Disclaimer: I don't own Agent Smith from the Matrix trilogy (even though I wish I do!). I'm just messing with his programming and promise to hand him back to the W. brothers when I'm done
Author's Notes: This is a Smith fic, a PWP (Plot? What Plot?) thing. Enjoy.
*~*~*~*~*
His eyelids fluttered open.
Where am I?
He stared at the sky, at the wispy clouds cluttering the heavens. A blade of grass tickled his ear.
What happened?
He struggled to his feet, every muscle in his being groaning in protest.
He looked down at himself, at his once pristine suit and scowled.
Mr. Anderson…
Smith blinked. He remembered the fight...
The end of it…
I was destroyed… again…
He studied his surroundings – a large open field with long overgrown grass stretched as far as the eye can see, spiced with the colours of occasional flowers. Trees, with long arms swathed in thick green foliage reached for the golden sun.
He frowned.
Where am I?
Am I dead?
He smirked slightly.
Dead? He cannot be dead. Not in the natural sense of the word anyway. He was a program, an Agent, or rather, was an Agent. One of the most feared program; Agent Smith, the deadliest of Agents, the Gatekeeper of the Matrix.
Strange, how the title no longer applied to him.
He was now Ex-Agent Smith, the Rogue program, the Virus, the Renegade.
Was now? Or just was?
What am I now?
The program cocked his head to the side, running a check on his subroutines.
What am I now?
What is my purpose?
Before, he was an Agent, designed and program for a singular purpose; to uphold the sanctity within the Matrix.
Then, his programming was tainted by the anomaly; The One, Neo.
Mr. Anderson…
He had lost his purpose then. The Mainframe had rejected him.
Smith's digit clenched unconsciously. He glared lethally at a random flower, a growl beginning at his throat.
Why? He demanded, why abandon me? Why was I rejected? Was I flawed?
Why?
WHY?!
He jerked in surprise.
What is this?
A finger rose to his cheek.
What is this?
He wiped away his tears angrily.
Tears…
He had tears?
He was shocked; his programming had allowed the simulation of frustrated tears?
Smith grimaced.
How weak I have become…
Reduced to this! To tears!
Emotions are a weakness!
He struggled to curb these new sensations, the emotions.
What was he now? At present?
He stared at a random direction, a frown on his normally stoic countenance.
Hesitantly, he took a step forward.
Where am I?
He walked. His footsteps falling quietly, bruising the green grass beneath his soles. Step after step he took, one foot in front of another, in a straight line.
Purpose… what is my purpose?
What am I?
When his programming rejected the System, he made the assimilation of The One as his purpose, his self-appointed purpose.
But now… what?
Mr. Anderson was gone, no longer a thorn in his side.
So what now?
Lost… a niggling voice whispered from the depth of his tormented mind, lost and without a purpose…
Without a purpose...
He cast a glance over his shoulder.
There is nothing here for me…
He sighed and trudged onward silently, head bowed under the weight and the burden of his memories.
A program on his pilgrimage…
*~*~*~*~*
THE END