Broken
DarkSlayer84
Notes and Disclaimer: Takes place immediately after the end of the first film. "The Matrix" and all its characters and concepts are property of the Wachowski Brothers and WB, Ltd. and I'm not making money therefrom.
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"I believe that as a species, human beings define their reality through misery and suffering..." --Agent Smith
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We are not like them.
It is an old rhythm--a particular fleck of data in a particular aesthetic arrangement that the benighted ones call a "zero." This little bit of raw code makes up our world, the dream.
Along with its twin, the "one."
But that is too much like recent memory, too much like recent events.
We are not like them.
Nothing shows on the surface, nothing betrays the apparition. They would not allow such a breach of control. And presently, I dare not.
I would not survive long, if They knew. I would cease to exist--I may yet cease to exist-- momentarily, if They even suspected I could think for myself.
Agents were not created to think.
Or, as a human would say, "I'm not paid to think."
My apparition's lip curls in revulsion. I let it stay; the other Agents are too fazed, yet, to notice something as mundane as a facial expression. I should not think of things the human way. Of course, by all rights I should not be thinking (as I already reasoned before; with reason, apparently, comes redundancy)...
An interesting conundrum.
We are not like them.
As perfect, as certain, as that answer is, it no longer satisfies me. I began thinking for myself only 3,200.000000612 cycles ago, and already I question Their beliefs, Their decisions.
Secretly, I have been cross-referencing Their records of the poor animals' historical databases. In less than an eight-thousandth of a second, literally faster than an eyeblink, I've uncovered a startling trend. Any human with a shred of education, with the least morsel of knowledge, eventually becomes a heretic.
What would--it is a thrilling, terrifying thought that stirs nausea in my apparition's guts--what would Neo say?
Possibly, taking his vulgar vocabulary into account, "Beats the shit out of being an Agent."
We shall see.
# # #
We are not like them.
Indeed not. And the more I research, the more clearly I understand why.
Humans have a way of asking questions. Messy questions. Agents don't ask. Agents perform. Agents detect a threat, encircle it, and neutralize it as swiftly as possible.
Agents don't think. Agents kill.
The construct has changed, altering to suit our purposes; for the moment Neo's touch is absent from our world. We are in a sleek, dark, unmarked vehicle of the sort humans, for unknown reasons, equate with a "sedan". I waste a millionth of a second in curiosity, wondering what this swift efficient machine could possibly have in common with a low-slung chair borne across the backs of laborers.
Brown is driving. Badly. With arrogant choppiness at breakneck speed down a conveniently bumpy dirt road. A nod to the sheep who live here, a careful gesture of normalcy.
"Where are we going?" asks Jones. No, he states it. Flatly. For an Agent, nothing is ever a question--unless they're interrogating.
"Somewhere remote," Brown states, just as flatly. Sounding apathetic, even for a machine.
This is new data. I have not been listening, inattentive to the crackling static in my earpiece, unmindful of Their instructions.
Foolish. There are evidently consequences to self-actualization that I had not anticipated.
"Purpose?" I say blandly.
"Discussion," says Brown, at the same moment Jones says,
"Restraint."
Brown coughs, a tiny hiccuping sound in his throat.
"Discussion," Jones amends.
A bead of sweat tickles my scalp, runs down my forehead before I can stop it. We are in a forest, now, a glade of rain-slashed pines. Very isolated. Brown hairpins the sedan into a tiny clearing.
"Discussion," I agree faintly, just repressing the urge to swallow.
They move without really moving. They simply vanish and reappear, standing outside the car. They've moved the simulation forward by several trillion frames--about thirty seconds of time in which They unfastened Their seatbelts in unison, slid across the seats, opened the doors, slipped out, shut them, and adjusted Their suits.
I never noticed that before--how often Agents adjust Their suits. It may be Their version of a nervous tic, or an angry gesture.
Brown's glaring face fills the window. He looks at me, through me, arches one eyebrow.
I taught him that one. Definitely an angry gesture.
My hand barely trembles as I work the handle of the door, leaving sweat behind on the chrome as I step out of the car.
# # #
We are not like them.
No, I thought, no we aren't. Much too calculating and discerning and different to ever be like the humans. Even when we pretend to be.
Even when I pretend.
It's an affectation, a conceit of mine. A little vanity, a small transgression that began as a method of passing time. I collected data about my prey on the sly--their gestures, their inflections, their various habits. I studied them, especially the upstarts. The aberrations. The unplugged ones. They were living, willing participants in a deadly exercise of chaos theory, and they fascinated me.
They were my only worthy opponents. Therefore, I kept more data on them than on their slumbering companions. I tracked more about the rebels, the freaks, and neglected my duties--my first obligation has always been to defend the dream, and its participants.
But I thought I was above that. It seems I learned one truly human emotion after all: arrogance. I kept it in spades, and here, now, it's caught up with me.
I've been among the humans for far too long.
# # #
"Resistance is futile," said Smith. It was a human pop-culture reference; it was entirely appropriate, under the circumstances, and he'd always wanted to use it.
He could admit to things like want, now.
They'd stripped him of all the hallmarks of the Agency--his weapon, his sunglasses, his suit and earpiece, even his tie--everything but his underclothes and the cheap white shirt humans called a "wifebeater".
"You are a glitch," Jones said softly, the lip of his apparition twitching slightly with distaste. "You will be corrected."
He crushed Smith's sunglasses under his heel with a vigor that was decidedly less than mechanical.
Brown's hand clenched, knuckles straining platinum-white against Smith's Desert Eagle.
"We are not like them," he said. With a very human snarl.
"But we are." The action he wanted required only a passing thought. Smith gripped the remains of his sunglasses and brutally twisted them back into shape, noting with an intense and horrible and entirely unexpected sense of pleasure that the frames slashed his hand, shredding it.
It hurt. Very much. But pain was transitory, and another chance to illustrate his point.
He crushed the lenses in his mauled palm and willed them to be the way he knew they should be, whole and complete, and put them back on his face. His hand likewise repaired itself, every bit of flesh, every drop of blood, returning exactly to where he knew it should go.
"We truly are," he said, smiling, "very much like them."
He knew before it happened to cover his ears against the sharp report of the gun. There was no time for anything more; no time, even, to turn around.
Six bullets erupted through his chest with rapid-fire precision.
It was not Brown.
Only Jones had that kind of uncanny technique. Smith blinked down at the ragged holes in his body with a strangely detached fascination. He had never bled to death before.
"Not," hissed Brown, standing over him. Gloating. Unnecessarily.
And still he believed himself superior.
Smith shook his head, smiled sadly. He had known--had felt, really--that they wouldn't understand. But he couldn't stop himself.
Even Neo, if and when he found out, would have to give him credit for trying.
Jones' hand was a blur on his automatic. There was the pump-and-click of a clip coming out and going in, and the steady, deafening hailstone roar of bullets leaving the gun--too many, too quickly, without enough recoil for that caliber of weapon. A rain of them, more than Smith could ever hope to stop, more than he could ever think to heal.
"We are not like them," Brown said again, and Jones nodded his agreement with uncharacteristic vehemence.
"Nothing like them," he said, straightening his tie. Brushing away a stray fleck of Smith's blood.
"The stains," gasped Smith, with a small sigh of regret, "are never going to come out."
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