Smith took precisely .034 seconds to calculate the angle of the trajectory needed for a successful landing from the gaping hole in the side of the building to the alleyway below. The delay was in part due to his mind processing problems elsewhere. Namely, the female human, Marie Lawrence, alias "Eyes-of-Lawrence."

And that smell…

In her apartment, it had been nearly overpowering, approaching heady. Frankly, he was amazed that he had been able to keep up any semblance of interrogation at all. Normally, any human with such a degree of insolence would not have been tolerated, if not for that distracting smell. He'd have to file it away to analyze more fully later. Such a thing induced a sort of serene fascination, almost what the humans would use as a drug. It was conductive of obsession, of intrigue, of…

Weakness. It was conductive of weakness. Which sent his programming into an incapacitating tizzy. He hated it. Loathed it. It made him hollow, sapped his virtual might. But, strangely enough, this particular brand of weakness was… not unpleasant. Nor was the odd set of stimuli that seemed to induce it. Namely, her smell. Dusky and vital, scintillating… It had much the same effect as the scent of a cave, impossibly ancient, yet potent, teeming with an unseen life (or potential thereof). Hers was warmer, though, spicy and sleek.

The complexity and elegance of it was matched only by the structure of her eyes. Threads of gossamer tissue, crystallized in hues of indigo, cerulean, silver, and dove gray. The light had refracted in flickering, shifting tones, in a dance of perfect Order. The Matrix would do that, sometimes, paying particular attention to some irrelevant detail, enhancing the sheen of light on leaves, the texture of velvet, or the detail of wood grain.

His musings ended as his shoes hit the slick, shining asphalt of the alley below. Two figures were backed by the copper streetlight, one in black leather, bronze sheen on the top of his head and the cool gleam of his sunglasses in the darkness. Morpheus. The other, slimmer, wrapped in fluttering silks like liquid smoke. Typhus... Fatima al Zimbel. Either of her names was enough to tremble the very code of any sentient program. She was the originator of some of the most fearsome viruses ever to be unleashed on the Matrix: The Djinn, the Jorgumandur, the Broken Lock, of course the Typhoid Mary, and the terrifying Radon's Morrigan, released after Smith himself had killed one of her favored students. She was one of the largest dangers to the structure of the Matrix....

A low, groaning creak on the fire escape above... Neo, or Anderson, perched on the railing, knees drawn up to his chest. Well, well.

A murmur, al Zimbel to Morpheus. "What the hell is with that boy and his Christopher Walken fixation? It's not normal." Morpheus merely shook his head, slowly.

"Morpheus, Ms. al Zimbel, and Mr. Anderson... Your timing is inconvenient, to say the least."


"I told you the name. And the lady's name is Typhus. But I'm sure you knew that..."

He didn't even bother to look up. "You got up once, Anderson. Do not, as the phrase goes, 'push your luck.'"

Neo shook his head, smiling like a cat, and leaped down. Too quickly for human eye to follow, yet almost in slow he used the momentum to deliver a roundhouse kick- yes, kick- to Smith's jaw. Neo's coat flared out behind him, torso twisting in some kind of silent ballet. Smith's head whipped backward with the blow, then back toward the front, growling. The exchanged blows and blocks were rapid-fire, with inhuman grace and speed, a danse macabre.

Morpheus and Typhus watched, arms folded, seeming to play no attention to the tall, slim figure trotting up behind them, tiny braids clacking with every step. "Typhus, mon, da bikes are ready."

"Thank you, Ariel... And what do you think, Morpheus? Neo in, say, ten?"

"Five. He wouldn't play him like you would."

"You're on."



"Oh, man. Ohhhh, maaaaan... Heap of shit, Eyes-m'-lass. Heap of shit." Her hair was already pulled back and away from her eyes, albeit messily. Her .22 was loaded and ready, and the less-familiar .380 was in a shoulder holster. Letsee. She had one or two suitable, slim daggers for her boots, somewhere around here... God. Had she -ever- accepted money for a job instead of odd gifts? Nah, probably not.

~Calm yourself, woman. You have guns, knives, and before you ask, "Seven Pillars" is already in the Boanerges' saddlebags. Along with everything else you might conceivably need. Now, go.~

"Alright. Okay... Going. Yeah. Let's go. " A deep breath, slow and steady, heart doing about 120 in a 55 mph zone, and the officer wanted to make sure she knew why she was being pulled over. She gave a last glance to the small apartment, feeling a wave of... what? Nostalgia? Premature homesickness? Love of home and hearth? Impossible to define... She shook it off and slipped out, the rackety staircase squeaking and rattling wildly.

In the garage, the lights were already on. Shit. "Who's there?" Her hand was already sliding to the .22...

"Trinity. Is the bike ready?"

Oh, this inspired such incredible trust. Mmm-hmm. After being told by a guy that looked like a Secret Service reject from the Kennedy era that this Trinity chick was a dangerous fanatical terrorist, she was gonna just comply with anything the woman said... C'mon. Give her some credit. "Yeah, underneath the tarp. Shifting's still a little sticky, but other than that, she's fine. And do you have any idea how damned hard it is to dig .45 slugs out of a machine like that?"

"I can imagine... Now, about your payment--" The fluorescent light glinted off of vinyl and sleek sunglasses. Who the hell wore sunglasses at night?

"Oh, don't worry, money's not the thing... Just whatever you have."

"I said it would be a choice, right?"

"Err... Yeah..." Eyes-of-Lawrence glanced at the two with her, one a somewhat shorter woman with silvery spiked hair, a few tiny braids (or maybe dreadlocks, she couldn't tell) hanging down in dark eyes, slender fingers and chewed-up nails playing anxiously with a toothpick. The other was a massive black man, hair in small tufts that were... She blinked. Tied with little pink bows... She glanced back at Trinity. "Extremely powerful terrorist group, huh?"

A slight smirk from the woman. "Oh, yeah. Look, kid, it's like this." The woman's hand reached into her coat pocket, hands folded in an imitation of prayer, eyes closing for a moment, before both hands formed fists. "Your payment is either to take your chances with the Agent out there," her left hand opened as she spoke, palm up, a blue gel pill gleaming in the center, like the forbidden treasure in some temple along the Ganges. "Or I show you exactly what's wrong with the world. You have three seconds." The right hand opened. A red pill glistened, as if some sort of potent, liquid fire had been captured and incased there. She paused...

~Whatever that Smith person had to say about this woman, Marie... I think you should go with her. But this is wholly your decision.~

"Alright, then..." she breathed, and took the red pill from the woman's hand, raised it to the three of them in mock-toast, and swallowed it dry.

Trinity smiled, grimly. "Great. Now, come with us... Oh, and these are Caliban" the man waved a bit, smirking behind John-Lennon styled sunglasses, "and Thread." The woman tossed off a mock-salute. "It's gonna be you two, Morpheus, and Neo in the Contential, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Thread drawled, a Brooklyn accent tinting her words. "Ari's on her Harley, an' th' little double-a here c'n ride on 'er bike, right?"

Eyes allowed herself a smirk. "Oh, you ain't seen nuthin' yet, lady..." She grabbed her riding goggles from the handlebars of the bike, tapping the old glass for luck as Trinity threw off the tarp from the Triumph, the blue plastic crinkling and rustling, too loud in the cavelike space.

"Right, chief. Catch ya on th' flip side. Pennsylvania an' Main, right?" Trinty nodded inreply, and Thread and Caliban clomped off at a brisk clip. Trinity looked to Eyes. "As soon as this is up, you ride like the hounds of hell are on your tailpipe, understand?" Without waiting for a response, she threw up the garage door as Eyes gunned the Boanereges' engine, wincing at the god-awful sound.

The headlights shot through the congealed darkness of the alleyway, catching a pale, black-clad man in the final stages of dispatching a not-happy Agent Smith. Like some kind of spotlight on speed... "Penn and Main, right, old man?" she murmured as she whipped the channeled thunder down the alley, raising a hand in salute at the pale man's nod. He looked like a warrior... Past a spotless black Lincoln, something straight out of the '70's, into which Caliban, Thread, another black man, -this one bald-, and a striking Arabic woman were climbing.

And the streets and the roar and the blurred river of asphalt beneath her, and the buildings flowing past, dreamlike, and Ned's soft murmur, and she forgot herself for a while...