Freedom
Years. . . Years ago they were free. Years ago they were feared. Years ago. . . But times have changed.
In the white room, which seemed endless. You could hear an echo. The echo of walking. Back and forth, back and forth, the person walked. He was pacing himself. Back and forth, back and forth. He continued. In the white room was Former Agent Smith. He walked back and forth. With his tie loosened and his shades in his pocket. He seemed tense. He walked back and forth. He didn't seem like he'd ever get tired. He would just continue to walk back and forth.
He wasn't alone in the white room. Lying on the side of the white room were the others. Jones and Brown. They hadn't moved from those spots since they were placed in the white room. All those years, just sitting there staring off into space. They never moved, unlike Smith. Smith sometimes walked around, or sat next to them, or just stood there. He was the most erratic of them. They were all that was left. The others, the upgrades, Johnson, Thompson, and Jackson. They were fitted a different punishment. Smith didn't know what had happened to them.
Alone. That's what Smith considered himself. Alone. Jones and Brown simply took up space. Being alone for all those years is hard. Hard even for a program. Smith had forgotten how long he had been in the white room. After a couple of years he stopped counting. It doesn't matter he thought. He continued to pace back and forth. He did that a lot. There was nothing else to do. Smith didn't bother trying to talk to the others. They wouldn't respond. They don't know how to act by themselves. They don't have the Mainframe to tell them what to do. But Smith knew how to act for himself. Mr. Anderson had freed him, of course. But the others. They were never free. They never had a chance to learn how to be free.
They were just there, nothing more. Smith stared at them sometimes, he didn't know if they stared back, he didn't know what they were thinking. Most likely analyzing their positions in a loophole. He missed how they once were. At least then they spoke. He missed being with them. Connected. When they were Agents the earpieces connected them. That was the only thing Smith liked about being an Agent. But now that was gone.
Everything was gone. Everything. All he had was taken from him. Smith stops. He makes a fist. All that power he once had. His copies, his power, his flight. Smith sighs, and continues pacing. He had come so close. He had done so much. And he had seen all that meant nothing. Nothing at all. It all came to this. It all came to his defeat. The feared Virus was no more, and only a meaningless program was left. Someone put in a white room for eternity, with mindless collections of codes. He had come so close. He had done so much. If he had only won. . . If he had only killed him.
Smith didn't pity the others. Sometimes he envied them. They were stuck in the white room probably forever. And would they care? Would they notice? Would they remember what the once had? No, of course not. But Smith would. He would be all alone forever. Nothing to do, nothing to say. Just remember the days of sweet, sweet freedom. The days when he fought, the days when he observed. Yes, no one really knew what he did in his free time. Not that he had much of it, with his copies and all. He had observed humans. Their art, music, children, plants, and even the Matrix sky. It all disgusted him at the time, but now. . . Now he longs for them. The memories are all he has left. He stops pacing, and sighs. All alone forever.
He missed their smell most of all. The smell that disgusted him, and plagued him. In reality and virtual, that stench. He missed it so much. What he would do to smell that stench again. What he would do to hear something, or touch something. Something more than the echoes he made, and the sounds of his sighs. Something more than him screaming, and throwing his sunglasses across the room. He would close his eyes, and picture the times before. The times when he was closest to true freedom. When he was surround by them. He can remember how he felt around them, how they felt, how they sounded, and smelled. But he can't fully remember it. He can't feel it anymore. It's gone, taken away from him, ripped away, and now he feels nothing. Memories now too lost to find.
He is disgusted by himself. How could he let this happen to him? How could he loose? And be imprisoned by such feeble creatures? How could this happen to him? How can he long for the very things he tried to kill?
He looked over to the right. A door. On the other side is freedom. But he could never cross it. None of them could. Only The One could go in and out of he door. Yes, only Mr. Anderson. Smith could remember the days he fought him. The days when his voice was full of hatred. What he would do for all that back. But now Smith didn't care anymore. The humans have won. And this is what they did to the agents. Put them in a white room, all alone. With nothing to do. I guess they didn't consider Smith being so human, and having needs. Or maybe it was just because they thought this is what he deserves, after what he had done. He wonders sometimes, if he was human would they do the same thing to him? Would they do this to one of their own? Smith stops. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about Mr. Anderson, or the humans. He just wants out. Wants out of the white room. Out of what was the remainder of the Matrix. He still stares at the door. Mr. Anderson sometimes came through the door to check on them. Smith didn't really hate him anymore. There is no use now. There is no use to hate him now, it would be a waste. He couldn't do anything about it, so why bother? In a way, you could say they broke him. He no longer hated, much. In fact Smith in a way loved it when The One came. It is the only thing that happens. When Neo comes, he stays for about an hour. Smith stares at him, for he is the only thing interesting there. The only thing with a mind besides himself. He hasn't changed a bit, Neo. Still wears his cloak. Neo is still Neo, and Smith didn't change him. Smith starts pacing again.
He paces for about three days with no stopping. Then something happens.
"Why do you do that?"
Smith is surprised, almost frightened by the noise.
"Yes, why do you do that?"
That was another sound. Another voice. Where are they coming from? Smith thought. He didn't even consider that they came from Jones and Brown. He first thought someone was watching, or it may have been himself. He looks around frantic, searching for what caused the noise. It took him a moment to look at the former agents. He was shocked to see they were staring at him through they're shades. He was stunned for a minute, Smith just stared at the others. How could this be? He thought. They haven't done anything, and now all of the sudden they just speak up?!
"What?" he asked.
"Why do you do that?" Jones and Brown asked at the same time.
Smith once again didn't answer. He was shocked. And he didn't know how to say words for a moment. He had forgotten what things sounded like, and it hurt to hear them from nowhere. How do I talk again? He asked himself. In those years he never spoke.
"I uh . . . do it. . . because . . . there is nothing else . . . to do." He said shakily.
"ah." They said at the same time.
Smith stared at them, and crawled to the ground next to them. They stared at him, and he stared at them. They were alive. Smith wasn't alone, and the two that he remembered were still there. The two that he mastered, that he was connected to. They were alive. And the memories of what they had done together started to come into view. And Smith remembered the sounds of their voices. And remembered when Brown asked him, "What are you doing?"
Five days pass, and it is like it always is. Jones and Brown do not speak, and Smith studies them. Searching for why they haven't spoken in so long. Analyzing the people he once knew so well. Remembering that Brown is the smaller one that always was on the laptop, and Jones the taller one, always going out to fight.
Then something happened.
"Why are we here?" asked Jones.
Smith was again startled by their voices. And took a moment to answer, as he stared at them, titled his head, and studying them.
"Because of what we are, and what we have done." Smith finally answered.
"The humans put us in here?" asked Brown.
"Yes."
"How do we proceed?"
"We cannot. We cannot leave this place."
"Because of what we've done?"
"Yes."
"What we did is the same thing as what they are doing to us."
"Yes, I suppose, it is." Smith said.
Smith stared at them. They still looked like lifeless bodies, yet they spoke. They still didn't move. Just spoke.
They had told what they thought, they had said their own opinions. Their ideas. They were not lifeless, yet. . .
Two weeks passed after that little conversation. And to Smith's surprise Mr. Anderson came. He came through the door making echoes. And sat down on a chair that came from nowhere. Neo looked at them. Even Smith was sitting next to the others this time. He was trying to make the others speak again. Then all three of them looked at him. All three. Neo was a bit surprised, as he tilted his head. Smith got up. And stood about five feet away from him. Neo walked closer. Then looked at the others.
"Mr."
"Anderson" They said.
Neo's gaze met Smith's. They both looked surprised. Then Neo pulled out from is cloak, three papers and three pencils. He handed them to Smith, and quietly walked away. Smith gave the two their paper and pencil, and sat down next to them.
"What do we do with these?" Jones asked.
"Whatever we want." Smith replied with a small smile. "Whatever we want."
Two months passed until Neo returned. When he came through the door he wasn't surprised at what he saw. The white room was filled with drawings on the walls. Only one large wall was still white. And the agents were drawing on it at that time. The One looked at the drawings. They were very good. In fact they were wonderful. Drawings of memories. Of the agents. Of guns. Of ones and zeroes. Of Sentinels. Of people. Of Zion. Of the sky. Of things that had to come from their imagination. Of Neo. So many drawings. Neo looked at the artists. They didn't even notice him, as they kept working. Beside them were their three pieces of paper, already drawn on. He could see their pencils were mere stubs now. Jones was standing up drawing what looked like a sentinel. Brown was on his knees drawing something near the floor. And Smith was stepping back, looking at the entire thing. It took a moment to see that their ties and coats were gone. Stacked in a corner. It brought a smile to Neo's face.
They had done what they needed to do.
They had expressed their desires, their thoughts. They showed they had a little humanity. And Neo turned to see Sentinels flying over what looked like Zion, and saw Agents to his right, their faces turning into code. Neo smiled as he saw on the left, half the wall was just Smith. Smith and his copies. They even drew the final battle between him and Smith. They drew everything they knew.
Because they wanted to.
Because long ago, the Agents died, and all that was left were Smith, Jones, and Brown.
Smith turned to see Neo, and smiled slyly, like he used, and nodded.
"What do you thing, Mr. Anderson?" Smith asked, walking closer to Neo.
"Yeah Neo." Two other voices said.
". . . It's . . . Beautiful."
Smith was surprised at Neo's voice. He hadn't heard it in years. Years and years, that voice he wanted to kill.
"In fact I think you passed."
"What?" The three said.
Neo walked away from them towards the door. He looked at them and opened the door.
"It's okay now." Neo said.
Smith never heard that tone in Neo's voice. It sounded cheerful. Time has changed him as well.
"What?" They said.
"Come on." Neo stepped through the door.
Then they followed. They were free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I won't this a long time ago, but I decided to come back and fix it up a bit. Hope you like it.
Please R/R!
Years. . . Years ago they were free. Years ago they were feared. Years ago. . . But times have changed.
In the white room, which seemed endless. You could hear an echo. The echo of walking. Back and forth, back and forth, the person walked. He was pacing himself. Back and forth, back and forth. He continued. In the white room was Former Agent Smith. He walked back and forth. With his tie loosened and his shades in his pocket. He seemed tense. He walked back and forth. He didn't seem like he'd ever get tired. He would just continue to walk back and forth.
He wasn't alone in the white room. Lying on the side of the white room were the others. Jones and Brown. They hadn't moved from those spots since they were placed in the white room. All those years, just sitting there staring off into space. They never moved, unlike Smith. Smith sometimes walked around, or sat next to them, or just stood there. He was the most erratic of them. They were all that was left. The others, the upgrades, Johnson, Thompson, and Jackson. They were fitted a different punishment. Smith didn't know what had happened to them.
Alone. That's what Smith considered himself. Alone. Jones and Brown simply took up space. Being alone for all those years is hard. Hard even for a program. Smith had forgotten how long he had been in the white room. After a couple of years he stopped counting. It doesn't matter he thought. He continued to pace back and forth. He did that a lot. There was nothing else to do. Smith didn't bother trying to talk to the others. They wouldn't respond. They don't know how to act by themselves. They don't have the Mainframe to tell them what to do. But Smith knew how to act for himself. Mr. Anderson had freed him, of course. But the others. They were never free. They never had a chance to learn how to be free.
They were just there, nothing more. Smith stared at them sometimes, he didn't know if they stared back, he didn't know what they were thinking. Most likely analyzing their positions in a loophole. He missed how they once were. At least then they spoke. He missed being with them. Connected. When they were Agents the earpieces connected them. That was the only thing Smith liked about being an Agent. But now that was gone.
Everything was gone. Everything. All he had was taken from him. Smith stops. He makes a fist. All that power he once had. His copies, his power, his flight. Smith sighs, and continues pacing. He had come so close. He had done so much. And he had seen all that meant nothing. Nothing at all. It all came to this. It all came to his defeat. The feared Virus was no more, and only a meaningless program was left. Someone put in a white room for eternity, with mindless collections of codes. He had come so close. He had done so much. If he had only won. . . If he had only killed him.
Smith didn't pity the others. Sometimes he envied them. They were stuck in the white room probably forever. And would they care? Would they notice? Would they remember what the once had? No, of course not. But Smith would. He would be all alone forever. Nothing to do, nothing to say. Just remember the days of sweet, sweet freedom. The days when he fought, the days when he observed. Yes, no one really knew what he did in his free time. Not that he had much of it, with his copies and all. He had observed humans. Their art, music, children, plants, and even the Matrix sky. It all disgusted him at the time, but now. . . Now he longs for them. The memories are all he has left. He stops pacing, and sighs. All alone forever.
He missed their smell most of all. The smell that disgusted him, and plagued him. In reality and virtual, that stench. He missed it so much. What he would do to smell that stench again. What he would do to hear something, or touch something. Something more than the echoes he made, and the sounds of his sighs. Something more than him screaming, and throwing his sunglasses across the room. He would close his eyes, and picture the times before. The times when he was closest to true freedom. When he was surround by them. He can remember how he felt around them, how they felt, how they sounded, and smelled. But he can't fully remember it. He can't feel it anymore. It's gone, taken away from him, ripped away, and now he feels nothing. Memories now too lost to find.
He is disgusted by himself. How could he let this happen to him? How could he loose? And be imprisoned by such feeble creatures? How could this happen to him? How can he long for the very things he tried to kill?
He looked over to the right. A door. On the other side is freedom. But he could never cross it. None of them could. Only The One could go in and out of he door. Yes, only Mr. Anderson. Smith could remember the days he fought him. The days when his voice was full of hatred. What he would do for all that back. But now Smith didn't care anymore. The humans have won. And this is what they did to the agents. Put them in a white room, all alone. With nothing to do. I guess they didn't consider Smith being so human, and having needs. Or maybe it was just because they thought this is what he deserves, after what he had done. He wonders sometimes, if he was human would they do the same thing to him? Would they do this to one of their own? Smith stops. He doesn't care. He doesn't care about Mr. Anderson, or the humans. He just wants out. Wants out of the white room. Out of what was the remainder of the Matrix. He still stares at the door. Mr. Anderson sometimes came through the door to check on them. Smith didn't really hate him anymore. There is no use now. There is no use to hate him now, it would be a waste. He couldn't do anything about it, so why bother? In a way, you could say they broke him. He no longer hated, much. In fact Smith in a way loved it when The One came. It is the only thing that happens. When Neo comes, he stays for about an hour. Smith stares at him, for he is the only thing interesting there. The only thing with a mind besides himself. He hasn't changed a bit, Neo. Still wears his cloak. Neo is still Neo, and Smith didn't change him. Smith starts pacing again.
He paces for about three days with no stopping. Then something happens.
"Why do you do that?"
Smith is surprised, almost frightened by the noise.
"Yes, why do you do that?"
That was another sound. Another voice. Where are they coming from? Smith thought. He didn't even consider that they came from Jones and Brown. He first thought someone was watching, or it may have been himself. He looks around frantic, searching for what caused the noise. It took him a moment to look at the former agents. He was shocked to see they were staring at him through they're shades. He was stunned for a minute, Smith just stared at the others. How could this be? He thought. They haven't done anything, and now all of the sudden they just speak up?!
"What?" he asked.
"Why do you do that?" Jones and Brown asked at the same time.
Smith once again didn't answer. He was shocked. And he didn't know how to say words for a moment. He had forgotten what things sounded like, and it hurt to hear them from nowhere. How do I talk again? He asked himself. In those years he never spoke.
"I uh . . . do it. . . because . . . there is nothing else . . . to do." He said shakily.
"ah." They said at the same time.
Smith stared at them, and crawled to the ground next to them. They stared at him, and he stared at them. They were alive. Smith wasn't alone, and the two that he remembered were still there. The two that he mastered, that he was connected to. They were alive. And the memories of what they had done together started to come into view. And Smith remembered the sounds of their voices. And remembered when Brown asked him, "What are you doing?"
Five days pass, and it is like it always is. Jones and Brown do not speak, and Smith studies them. Searching for why they haven't spoken in so long. Analyzing the people he once knew so well. Remembering that Brown is the smaller one that always was on the laptop, and Jones the taller one, always going out to fight.
Then something happened.
"Why are we here?" asked Jones.
Smith was again startled by their voices. And took a moment to answer, as he stared at them, titled his head, and studying them.
"Because of what we are, and what we have done." Smith finally answered.
"The humans put us in here?" asked Brown.
"Yes."
"How do we proceed?"
"We cannot. We cannot leave this place."
"Because of what we've done?"
"Yes."
"What we did is the same thing as what they are doing to us."
"Yes, I suppose, it is." Smith said.
Smith stared at them. They still looked like lifeless bodies, yet they spoke. They still didn't move. Just spoke.
They had told what they thought, they had said their own opinions. Their ideas. They were not lifeless, yet. . .
Two weeks passed after that little conversation. And to Smith's surprise Mr. Anderson came. He came through the door making echoes. And sat down on a chair that came from nowhere. Neo looked at them. Even Smith was sitting next to the others this time. He was trying to make the others speak again. Then all three of them looked at him. All three. Neo was a bit surprised, as he tilted his head. Smith got up. And stood about five feet away from him. Neo walked closer. Then looked at the others.
"Mr."
"Anderson" They said.
Neo's gaze met Smith's. They both looked surprised. Then Neo pulled out from is cloak, three papers and three pencils. He handed them to Smith, and quietly walked away. Smith gave the two their paper and pencil, and sat down next to them.
"What do we do with these?" Jones asked.
"Whatever we want." Smith replied with a small smile. "Whatever we want."
Two months passed until Neo returned. When he came through the door he wasn't surprised at what he saw. The white room was filled with drawings on the walls. Only one large wall was still white. And the agents were drawing on it at that time. The One looked at the drawings. They were very good. In fact they were wonderful. Drawings of memories. Of the agents. Of guns. Of ones and zeroes. Of Sentinels. Of people. Of Zion. Of the sky. Of things that had to come from their imagination. Of Neo. So many drawings. Neo looked at the artists. They didn't even notice him, as they kept working. Beside them were their three pieces of paper, already drawn on. He could see their pencils were mere stubs now. Jones was standing up drawing what looked like a sentinel. Brown was on his knees drawing something near the floor. And Smith was stepping back, looking at the entire thing. It took a moment to see that their ties and coats were gone. Stacked in a corner. It brought a smile to Neo's face.
They had done what they needed to do.
They had expressed their desires, their thoughts. They showed they had a little humanity. And Neo turned to see Sentinels flying over what looked like Zion, and saw Agents to his right, their faces turning into code. Neo smiled as he saw on the left, half the wall was just Smith. Smith and his copies. They even drew the final battle between him and Smith. They drew everything they knew.
Because they wanted to.
Because long ago, the Agents died, and all that was left were Smith, Jones, and Brown.
Smith turned to see Neo, and smiled slyly, like he used, and nodded.
"What do you thing, Mr. Anderson?" Smith asked, walking closer to Neo.
"Yeah Neo." Two other voices said.
". . . It's . . . Beautiful."
Smith was surprised at Neo's voice. He hadn't heard it in years. Years and years, that voice he wanted to kill.
"In fact I think you passed."
"What?" The three said.
Neo walked away from them towards the door. He looked at them and opened the door.
"It's okay now." Neo said.
Smith never heard that tone in Neo's voice. It sounded cheerful. Time has changed him as well.
"What?" They said.
"Come on." Neo stepped through the door.
Then they followed. They were free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I won't this a long time ago, but I decided to come back and fix it up a bit. Hope you like it.
Please R/R!