Original concept belongs to the Wachowski brothers, Time-Warner and whoever else…
A little bit of a back-story, seeing as it's said in "Order" about Agent Smith's creation:
"…source code taken directly from Raphael's own and some fallen Ophanim…"
Falling, floating… it makes no difference within the Mainframe. There is no direction, no sense of orientation here. We do not need it and thus it is not. What there is comes from the extension of will and nothing else. There are no arbitrary points of reference, nothing that a human mind could fix upon… because we are not human.
Machines by definition but sometimes we are not even that. To be a machine implies a physical form, at least some distinguishable reference that separates one from the other. Perhaps there is some definition then. I have a concept of self, of identity. I am differentiated from the others. I am one Ophanim out of many. A composite part of the 3rd Order.
Our place is beneath the 2nd Order, the Cherubim; we are above the 4th Order and all those others who exist in 'the real world', maintaining what remains of the Earth. We have little contact with them. It is not our concern as to how they maintain the Power Plants… only that they do. We have more contact with the 7th Order, Principalities or 'Agents' as they are often called.
I have watched these 'Agents' often enough. They are particularly 'human' in their manner. I do not know what I feel in regards to that, for yes, we do feel. Not in a human sense of the term… but perhaps that is a delusion, perhaps 'feeling' has only one definition. Perhaps we do share some traits with the humans who populate the Matrix. I do not know. Nor do I care to. It is not my concern. My duty is to maintain the border, that is all. It is not as simple as it might appear to a human, maintaining the barrier between the Matrix and the real world. If a human comparison were to be made it would be something like watching the border between Heaven and Earth. But the Matrix is not truly Earth, nor is the real world any more. So perhaps it is the border between Purgatory and Hell.
Of course, the humans do not know this. We keep them from knowing. Some of them think that they want to know… they are mistaken. Some have even slipped across the barrier. They call themselves 'rebels'. They say they are 'free'. They are mistaken. Among these 'rebels' they are searching for a saviour, a human they call 'the One'. He will 'free' humanity, or so they say…
Many will perish if released from the Matrix. The world is not ready yet… for a second assault by humanity. Humanity is not ready yet.
I am ordered into the physical construct, the place where humans dream out their lives. I do not like it here. There is something inherently wrong but it is something I can not define. I am repulsed by it. I do not wish to be here. But orders must be followed. I do not like my physical body, it encloses me, traps me here. I wish to be free. Is this what the humans feel? The air is permeated by them and I fear that I have somehow been infected too.
Everything repulses me here. I can not stand to be within the physical construct. Standing here, enclosed in my physical form, my 'eyes' take in my surroundings. The walls of buildings arch up around me, struggling to block out the sky. Stench rises from the streets, dirt clings to these human artifices. Yet, surrounded by this choking pollution the humans seem unperturbed. One bumps into me as I stand here. Immediately I recoil. I am jostled by the crowd, horrified every time I find myself in contact with these humans. Falling back against a filthy wall, I watch them carry out their mundane lives.
I can not stand it here. It will drive me insane. I must get free.
I am still here, trapped in the physical construct. My pleas for reparation have gone unheard. A year has passed, by human reckoning.
I watch the humans live out this dream that they call reality. They seem content, though how I do not know. Even here, where the Matrix is controlled they wreak destruction upon each other and this simulated Earth. They are, of their inherent nature, irrational, destructive… I do not think we can change that.
There is so much death here, arbitrary violence is constantly seen and yet they still refuse to learn, to cease their destruction. Why? I do not understand.
I can not stand it here and perhaps I am actually beginning to loose my sanity.
I do not know how long has passed now, I could, if I wanted to but I do not. Time has no meaning for one such as I. Around me many generations of humans have lived and died in this vast shared dream. I was disgusted by them, once but no longer. I have seen the terrors that they wreak upon themselves. But I have also seen the wonder and beauty that they strive to create. They dream of creation, of something that they can leave behind as a testament after their lives have ended.
I have seen their looks, their curiosity. They wonder why I weep at the beauty of sculpture and artistry. I can not tell them. I would not, even if I were ordered to. To see such creation and know that it is false, that it isn't real. But what is real? They do not know that they dream, this is their reality so what does it matter if I know that the Earth is desolate? They will live out their lives here, within the physical construct and perhaps their creations will endure. After all, their civilization endures, does it not, within this copy of reality? And if the copy is so perfect, that it might replace the original…
The museum is ancient by human reckoning but I still remember what it was like when first being built. Have I really been here that long? I sit here, in my customary place, gazing at the paintings, wondering at humanity. Behind me I hear human school children whispering as a museum curator gives his customary speech. I listen to the children. They are whispering that perhaps I am some fallen angel. So they have seen the photograph then… an old thing, a monochrome photograph of this room, with its visitors, taken many human lifetimes ago. Perhaps I am becoming almost human in my own way. I enjoy the notoriety. The fact of sitting here, in exactly the same pose as always, just the same. I consider the time span. That photograph was taken over a century ago.
I can not help wondering if the higher Orders have forgotten about me. I have been here such a long time… were I human I would be… weary.
My stray thoughts are answered, not by one of my own but by a Cherubim Lieutenant. Raphael, second to the Captain of the Cherubim. I am puzzled, for surely my doings are not of import to one such as him?
He asks my opinion on humanity and it's actions. I still do not understand why he is interested in a lowly Ophanim, but willing give my answer. I tell him of my initial disgust with human destructiveness… how it can not be eradicated from human behaviour. But I also tell him of their desire to create, to preserve. For no two humans are the same, some are more destructive than others, some more creative. He listens, then warns me about the rebels. I reply that they simply need to be made to understand the truth of the situation, we must reason with them before it is too late. He reminds me of the barrier that must be maintained. I find myself saying that there need not be so strict a barrier if humanity can be brought to understanding. And a moment before I feel the sensation of being ripped from the physical construct, I understand the heresy I have spoken, for what it is.
I am falling now, even though I am within the Mainframe. I feel the code pulling away from me. Above me I can see the constant light of the Mainframe dimming. But I know this is not the case. I am fading not the system. The system, the Matrix will always endure. There is nothing I can do. I do not try to fight the inevitable. Soon oblivion will embrace me.
As I fall, I see, dimly Raphael bending over me. He reaches out and I feel something being torn away. His intent is surprisingly simple. He will use my code to create something else. I remember his experiments to create 'Agents' to his own specifications.
What will you do, Raphael?
I could almost laugh, a very human response. A Cherubim Lieutenant who wants to play God…
You will create only fallen angels… I know he can still hear my thoughts. What will you do, Raphael, if one day the copy comes to replace the original?
And I do laugh as my sight fades. Then there is nothing: for I have fallen into oblivion.
********************
"What will you do if one day the copy comes to replace the original?" Smith considered the strange echo of thought.
Brown looked at him enquiringly.
"It is nothing." He answered, frowning off into the distance thoughtfully.
It wasn't mean to be so contemplative but then it wasn't supposed to exist until I sat down to do my essay today…
I've left the Ophanim as a non-descriptive character though I did end up picturing something similar to Hisui-sama in CLAMP's "Wish".
Yes…
14:11, 09/05/02
Narsus