Usual disclaimers: I don't own The Matrix or associated characters and I'm not making a profit.
Honeyed Code
I'm a vial of poison with a musky scent that turns women's eyes green. I've feet that can't wear anything that isn't stiletto heeled. I've porcelain skin, rosed cheeks, Nordic blue eyes - more English rose than sun-kissed blonde - a fleshy ice maiden. I've an endless supply of dresses, all scarlet, all slashed to the thigh, worn with stockings. I can never not wear make-up. Wherever I go I walk the red carpet. If I had a voice, it would the deep, husky breathy song of a thousand starlets. In short, I was created by a man. Destined to forever be the younger second wife, the blonde trophy, the seductive doll.
I'm coded to turn heads.
The target's usually easy to spot. He'll be nervous, unsure, trying to listen to Morpheus and wondering what kind of a test this is. I'm the honeytrap. They all fall for it, just as everyone falls first time. He was different though. Oh, he was as nervous as the rest. He turned to look at me too. But I wanted to look back. All the others, I'd dismissed. I'd built to be a marriage-wreaker. No one gave me the capacity to love. If you're a heartbreaker, you can't afford to care whose heart you break.
I looked back.
Why? To see a tailored suit over a tall, toned body? Hardly: the construct creates a positive self-image ad nothing hardens a body quicker than war. To see those dark eyes, more curious than lust? Forgive me, I prefer blonds.
I looked back because I saw what Trinity was beginning to suspect. Here was a man whose marriage when he fell in love, not even I could break.