (cough), there's stuff in the air, I think." Callie stared at him for a moment, decided he was fine and that there may have been some dust in the air, and then began describing the scene and how the two terrorists had gotten from the lobby to the roof to the helicopter to the room. Weaver barely heard a word, for he was staggering towards the gaping hole that was once a window, trying to look as nonchalant as possible and not pass out.
Flashback: About a week after his meeting with the young Resistance leader Morpheus, Art Weaver was walking back to his office after a coffee run to Starbucks when a man stopped him on the street. While he certainly looked the part, the man was certainly not a fellow FBI agent, nor a CIA agent, or even a "Black-ops" agent; he seemed to be someone who was associated with a higher intelligence. Indeed, if not for his olive drab suit this particular individual could have been called a "Man in Black," someone specializing in intimidation, disturbing secrets, and mass deception.
"Your name is Charles Arthur Weaver?" the man asked him. There was something a little "off" about his appearance; if the Agent had been a statue he'd have been sculpted by someone who had only observed humans at dusk. Or in morgues.
"Yes sir, do you need anything?" Though Art knew a thing or two about the furtive "MIB" Agents, he was still very naïve.
"Come with us." At once, two other Agents appeared and roughly "escorted" him to a black sedan, where they drove off to a warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Art's Frappuchinos lay splattered on the pavement, forgotten and melting.
Present day: The keening, insectile "noise" was slicing through his brain like an army of minute ninjas armed with all manner of sharp objects, eager to break into his mind. The flooded room was used for interrogations; the "psychic residue" of the suffering inflicted upon the unfortunate Resistance Fighters captured here was tormenting Weaver to no end. He wanted nothing more then to escape this room, dash out the window and take the scaffold to the ground and run, but he couldn't; Callie Walker was still prattling on with what she figured was vital information to help with the investigation. ". and I believe we know who the two 'rescuers' are: the man's name is Thomas Akira Anderson, alias 'Neo,' and the woman is Celeste Mirabelle Huntington alias 'Trinity'; huh, with a name like that I'm not surprised she changed hers. Astounding, you'd never expect this from a pair of hackers."
Weaver, who was trying (and failing) to look nonchalant by leaning against the wall next to the shattered window gagged a little and then said "Hackers? You mean they were computer geeks?" Callie grinned a little. "In a sense; from what I've heard from Intelligence they're the best 'geeks' in the whole country; if the world was 'Vice City' they'd be mob bosses with access to all the cheat codes." "Interesting, uh, analogy, Miss Walker. How do you suppose." Weaver's voice trailed off as the door to the room opened and a man dressed all in black entered.
Flashback: Art sat silently in the cramped interrogation cell ("room" was simply too kind a word to describe it). He had been waiting in there for about three-quarters of an hour with nothing to do but stare at the camera which whirred quietly in a corner of the ceiling, or the darkly reflecting two-way mirror on the opposite wall. For the last ten minutes he had been meditating, appearing to nap while reaching out with his mind to find any information he could. All he got in return for his mental grasping was a vision of a strangely blurry black and sparkly green void and a vague sensation of pain.
This was not good.
At last something happened: the door to the cell opened and a man entered. Art recognized the man as one of the two other Agents who had accosted him earlier. The Agent was carrying a fat file marked "Jonathan Emmanuel Mitchellson, alias Morpheus" and a much thinner file marked "Charles Arthur Weaver."
Definitely not good.
Present day: "Hey Art, you're needed downstairs." Max Silvers, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation (and fellow covert Resistance Fighter), entered the room greeted his friend and nodded politely to Callie Walker. Weaver nodded to his friend and superior and politely but hastily got onto the scaffold and descended to the pavement as quickly as was safely possible. "Man, I'm starting to flip out," he thought to himself as the scaffold swiftly met the sidewalk below. Something in the back of his mind was telling him that this was it; something, he wasn't sure what, was starting to happen. Maybe "Neo" was the "One," the savior of the human race that he had heard about in rumors. Perhaps the end of the Matrix was upon them!
The soft thud of the scaffold stopping broke Weaver's train of thought, and he went to the entrance to find the person who wanted to speak to him. He asked around, but none of the cops or other agents could give him any information; more then a few of them looked at him strangely as if he had asked something nonsensical. Confused and annoyed but in no hurry to reenter the building, he remained outside and watched as the last ambulance took the bodies of two SWAT members to the City morgue. He leaned against a lamppost and was just about to relax for a moment when he heard a voice behind him: "Mr. Weaver, I need to speak to you. Now."
Weaver grimaced as he turned around and faced the person behind him; he'd heard that voice before. It took all he had not to punch the speaker's lights out.
Flashback: "Mr. Weaver, my name is Agent Brown and this is a matter of urgency." Art stared; all precepts of decorum were forgotten, mainly due to being forced to wait in a room for almost an hour and the fact that the Agent in front of him looked barely older then he did. "'Agent' Brown? Sir, if you wish to make me comfortable enough to aid this interview you would've told me your first name as well and leave off the 'Agent' part." He was not going to be intimidated by a piece of software, especially one who took part in the deaths of uncountable Rebels.
Agent Brown did not react. It was atypical for Matrix Agents to have to interrogate human government agents (they usually answered their inquires without hesitation) but on rare occasions the subjects could be just as obstinate as Rebels. "First of all Mr. Weaver, I am your superior and you shall address me as such. Second, we will be needing your help. We have been informed that you have been in contact with a man who calls himself 'Morpheus.' We were hoping that if this information were true, you could be of help capturing him. This is his file -" Agent Brown nodded to the thick file he had placed on the table "as an employee of the FBI you are granted access to it. You will notice that he has been responsible for the deaths of a number of agents, law enforcement, and military personnel."
Art glanced at Morpheus' file and then at his own. He had as yet nothing to hide (aside from his two little "meetings") and he was an excellent liar. When you know what cues to look for when a person is lying, you get pretty good at avoiding them. Having a strong psychic barrier for your mind helps too.
Present day: "What do you want? I thought you were through with me after that little 'meeting' thirteen years ago." Weaver's aggravated countenance would have intimidated other men, but the man in front of him was not quite human; one mark of that was the fact that the Agent had not aged at all since the said "meeting."
Agent Brown stepped back, a bit surprised that Weaver even remembered him and shocked that he had dared to address him in such a manner. "Y-you remember me? But that is impossible!" Now it was Weaver's turn to be a bit shocked. Was that fear in the Agent's voice? Matrix Agents don't express fear; anger, aggravation, and most undeniably superiority, yes, but most certainly not fear. Weaver sized up his opponent. He knew fighting was out of the picture, as was running and shooting, so for the time being they would talk. It was about then that Weaver noticed something about Agent Brown's appearance apart from his fear: he looked as though he'd been running, not as a hunter but as prey. Perhaps this was another sign that "something is beginning." A moment later he also noticed something else about his former interrogator: the Agent's ubiquitous earpiece no longer snaked out of his collar but was being clutched weakly in his fist. Agent Brown was no longer connected to the Agents' hive mind and was now on the run from deletion.
Flashback: Art Weaver looked Agent Brown straight in the eye as best he could since the Agent was wearing dark sunglasses and spoke with an unflinching tone. "Agent Brown, sir, I must confess that I have met this 'Morpheus' but it was only in the merest nature. He was in a café that I was eating at and I overheard him talking to an associate over his cell phone. It was not until I got home that evening that I realized who he was. That is the extent of any contact I've ever had with this 'Morpheus.'" This was true; he had first met Morpheus at a café but it had been Art he had been talking to over the cell phone.
The Agents in the room behind the dark mirror were scanning Art thoroughly, but could find nothing to incriminate him or Morpheus. Agent Smith remarked to his colleagues Agent Jones and Agent Black whether it would be wise and practical to go on. Agent Black sent a stream of information over his earpiece to the Source; a moment later they got their answer.
A few seconds later Art was back on the street walking back to his office, Frappuchinos in hand as though they'd always been there. As he looked ahead, he swore that he could see a man in the back of a black sedan glaring at him before it turned the corner and disappeared. Had he been younger Art would've returned the glare by sticking his tongue out and going "Nyaaah!" but as it was he could only pretend he didn't remember anything and keep walking. "'Agent' Brown. Feh. Agents are supposed to protect people, not kill and manipulate them, at least not without a good cause," he thought as he returned to his office and went immediately to the bathroom to make sure he had not been bugged. Using a small penknife he quickly sliced the implant out of his leg and returned to work, "accidentally" whacking his leg against a table and walking with a limp for several weeks.
Present day: When he wasn't acting conceited, Agent Brown could be a pleasant person, but since he had been permanently set on "conceited" he was at the most semi-tolerable while he explained to Agent Weaver what had happened after the helicopter had departed with Neo and Morpheus dangling underneath it like a pair of daredevil spiders. Weaver absorbed it all without comment, but mentally he was wildly dancing in celebration: "So it is true! The end is indeed nigh!"
"So let me go over this one more time," said Weaver as he offered Agent Brown a cup of coffee (which he politely declined) from a nearby snack table set up by the CSIs. "Neo was dead, shot eight times in the chest at pointblank range. Then, as the three of you were about to leave he got back up again. You and your two partners shot at him from down the hall and he stopped your bullets in midair like a Jedi -" "A what?" "- Um, never mind. Agent. you said his name was Smith? Smith gets pissed and goes after Neo by himself. Neo blocks his punches with one hand and then kicks him across the hall, then dives into him and blows him up." It took all of Weaver's willpower to keep from smirking as he said the next part: "And then you and Agent Jones ran off" ("like a pair of cowards," he wanted to add) "when Neo reappeared with his wounds healed and he 'flexed the walls,' as you say." Agent Brown nodded. Now he was showing embarrassment and shame, emotions that no properly-functioning Matrix Agent would ever express even if he were being forced to. With each passing moment Agent Brown was becoming more human, his programming becoming enmeshed with the homeless young man he had possessed in order to pursue Neo.
It was then that Callie Walker and Max Silvers came outside to see what was taking Weaver so long. "So did you find the one you were looking for?" asked Max, who hadn't really known who wanted to speak to Weaver, only that someone wanted to talk to him. Weaver looked from his two colleagues to the almost youthful-looking Agent who was rapidly becoming all too human.
"Yeah. This is, uh, Agent Brown; he pursued the three terrorists on foot to a hotel but was unable to capture them." Silvers looked at the vaguely familiar looking young man; Rebels don't usually spend time trying to differentiate the Agents, they just run. "You chased them to their place?" Brown nodded; now he was blushing. Weaver discreetly snorted into his coffee cup, disguising the noise as a cough.
Callie looked at Brown, the most overwhelming feeling of déjà vu coming over her. "Have we met before?"
The burn on Brown's face deepened another shade of red. Risking another wave of nausea, Weaver dashed into the ruined lobby and quietly had a laughing fit behind a charred column. "This was it," he thought, noiseless laughter making him gasp....
(I'm stopping here before the slashies start manifesting themselves... My god, it's easier to write slash then I thought, especially if you're looking at pictures of Doujinshi (fancomics) while you're writing! Yeah, I know it's not much)