Part II – Tumbling down.
He looked back at Smith, fear now mercilessly drowning his mind.
What could he do? His had no more weaponry; his only available exit was now destroyed; he couldn't call Sparks, the operator of the Logos, to find another without being killed on account that he could not trust for a moment that that was indeed Smith's last bullet; and there was no identified source of help in sight.
He was trapped.
He saw no other way to go. Past experience had told him that more Smiths were lurking within every shadow he had crept through. But why they had not yet emerged was even beyond his own reasoning.
'Shit,' he grunted.
He had no other choice. He slowly and skilfully began moving into a stance, arms swaying in midair like trained blades of steel, cutting into the very fabric of this world. He focused, trying to free his mind into a deepened state of meditation, further than he had ever attempted. He could only ask for a miracle. Smith observed him with a sardonic chuckle.
'Maybe you humans are evolving; you seem to become more amusing every time.'
Ghost gave no response. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a retort. But still Smith smiled.
'It's a shame you won't live to see The Trial. Things were about to get interesting.
'Spare me your riddles!' Ghost snapped.
He hastily collected himself and turned his left palm upwards, inspired by Morpheus, beckoning Smith towards him.
Smith holstered his gun as Ghost now expected an array of critical blows. But no; Smith simply stood there. Ghost was taken aback, but once again, would not show as such.
What game is this? Ghost thought to himself.
The silence was deathly; neither of their eyes straying from one another as the moon's light flickered slightly with the passing of a flock of birds. But that was enough. Ghost couldn't take it anymore and he began his advance. He darted up the aisle to meet Smith, fists flying.
'Mistake number one,' said the ex-Agent.
Ghost threw punch after punch, Smith dodging every attack with minimal effort and countering sinuously, landing a hardened kick to Ghost's flanks. He collapsed to his knees, groaning in agony.
You must focus he urged himself.
He rose once more, standing strong with fists held high. Smith looked upon him with humour. But Ghost then released his fists, shifted his footing and was prepared to make use of a more graceful combat style. Knowing Smith would avoid it, he lunged forward, faking a punch. But as Smith was momentarily occupied, he halted and dropped into a sweeping kick, knocking Smith from his feet and spun again to kick Smith sliding roughly across the floor. He advanced ahead once more as Smith rose. They locked in battle, hands blurring in offence and defence.
Ghost's technique was proving effective against the rigid style of Smith; that is until Ghost aimed a punch at his head. Smith caught the fist in his palm mere inches from his face. Ghost tried to pull away but Smith gripped tight. He used his free hand and struck the side of Ghost's neck, knocking him down, still holding tight to his fist. He repeated this several times before Ghost raised his free arm to block it. He grasped hold of Smith's arm as time suddenly seemed to slow about them and he threw a kick upwards to land dead on Smith's chin, knocking him back as Ghost performed a huge back flip into the air, landing several safe feet from Smith's downed body. Ghost breathed heavily, slouching over, exhausted. But Smith rose off the floor so smoothly as if he had bounced and still remained not the least bit phased. He advanced in a colossal slide, shoulder meeting Ghost's chest. He flew back, breath knocked out of him, pain burning its way into his weakening body. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream.
A foreboding shadow loomed over his cowering form as Ghost heard the cock of a gun; Smith's gun. He looked up into the long tunnelling darkness of the barrel. Smith's glare bored into him like the bullet which was to end his existence in both The Matrix and his own world.
'Good bye, Mister . . .' he paused, '. . . Ghost.'
He watched as Smith's finger began to relentlessly squeeze the trigger of the mighty weapon and slowly close his eyes, ready to receive a cold death. But before Ghost could, the window to his far-left shattered, a small metallic object soaring through the glass pane and onto the maroon carpet behind Smith's feet, smog following behind like the tail of a comet.
Ghost stopped, took one breath and BOOM!
The grenade detonated, momentarily swallowing Smith in its flames and crushing the greater proportion of the staircase behind him. Ghost coughed, dust and fire filling every space as he heard a familiar female voice.
'Ghost; run!'
And so he did. He got up and raced for the nearest window to the left, three windows from the grenade's entrance, and leapt, crashing through the glass. He could now see every detail of the night whilst he hurtled towards the ground, the equivalent of four storeys below, soon to land on the edge of the river: the black of the starless sky, the haze of the moon, the streetlamps lighting every road. He landed into a slightly stunted roll, just sheer of the bushes which lined the river, and stealthily launched off his hands, flipping back onto his feet in one swift motion.
He looked back at the great Opera house, constructed upon an iron bridge over the river, flame-induced smoke now billowing from within. Ghost eyes widened.
'No,' he muttered under his breath as he beheld the shocking sight of Smith standing at the smashed window, still perfectly attired and groomed. Ghost stood, rooted with anxiety, almost as if waiting for Smith to make his move for some reason he could not find in himself. But unexpectedly, Smith simply stood there once more, eyeing Ghost with an analysing glare. Ghost was now but edging on bewilderment.
What is he playing at? He thought.
'Ghost,' came the same voice.
He spun round to find Trinity rounding the corner, clad in her trademark body-hugging leather cat-suit, long black coat trailing gloriously like the wings of some supernatural being, and ever-present shades.
'Trinity.'
'Quick, we don't have much time. Sparks and Link have already got us an exit.' And with that, she started down the river bank, away from the Opera house.
Ghost began to follow but hesitated. He turned back one more time. Smith was gone. He quickly turned to catch up with Trinity. It was always better to know an Agent's position than leave it to oblivion. But then again, Smith was no longer an Agent, making him all the more dangerous. His uncharacteristically statuesque form would not tear itself from Ghosts mind. Why wasn't he pursuing him? Why hadn't he killed him when his gun was right at his side? What the hell was this 'Trial' he spoke of?
Ghost believed he would be receiving the answers to these questions all too soon. And he knew it was bound to be bad.
Smith watched as the pair pitifully retreated. He smiled. Footsteps could be heard stopping next to him. He glanced aside to meet his own eyes as a perfect replica of himself stood before him: same hair, same suit, same shades, same lack of earpiece which would usually be present if he still possessed the inferior title of 'Agent'. And further more, same devilish smile.
The second Smith scanned the room: the wreckage of surrounding fire, miscellaneous splintered wooden planks and shards of glass.
'My my; this is getting expensive isn't it?'
'Indeed,' replied the first.
The second Smith looked out the window at the two flickering shadows now turning the last visible corner and out of sight. 'Let them have their head start.'
'Yes, it all adds to the fun.'
'Yes,' the second Smith agreed, 'besides, The Trials are upon us, or should I say upon them, and that's going to be very interesting.'
The first Smith smiled with a gleam of pure malice. 'Yes, very interesting indeed.'