Eyes threw the door open, wishing she felt one-quarter as careless as she was acting. The incandescent lights in the Art-Deco-ish sconces flickered with their familiar, near inaudible crackle, draping the room in warm, musty light. She sauntered past the battered, overstuffed couch that curved around a glass-and-steel table. A bonsai rose out of the smooth glass, elegant, serene, a small and treasured testament to Order in the midst of all this chaos. "Make y'self at home," she called from the adjacent kitchen. In fact, all the place seemed to consist of was the living room, the kitchen, and a loft above it overflowing with books.

"Ya want somethin' t'drink? Wine, coffee, soda, water..."

"No." Short. Very short. She hoped that wasn't irritation in his voice...

Aww, shit, shit, shit, and furthermore, shit. What the living hell was she doing? This guy wasn't one to fuck around with. And what was she doing? That's right. Fucking around. The damn Fed was going to bust a cap in her ass any second now--

~Calm, Marie. He can't very well shoot you for hospitality, now, can he?~

"Suit y'self," she answered the Fed, stooping to the contents of the refrigerator.

"Hey, Ned," she hissed, well under her breath, "Scotch or Perrier?"

~Better go with the Perrier. Government agents tend to frown on underage drinking.~

"Right."

The fizz of the carbonation, the crack of the ice... Wonderful. Still, as she cradled the spun-glass goblet, (a payment from a grad school customer gifted in glasswork but not theoretical physics,) she couldn't help but wonder if this near-perfect drink would be her last...

There was no way that Morpheus could sleep. He paced the Spartan bunker, restless as a caged panther. His footsteps rang out like a judge's gavel, listing his crimes. The crew deserved an explanation, a reason for having watched the girl for this long. For the peril-fraught, brief excursions into the Matrix over her... He paused, tapping the casing of his console, the one luxury he allowed himself. Where was Typhus? The fact that he'd not been able to contact her for this long, well, it worried him. Add that to his failure to know precisely what it was they were looking for in Eyes-of-Lawrence... Sloppy. And sloppiness was fatal in this harsh world.

He needed to find Typhus, to find out what she knew, and what he needed to know. Despairing, he punched up the Ma'at's code in his console, hoping against reason.

*************************

Searching for target ZSF:MNR: (PSA: 101.5 [94.18] {91:4.8.14-15}...

Acquired.

Sending request... Accepted.

Connecting... Initializing transmission.

*************************

Morpheus smiled at the pixie-like face that fizzled into existence on the console's screen, framed as it was by short, spiked silver-white hair. "Yo, Morph, what up? How's that Neo kid doin'? Ya'll alright after, well... ya know..." She looked rather sheepish on the last line, as much as she could get through the slight static.

"We're fine, Thread. But why has your line been closed all this time?"

"Oh, that. Well, Shakes has been working on the bitch for-EVER. I mean, ever. Finally got the communications up again. You shoulda seen Ty. Lady don' like flyin' mute."

"Understandable...I trust Shakespeare's well?"

"Oh, yeah. Shakes is great. We're all hangin' in here. But I trust this ain't purely a social call?"

"Perceptive, Thread. Is Typhus awake?"

"I don' think she even sleeps. 'Old on, I'll get her."

Thread darted off the screen, leaving the faintly Art-Noveau interior of the Ma'at. A few moments, some faint scuffling in the background, and Typhus slid on the screen, slipping on the headset. She was a woman of distinct Arabic descent, with a squared jaw, chiseled features, an elegant, slightly hooked nose, and glorious thick black hair that fell in locks around her face. A black tattoo swooped down from the corner of one eye nearly to her full lips. She smiled like a sphinx. "Morpheus." Her voice was spiced coffee, smoky and sweet. "Good to talk to you again. To what do I owe this singular honor?"

"Hello, Typhus." He felt the smile creeping across his face. "As much as I wish this was a social call, I need information. I've been trying to call you for quite some time now..."

She sighed, glancing offscreen a moment. "Alright. What do you need, old friend?"

"I need to know about Catalysts... I may have found one."

"Jesus, Morph, first the One, now a Catalyst... What's next, the last Siamese twins?" She sighed. "I suppose you'll want to wake this one up, then. Just you, Tank, Trinity, and this Neo kid, and you're gonna unplug another one..." Quietly, now. "You should have recruited when you were in Zion for... their funerary rites. Crap. I am sorry, Morpheus. Truly. But how you're running that bucket of bolts with that small of a crew..."

"It was not yet time."

"I understand.... Does this supposed Catalyst have a name?"

"Eyes-of-Lawrence. She's an intelligent thing, and seems capable enough."

She waved it away. "Immaterial. What you need to know is... well, it's a lot. I've not been able to tell you much, and I apologize for that. Shakespeare's been working like a demon on the communications... No matter. Catalysts. You're going to have to be careful with this one, as they don't take to the process of rebuilding well. Outwardly, and sometimes physically, it's not so bad, but they tend to have more severe psychological trauma from the experience than most.... What else? Hm."

Morpheus sat, patient, listening intently as she continued. "I'll send some more specific files on that..." Keys clacking faintly in the static-fringed background. "Sending..."

A few moments, as the connection labored. "I've got them."

"Wondrous. Now, you know that these Catalysts have certain.... power, in the Matrix."

"Yes..."

Her voice was distant, faraway, like recalling ancient text, eyes turned inward and glazed. "The nature of this power is not well-known, due to the sheer rarity of it's occurrence, but several things have been consistent in all documented cases." She blinked, coming closer to the surface for a moment. "Those should be in your files, too..." She slipped back into her trance-like state. "Whereas the phenomenal power of the First was based on the ability to strip away the illusion of the Matrix, the lesser power of Catalysts seems to derive from the ability to strengthen the Matrix. Due to this, Catalysts seem to have extremely turbulent mental states, and the transition from the Matrix to the Real World tends to be more traumatic than for others. Also, as a result of their close attunement to the Matrix, they can best fathom the minds of Agents and other forms of AI. Unfortunately, this causes a disturbingly high percentage of defections to the other side. A Catalyst turned to AI is one of the single most fearsome weapons in the Machines' arsenal." She blinked, slowly, coming back to herself. "There was some side note, too, about how they can either light up their radar or slip beneath it, as the situation requires. But God, I hope you know what you're doing..."

"So do I, Typhus. So do I..." He reached to terminate the conversation.

"Hey, wait. I'll be damned if I'm not getting in on this. I mean, you really don't want this one going over to Them. You're going to need my help, understaffed as you are. So come on, send me your coordinates." She looked like a child pleading with a strict parent, plaintive. It was hard to tell through all the damn static, though.

He managed a chuckle. "Alright. I'm sending them now. Tank's going to love this..."

"Wondrous." She grinned, brilliant ivory against cinnamon and mocha.

The resonating clang of boots on the Nebuchanezzar's deck. Tank burst into Morpheus' room, panting. "Eyes... Smith... n'her 'partment..."

"Smith?" He turned to the console. "Get here when you can, Typhus. Morpheus out." He flicked it off, and raced to the Core, at Tank's heels.

"You can sit, ya know. The couch may squeak, but it usually don' bite." This was Eyes' carefully nonchalant, faintly smart-assed remark to the stoic Agent Smith, standing rigid as a pillar in her living room. She flopped down onto the beaten couch sipping at her Perrier and carefully ignoring how utterly fluid, yet mechanical, the man's movements were as he slipped into place opposite her, across the smooth glass table.

"Miss Lawrence, this is most assuredly not a social call." She could almost feel the slight growl in the back of his voice, maybe in the way that his R's tended to be ever so slightly elongated.

Yep, she was gonna die. One way or another. She set the goblet down on the table with a slight chink!, leaning back. "Well, I figured that much. What is it I c'n do ya for, Agent Smith?" She allowed herself the slightest hint of a mocking emphasis on his title, little more than a breath, really, fighting down the smirk that was tugging at the muscles of her lips. Hell, if she was gonna go out, she was gonna have fun with it. Right? Of course. Yeah. Right. That was it... Sure thing, Marie. Uh-huh.

"I need information regarding a woman that may have contacted you recently. Perhaps a customer, with a Triumph Speed Triple...?"

He was waiting for her to give something away, that much was obvious. She didn't bat an eyelash, merely waited for him to continue. The Speed Triple was underneath the tarp, downstairs. And she'd had to pry .45 rounds out of it... She thought either Magnum or Desert Eagle, but wasn't sure. And the lady who'd brought in the damn thing... Whew! Kick-ass, in black leather that was like some sort of second skin. Payment would come later, in the form of a choice... some mysticism junk like that. Still, it was fun, and she met simply the most interesting people that way... And retained her expression, quirking a brow for him to go on.

"This woman goes by the alias of Trinity. Now, whatever it is--"

Shit! Yeah, that had been the one... Okay, let's try this... "Look, man, I'd love to help you. Honestly. I would. But all information regarding my clients is strictly and purely confidential. I'm sorry, but--" She started to stand, holding her hands up in a gesture of 'nope, no can do.'

"Sit down, Miss Lawrence." He fixed her with a gaze that could have either melted steel or frozen the sun, depending on how you wanted to look at it, even behind the smooth dark shades. Somehow, that made it even worse, not being able to see where he was looking, but just the barest outline of his eyes. She sat. Quickly. "This woman is known to belong to an extremely dangerous and highly fanatical terrorist group, one considered by many to be among the most dangerous individuals alive."

"Woah. Hold on. This has to do with me... Why? It's in my contract, the confidentiality clause. Aside from professional pride and my reputation to consider, that's my word of honor. Besides, I don't know anything. If I did, I couldn't tell you." She paused. Man, was she ever going to die... "Look, I'm sorry. Really."

"Miss Lawrence, you obviously fail to understand the severity of the issue. This is more than your trifling 'professional honor' at stake. This is an issue of international security. By refusing to comply, you could be charged with high treason against this country."

Silence. He had to be bluffing... Right?

~You'll be fine, Marie. You're doing fine.~ Ned's reassuring murmur in her ear. She hoped he was right... Some other, more removed part of her brain noted Smith's peculiar inflections in his voice. Almost a lilt, not quite an accent.. It was fascinating, the kind of fascinating that could drive you mad from perusal. He continued.

"Aside from treason, there is the fact that you regularly display signs of... pathological behavior. By any accounts, a young woman that speaks to persons not present as if they were standing in front of her ought to be institutionalized. There are numerous incidents on file where you appear to be conversing with a man named 'Ned...' These are signs of dangerous schizophrenia, Miss Lawrence."

She felt her blood marrow chill to the shattering point. ~Oh, shit...~ Well, that little comment certainly boosted her confidence... her voice was a chill whisper. "What the hell are you implying?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you spent two years rehabilitating in a state-mandated mental facility..." He slipped off his sunglasses, carefully dislodging the earpeice along with them. His voice was just a bit less hard, like the difference between marble and sandstone.... And for a moment she was stunned by his eyes. They were a most unnatural, electric ice blue, vivid and intense. Like she could see the fabric of the world around her in them, if she looked deep enough. "However..." And this was a long, long pause, as if he was considering something from every possible angle. Finally, "I do not think I should like to see you in such a place..."

She looked at him a moment, head tilted to the side, brow furrowed slightly. He'd been threatening her all night, was very likely shooting at her earlier this evening, and he didn't want to see her in a mental institution? And yet, it made some sort of sense... "Look, Agent Smith, I'm thinkin' maybe there's--"

Gunshots. Very loud, very close. Alleyway. Shit... His head whipped around, sunglasses and earpeice in place, a growl rising from his throat. He was up, striding to the wall...

And punched straight through it.

"Holy shit..."

~Holy shit...~ It was simultaneous. Eyes stared in horror, mouth hanging open, until realization dawned. "Hey! Hey, you fuck, that's my wall!" It was too late. The ass-kicking party had begun.