The Matrix. It hadn't changed much since the end of the war - if at all.
Not physically, anyway. The low murmur of vehicles on their way to work
still mingled with the buzz of conversation between those who chose to
walk. A horn honked.An occasional jet thrummed past in the drab, cloudy
sky overhead. People scowled, people smiled, people tripped over cracks in
the sidewalk and cursed. Whatever had happened a few weeks ago might never
have happened at all, as far as those hustling to work were concerned. A
few confused looks, a few knit brows, and people made their way home in
droves, silently and unanimously deciding that whatever had
happened.didn't.
The tabloids were all over it, of course, placing the blame on everything from aliens to mind-controlling terrorists, but nobody paid them much heed. There were clothes to be folded, there was dinner to fix. Work in the morning.
They wouldn't think about it at all if it weren't for the agents. Unsettling reminders of a sneering, impossibly strong figure looming over each of them in the rain and in the darkness, they seemed to be posted at every street corner - trying to blend in, and failing miserably. The few that were better at it held newspapers up at eyelevel - the ones that were worse merely stood and stared, their fists clenched at their sides as pedestrian traffic parted before them only to rush back together like a river striking a boulder in its path.
It was one of these that Axle was headed for now. Pushing through and against the shifting mass of humanity that was moving in the opposite direction, he watched the tall, unremarkable man before him glance irritably to his watch. If the agent's mannerisms put him out of place, then Axle's sleek clothing made him a poster boy for the absurd. He had tried upon re-entry to think of himself in more casual terms, but even so, he had wound up in a black leather jacket, black trousers, and black sunglasses. The agent was not impressed.
"You're late." He spoke up at once, his flat, monotone voice evoking a feeling of unavoidable dread in the back of Axle's mind. He suppressed it.
"Yeah, I know - I didn't think it'd be this busy this late in the morning." Anxiously loosening the collar of the black dress shirt beneath his black jacket, Axle looked quickly from side to side, wary of any passersby that might pause to listen in.
The agent, his nonplussed expression unchanging at the shorter man's excuse, chose to ignore the way Axle kept reaching subtly within his jacket - checking to make sure his gun was still there. They were told not to expect the humans to trust them, just as they were told not to trust any humans. It was the natural way of things.
"So how many've you seen?" Made all the more anxious by the agent's stolid silence, Axle squinted at individual faces as they passed on either side of him, trying to catch someone giving them a sidelong look or a worried glance. They all seemed to be oblivious.
"Two. Their numbers have been severely reduced over the past several days." The agent returned after a moment, the right corner of his mouth twitching downward slightly, taking in Axle's slicked back hair and trim goatee with marked disapproval. Humans. At least he had the good sense to wear sunglasses. "One is dressed in a blue pinstriped suit." Replying to Axle's arched brow, he began to run down the list of descriptive qualities that humans tended to require. Merely listing the past duties of a program was never enough to give one what they needed to recognize what they were looking for. "Short, stocky, gray hair, blue eyes, carrying a steel suitcase...."
All over the city, similar meetings were taking place. On every fifth street corner on the grid, agents were meeting with whatever of Zion's cavalry had managed to survive. Some were newly trained and didn't have any real problem with their new partners. Others, like Axle, had been shot at enough to be more than a little concerned about their own safety.
The short, stocky man with gray hair and blue eyes knew all about this. He had heard it was happening - as a matter of fact, he had seen it happening all over the city. His non-descript appearance had usually been enough to avoid any unwanted attention, but today he had noticed that one agent staring at him through the mass of commuters that swarmed around him.
Stepping over a dirty, ragged bum who happened to reek distinctly of alcohol, he fumbled with the grubby key in his hands and stepped up to the door he knew as one of many entrances to Hell. Many had been closed for good as a result of what was going on - but he had heard from a reliable source that this one was still functioning.
Taking a deep breath, he shoved the key into the lock and twisted it, glancing over his shoulder to the entrance of the alleyway far behind him. It was empty except for the hung over, sleeping bum - and with a soiled newspaper covering his face it was unlikely that he'd see or remember anything of the short, gray-haired man. Stooping to pick up the suitcase at his side and slapping his other hand over the lump under his suit to reassure himself, he swung the door open, and stared at what was revealed.
A brick wall.
Whirling, his eyes snapping wildly back to the alley's mouth, he now saw two figures - one tall, and one less so. One in a suit, and one in a leather jacket. His jaw dropped, as did the steel suitcase, which was enough to prompt the bum to sit up groggily, one hand reaching up slowly to feel at the newspaper over his face.
"I'm afraid Hell is closed today, Sir." The growl of Axle's low voice drifted to the short man's ears, even as he turned to slap a hand against the hard brick, not quite believing that it was there. Taking a step forward into the alley, Axle pulled the gun from his own jacket slowly, advancing as one would approach a rabid boar. "Would you be so kind as to come with us so that we might dispose of you properly? My buddy here tells me he's got other things to do. People to see, renegade programs to fry."
"Leave me alone!" Furious and pleading at the same time, the short man tried to reach clumsily for his own gun, but a rapid shot to the knee from the agent dropped him like a sack of coal. Crying out, his back against the alley wall, he looked up to Axle with something that he'd been seeing a lot of lately in his eyes - fear. But programs couldn't really be afraid, just as they couldn't be happy, or sad, or love, or anything else, for that matter.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, 'cos if I did, I'd be out of a job. Now, is this the only entrance you know of?" Patronizing as he placed the nose of the gun neatly between the program's eyes, Axle knit his brows a bit. "Quickly, now. You aren't the only one I'm after today."
The man spat on his shoes and snatched his gun. Perhaps fortunately, that's all he had time to do. Before his saliva had spattered on Axle's black boots, the left half of his head was splattered over the front of Axle's black jacket, boots, and sunglasses.
"AUGH!" Gagging, Axle staggered back away from the program, who, having slumped limply over onto his side, stared blankly ahead with his one remaining eye. "What the hell did you do that for?" Whirling to glare at the agent approaching at a steady pace, he threw his hands up to his face to swipe at bits of red goo and slivers of bone that had splattered over his angry expression.
"You said yourself that I had other things to do. We do not have time to ask pointless questions." Expressionless, as usual, he looked past the gore- coated human to focus on the bum climbing to his feet behind him. Already, he was lifting his gun to take aim, but Axle raised a hand hastily, stopping him.
"Woah, woah, woah, hold it there, buddy.This guy is drunk off his ass.He probably didn't hear anything, and if he did, he isn't going to remember it."
"He is a risk nonetheless."
"Who's going to believe him if he says anything?"
"It doesn't matter."
"The Deal dealt with programs only, not innocent people."
Lowering his gun, but not putting it away, the agent strode forward to place a hand on the shoulder of the bum in order to turn him around - perhaps to assess his sobriety. Whatever it was that he was planning on doing, he didn't get to do it.
The bum whirled, ramming his fist into the agent's stomach with one hand and ripping the gun from his possession with the other. Before man or machine could react, the agent was being held up against the wall, with the bum's fingers wrapped firmly around his neck. His dark glasses askew, the agent stared down at his captor with a look that resembled, to a point, shock, his monotone voice rasping out one word that sent a shiver down Axle's spine: "Smith!"
His suit ragged and torn, his hair mangy, and his skin darkened with smeared dirt and grease, it seemed a mere shadow of the monster that had nearly caused the utter destruction of two worlds had the agent pinned, but there was no mistaking the malice in his icy blue eyes. He tightened his grip, there was the sound of neck vertebrae snapping out of place, and the sizzle and buzz of shifting code as the agent promptly became an elderly woman in a musty mink coat and slid lifelessly down the wall to slump across the twitching body of the program. Smith turned, his teeth bared in a snarl that would send most Dobermans running - his cold eyes wild with hate. Axle took a step back. Smith took a step forward.
"Go ahead, run. Run back and tell them that I'm still here. That I'm still alive.That I see them in the streets - smell them - taste them in the air. I know that your savior is dead. I've killed him. Twice, actually, but who's keeping score?" There he paused to suck in a shaky breath, his head turned to the old woman's still body laid across that of the old man's, his lips curled back into a sneer. "The fact of the matter is that I don't think he's going to be coming back this time."
Axle fired. The bullets lingered in the air between them for what seemed like an eternity, then clattered to the ground at their feet. Neither man moved - then, very slowly, Smith tilted his head to the side and crouched to lift a bullet in the process of rolling slowly along the shattered concrete at his feet, one brow twitching upward.
Axle ran, the echo of Smith's dark laughter thundering down the alley at his heels.
The tabloids were all over it, of course, placing the blame on everything from aliens to mind-controlling terrorists, but nobody paid them much heed. There were clothes to be folded, there was dinner to fix. Work in the morning.
They wouldn't think about it at all if it weren't for the agents. Unsettling reminders of a sneering, impossibly strong figure looming over each of them in the rain and in the darkness, they seemed to be posted at every street corner - trying to blend in, and failing miserably. The few that were better at it held newspapers up at eyelevel - the ones that were worse merely stood and stared, their fists clenched at their sides as pedestrian traffic parted before them only to rush back together like a river striking a boulder in its path.
It was one of these that Axle was headed for now. Pushing through and against the shifting mass of humanity that was moving in the opposite direction, he watched the tall, unremarkable man before him glance irritably to his watch. If the agent's mannerisms put him out of place, then Axle's sleek clothing made him a poster boy for the absurd. He had tried upon re-entry to think of himself in more casual terms, but even so, he had wound up in a black leather jacket, black trousers, and black sunglasses. The agent was not impressed.
"You're late." He spoke up at once, his flat, monotone voice evoking a feeling of unavoidable dread in the back of Axle's mind. He suppressed it.
"Yeah, I know - I didn't think it'd be this busy this late in the morning." Anxiously loosening the collar of the black dress shirt beneath his black jacket, Axle looked quickly from side to side, wary of any passersby that might pause to listen in.
The agent, his nonplussed expression unchanging at the shorter man's excuse, chose to ignore the way Axle kept reaching subtly within his jacket - checking to make sure his gun was still there. They were told not to expect the humans to trust them, just as they were told not to trust any humans. It was the natural way of things.
"So how many've you seen?" Made all the more anxious by the agent's stolid silence, Axle squinted at individual faces as they passed on either side of him, trying to catch someone giving them a sidelong look or a worried glance. They all seemed to be oblivious.
"Two. Their numbers have been severely reduced over the past several days." The agent returned after a moment, the right corner of his mouth twitching downward slightly, taking in Axle's slicked back hair and trim goatee with marked disapproval. Humans. At least he had the good sense to wear sunglasses. "One is dressed in a blue pinstriped suit." Replying to Axle's arched brow, he began to run down the list of descriptive qualities that humans tended to require. Merely listing the past duties of a program was never enough to give one what they needed to recognize what they were looking for. "Short, stocky, gray hair, blue eyes, carrying a steel suitcase...."
All over the city, similar meetings were taking place. On every fifth street corner on the grid, agents were meeting with whatever of Zion's cavalry had managed to survive. Some were newly trained and didn't have any real problem with their new partners. Others, like Axle, had been shot at enough to be more than a little concerned about their own safety.
The short, stocky man with gray hair and blue eyes knew all about this. He had heard it was happening - as a matter of fact, he had seen it happening all over the city. His non-descript appearance had usually been enough to avoid any unwanted attention, but today he had noticed that one agent staring at him through the mass of commuters that swarmed around him.
Stepping over a dirty, ragged bum who happened to reek distinctly of alcohol, he fumbled with the grubby key in his hands and stepped up to the door he knew as one of many entrances to Hell. Many had been closed for good as a result of what was going on - but he had heard from a reliable source that this one was still functioning.
Taking a deep breath, he shoved the key into the lock and twisted it, glancing over his shoulder to the entrance of the alleyway far behind him. It was empty except for the hung over, sleeping bum - and with a soiled newspaper covering his face it was unlikely that he'd see or remember anything of the short, gray-haired man. Stooping to pick up the suitcase at his side and slapping his other hand over the lump under his suit to reassure himself, he swung the door open, and stared at what was revealed.
A brick wall.
Whirling, his eyes snapping wildly back to the alley's mouth, he now saw two figures - one tall, and one less so. One in a suit, and one in a leather jacket. His jaw dropped, as did the steel suitcase, which was enough to prompt the bum to sit up groggily, one hand reaching up slowly to feel at the newspaper over his face.
"I'm afraid Hell is closed today, Sir." The growl of Axle's low voice drifted to the short man's ears, even as he turned to slap a hand against the hard brick, not quite believing that it was there. Taking a step forward into the alley, Axle pulled the gun from his own jacket slowly, advancing as one would approach a rabid boar. "Would you be so kind as to come with us so that we might dispose of you properly? My buddy here tells me he's got other things to do. People to see, renegade programs to fry."
"Leave me alone!" Furious and pleading at the same time, the short man tried to reach clumsily for his own gun, but a rapid shot to the knee from the agent dropped him like a sack of coal. Crying out, his back against the alley wall, he looked up to Axle with something that he'd been seeing a lot of lately in his eyes - fear. But programs couldn't really be afraid, just as they couldn't be happy, or sad, or love, or anything else, for that matter.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, 'cos if I did, I'd be out of a job. Now, is this the only entrance you know of?" Patronizing as he placed the nose of the gun neatly between the program's eyes, Axle knit his brows a bit. "Quickly, now. You aren't the only one I'm after today."
The man spat on his shoes and snatched his gun. Perhaps fortunately, that's all he had time to do. Before his saliva had spattered on Axle's black boots, the left half of his head was splattered over the front of Axle's black jacket, boots, and sunglasses.
"AUGH!" Gagging, Axle staggered back away from the program, who, having slumped limply over onto his side, stared blankly ahead with his one remaining eye. "What the hell did you do that for?" Whirling to glare at the agent approaching at a steady pace, he threw his hands up to his face to swipe at bits of red goo and slivers of bone that had splattered over his angry expression.
"You said yourself that I had other things to do. We do not have time to ask pointless questions." Expressionless, as usual, he looked past the gore- coated human to focus on the bum climbing to his feet behind him. Already, he was lifting his gun to take aim, but Axle raised a hand hastily, stopping him.
"Woah, woah, woah, hold it there, buddy.This guy is drunk off his ass.He probably didn't hear anything, and if he did, he isn't going to remember it."
"He is a risk nonetheless."
"Who's going to believe him if he says anything?"
"It doesn't matter."
"The Deal dealt with programs only, not innocent people."
Lowering his gun, but not putting it away, the agent strode forward to place a hand on the shoulder of the bum in order to turn him around - perhaps to assess his sobriety. Whatever it was that he was planning on doing, he didn't get to do it.
The bum whirled, ramming his fist into the agent's stomach with one hand and ripping the gun from his possession with the other. Before man or machine could react, the agent was being held up against the wall, with the bum's fingers wrapped firmly around his neck. His dark glasses askew, the agent stared down at his captor with a look that resembled, to a point, shock, his monotone voice rasping out one word that sent a shiver down Axle's spine: "Smith!"
His suit ragged and torn, his hair mangy, and his skin darkened with smeared dirt and grease, it seemed a mere shadow of the monster that had nearly caused the utter destruction of two worlds had the agent pinned, but there was no mistaking the malice in his icy blue eyes. He tightened his grip, there was the sound of neck vertebrae snapping out of place, and the sizzle and buzz of shifting code as the agent promptly became an elderly woman in a musty mink coat and slid lifelessly down the wall to slump across the twitching body of the program. Smith turned, his teeth bared in a snarl that would send most Dobermans running - his cold eyes wild with hate. Axle took a step back. Smith took a step forward.
"Go ahead, run. Run back and tell them that I'm still here. That I'm still alive.That I see them in the streets - smell them - taste them in the air. I know that your savior is dead. I've killed him. Twice, actually, but who's keeping score?" There he paused to suck in a shaky breath, his head turned to the old woman's still body laid across that of the old man's, his lips curled back into a sneer. "The fact of the matter is that I don't think he's going to be coming back this time."
Axle fired. The bullets lingered in the air between them for what seemed like an eternity, then clattered to the ground at their feet. Neither man moved - then, very slowly, Smith tilted his head to the side and crouched to lift a bullet in the process of rolling slowly along the shattered concrete at his feet, one brow twitching upward.
Axle ran, the echo of Smith's dark laughter thundering down the alley at his heels.