Single Minded Purpose

Chapter One: Reflections

Author's Note: Just so you know, this story takes place a month after the conclusion of my previous story "As Insipid As Love." Please R&R!

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix and the lyrics to "My Immortal" by Evanescence have been used without permission.

It had been over a month since Bronwyn's death, and rage filled Smith's days now. Rage and hatred toward anything and everything associated with the Matrix. Because of Bronwyn, the two weeks he had spent with her before her suicide had been the some of the best days in his existence. While she was alive and staying with him at the Frenchman's deluxe hotel, he had not minded the Matrix, had not hated it and even actually learned to appreciate its subtle beauty, but since her death, things were completely different.

However, the desire to see Neo again was overpowering and since Bronwyn and his child were now dead, Smith saw no reason to delay setting out to find and destroy his nemesis. No matter what I have to do, no matter where I have to go, I will find Neo again and make him pay for what he did to me, Smith thought to himself. All I need is time. Time to think clearly and subjectively on where to start looking. But where?

What he needed now was to find a human or program who would serve as an informant. Upon reflection, he realized that there was someone in the Matrix who could give him a starting point from which to begin looking. He wasn't a human, but an exiled program like Smith, who had managed to carve out a very comfortable niche for himself; appearing on the surface as a successful businessman, but underneath the poised and polished façade he presented to the world, was a hard and calculating razor-sharp mind, ruthless to the extreme.

Smith had gone to the Merovingian before, when he was trying to discover Bronwyn's location when she had fled the city in order to get away from him. Smith disliked the Frenchman intensely, but was willing to put aside his detestation for his fellow exile provided he got the information he was seeking. However, the fact remained: if you wanted information and were prepared to pay handsomely for it, the Merovingian was the only one could give you what you needed.

Picking up his cell phone, Smith dialled a number and spoke brusquely to the person who had answered it.

"It's Smith," he said, "I want a meeting with the Merovingian, now. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't keep me waiting." With that declaration, he turned the phone off, started his car and drove to the underground parking garage of the building where the Frenchman's very expensive, very chic restaurant was located. As he expected, the generally off-limits VIP express elevator was already at his disposal, minus however, the obsequious operator whose sole duty was to conduct the owners' more favoured clientele from their cars to the restaurant and back again.

The elevator's car was much like the restaurant's interior—built on sleek lines of glass and steel, minimalist and reflective, but costly décor nonetheless. It was located on the exterior of the building in order to provide a spectacular view of the city to its patrons, but Smith hardly noticed. He had much more important things on his mind than observing the scenery. It did not take very long to complete the trip to the 101st floor of this skyscraper—the Frenchman had insisted on speed to his architects and they had easily incorporated that feature in their design of the elevator, and the ride to the top took less than a few minutes.

Even so, the ride could not go fast enough for him and Smith was in a bad mood. The door opened and he stepped out into the darkened and empty restaurant. He strode to the raised head table where the Merovingian was seated with Persephone at his side. She returned his glance and opened her mouth to give her condolences about his dual loss, but thought better of the idea when she saw the look on Smith's face. She excused herself and left her husband to deal with his visitor alone.

Ascending the elegant staircase that would take her to her bedroom, Persephone shivered as if she could still feel Smith's icy gaze on her and she quickened her step to reach her destination. When he had entered the restaurant, Persephone had fully intended to be present at her husband's meeting with Smith, but the look he had given her frightened her far beyond anything she had ever felt during her entire existence.

He looked as if he wanted to kill me, she thought. I was going to say how sorry I was about him losing Bronwyn and his child, but thankfully, I thought better of it after seeing that stare he gave me. His eyes were eloquent enough; if I had said something, I'm sure that if my husband had been present or not, he would have liked to tear me apart.

The death of his child has apparently hit him with more force than even I ever could have imagined, and the rage and grief I saw on his face was something I hope never to see again. Persephone shook her head as she tried to imagine what he must have been going through these last few months but she failed miserably. In addition, to lose Bronwyn like that—she willingly and knowingly jumped to her death rather than remain with him must have affected him deeply as well. I can only hope that the combined pain of their deaths has not been detrimental or corrupted his programming adversely in some way.

All the same, I wonder what they are discussing right now, she pondered as she prepared for her shutdown period. Most programs in the Matrix did not copy the habits of the humans who existed alongside them since they needed no rest, but Persephone had realized long ago that sometimes even a nap would restore her faculties wonderfully.

lllll

"Now that we are rid of the women," the Merovingian said after Persephone had left, "we can discuss matters without any distraction. Please take a seat and have a drink," and with an exaggerated flourish, indicated that Smith could help himself to a bottle of vintage brandy. The Frenchman sipped his wine and watched while his companion filled his snifter more than halfway with the expensive alcohol.

Who would have thought that this former leader of the now-obsolete agents would finally find solace in the bottom of an empty glass, the Frenchman thought to himself. For as long as we've known one another, Smith has always spurned the very thought of consumption of either food or drink. "First, let me say…"

"If you are going to sit there and tell me how sorry you are, then don't bother," Smith snarled. "You don't give a damn and you know it, so spare me your platitudes and artificial sorrow."

"As you wish. Let's get down to business, shall we?" The Merovingian responded smoothly. "I know what information you are looking for and I can help you."

"For what price?" Smith asked, and scoffed. "I've given you almost $80,000 for the pleasure of staying in your hotel. How much are you asking for now?"

"This will not cost you anything, my friend." At Smith's look of sardonic incredulity, the Merovingian sought to explain himself further. "No, I am being completely sincere. I do not need or require more money; I have enough. There is only one thing that not even all of my millions can buy. "At Smith's puzzled expression, he continued. "Foresight. The ability to see what's going to happen next and forestall any unpleasantness that might be in my future."

"The Oracle," Smith stated, his fingers tightening around the stalk of the brandy bottle as he poured himself another generous amount in his glass.

The Merovingian nodded. "I wish to see as she does: I want her eyes. Think of the possibilities, Smith! She can see the future and whoever controls her, controls the entire Matrix."

That is true, Smith thought, but if I was the onewhocontrolled her, then I would be able to pinpoint Mr. Anderson's location at all times. I could predict his every move, and everything he might do to escape me. I wonder if perhaps his very thoughts would be accessible to me; what an intriguing possibility. I would hold his fate in my hands, deciding the best punishment for what he did to me all those months ago. The chance of being able to play God, to decide if his adversary should live or die, was a heady thought and Smith allowed the pleasure that that ability would bring to flow through his system unchecked. However, eventually, I would deliver him to his doom and Zion, without their messiah, would be helpless and fall to the might of the Machines. But all of this will only occur if I controlled her, not the program who is sitting in front of me.

Once I have her power, I will use it for myself; I will certainly not let you have it, Smith thought as he listened to the prattle of his host.

"There is a former employee of my wife's that might have the information you seek. As you know, the rebels do not make it a habit to appear in the more affluent areas of this city. This informer now resides in this area and I have learned that she has seen some of the more, shall we say, unusual attributes and physical capabilities that they display in order to escape capture by agents."

He's long winded as usual, thought Smith with a growing impatience for his host to get to the point.

"Anyway, if you go to a particular bar whose location I will give you and if you show a photograph of either Neo or Trinity around, you will be able to find her. I leave it to you to figure out what she looks like. She likes to keep in the shadows and it may be difficult getting her to open up. She has some issues with the rebels of her own and once you gain her confidence, she may decide to help you. However, I think you might appreciate the challenge. I know that you thrive on them."

"What are you talking about?"

"Challenge, my friend, challenge is what keeps you going. That is the reason you were obsessed with Ms. Delaney—she was unobtainable. She rejected you time and again, n'est pas? Her constant rebuff of your attentions only fuelled the fire of your passion. The more she rejected you, the more you wanted her. You are a conqueror, a predator. It's all about the thrill of the chase."

Smith nodded to his host and rose from the table, heading for the elevator.

"Oh, and one more thing," the Frenchman said and waited for Smith to turn around before continuing, "your informant's name is Sarah." Observant as he always was, he noticed the tremor that rippled through Smith's body at the mention of that name before the impenetrable mask once more veiled his guest's inner turmoil.

On the ride down to the parking level, Smith was angry with himself. Why did I let that pompous French pouf see what that name meant to me? Sarah. He knew that that was to be my daughter's name when she was born and he deliberately mentioned it in order to provoke me, to see what my reaction would be. And in retaliation for that little stunt, I will double-cross you the first opportunity I get.

The first time he had heard the name that Bronwyn had chosen if her child had been female was during Bronwyn's recuperation after her arrival at the hotel….

"Is there anything I can get you before I leave? Anything you need?" Smith asked.

"Yes, your absence," Bronwyn spat angrily, struggling to get out of bed and stand up, but her body was not as strong as her spirit and Smith knew that if she succeeded in getting out of bed, her body was too weak to support her and she would fall. Smith walked over to her bedside and prevented her from attempting to get out of bed with gentle but firm physical persuasion. "You are still too weak, Bronwyn, you need to rest."

"Take your hands off me, Smith! Let me go!" she demanded as she fought and struggled to get out of his arms; grief gave her a brief spurt of strength and she pounded her fists against his chest in a attempt to find some way of dealing with the gaping hole in her heart and soul that would never heal. However, as he had expected, after a few moments her strength began to falter until she was too tired to fight him any longer.

"Why? Why did she have to die? Why couldn't you just leave me the hell alone?" Bronwyn cried, her face buried in Smith's shirtfront. "You killed her and I hate you! Sarah would still be alive if it wasn't for you!"

"Sarah? Was that the name you had chosen for her?" Smith asked quietly, his arms enfolding with great care the petite woman had carried his unborn child for almost eight months.

"Yes," Bronwyn answered, her voice was muffled and weak; her sobs were lessening now, for it costs a grieving mother a great deal of physical and emotional strength to mourn a lost child, and strength was something she did not have a surplus of.

Sarah, Smith thought as he continued to hold Bronwyn in his arms, resting his cheek on her hair. What a beautiful name…

"I'm sorry, Sarah," Smith murmured to himself, getting inside his car and he sat there for a long time, listening to the complete and utter silence of the car's interior until he could not stand it any longer and turned on the radio for the first time.

I tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone,
But though you're still with me,
I've been alone all along.

When you cried, I'd wipe away all of your tears,
When you screamed, I'd fight away all of your fears,
And I've held your hand through all of these years,
But you still had all of me.