It had been a long morning…. the apparent leader of this trio of Agents was collecting some information in the building across the street. Perhaps the reason for his position was his sensitivity to satire, surpassing even Jones when it came to finding a certain type of black humor in any of the proceedings they where involved in. It made Agent Smith a little closer to human, and made him a more likely medium for communications with the populous of the system. The 'proceedings' was their job. As instruments of the Architect, these Agents set about ridding the system of glitches- eliminating them, and all the exiles.

They hated the exiles the most, if they had capacity to hate… humans that had discovered the truth, humans that evaded capture and termination.

I suppose you are cogitating on the beverage you so foolishly refused?

Agent Jones' facial muscles twitched as his companion's words were delivered directly into his ear canal, via the intra-neuro communicator (I.N.C) that was as crucial to an Agent as wearing sunglasses during inappropriate weather. Slowly, contemptuously, Agent Jones replied; using the more traditional method of vocal chords had a sort of satisfying delivery. "I do not need a beverage, Brown. you are most erratic! I feel you are not correctly analyzing the cause and effect of your words, which is improper conduct on your behalf."

"Well, Mr. Jones, I enjoy the taste. I do not care what your opinion is on the matter." Agent Jones was finally flapped out of his usual state of unflappable calm. "I BEG your pardon, Brown?" He leaned over the centre console in order to scrutinize the contentedly sipping Brown further. "I do not recall an order exacting the preface of 'Mr.' before the use of my moniker. I do not authorize it. It is most uncouth and-"

Open the door, Agent Jones. The intended scolding was left unfinished as a shadow fell across the tinted windows. Agent Smith had a tendency to make everything sound like italics, even using the I.N.C. He was standing next the passenger door and giving Jones an impenetrable look, smoothing the creaseless cuffs of his shirt and tapping a polished toe on the sidewalk.

"I see…"

Agent Jones did have the capacity to be concise, and he flicked up the locking mechanism. Agent Smith opened the door and closed it with the precise amount of energy needed to commit such an act. He carefully placed a wad of files on the seat next to him, and did something very unusual. He sighed. Both Agents in the front seat whipped around, Brown spilling a small amount of hot coffee on himself in the process. "Jones? Brown?" They both made the slightest gesture of acknowledgement, and then: "If you will excuse the following metaphorical pun. we have a very long road ahead of us." Agent Brown considered this. "Let's get cracking then!"

"Very humanoid, Brown," Smith said approvingly. "And guess who's driving, Jones?" Agent Brown smiled widely.

Agent Jones turned his head on a 45 degree angle, and gave Brown a look that could only translate to 'sit down, shut up and hang on.'

Oh, so totally not good.

Brisingamen felt it, like a tiny pinprick of an acupuncture needle. Like something wasn't adding up around her. Moving with unbelievable-impossible- speed that had nothing to do with muscles or strength, the young woman launched herself across the room. The city streets beckoned below, a surreal view of tiny people and their bliss in ignorance. The glass did not shatter as Brisingamen passed through it. It enveloped her, warping smoothly to allow her passage, and reformed. She touched the window sill briefly, looked 30-storeys down to bitumen and concrete, and vaulted out into the thin, chilly air.



She couldn't clearly remember when she ceased being a street-kid and started noticing that things were wrong. For Brisingamen, it was more of a part of growing up- but of course, there were certain memories that stood out from the rest. In freefall, she gracefully arranged the air around her, widening her cross-section and increasing air resistance. It was hard to commit an act such as this without alerting the staggers, and she was worried the one who'd come to see her was still in the vicinity. He'd left an amnesia- detonator in the room. She'd become refined in her skills, and it only took a little effort to cloak herself and deceive the system that she was only 1/8th of her actual weight.

Even as she dropped slowly to earth, Brisingamen couldn't help but grin a little at her in-joke. Calling the Agents 'staggers' referred to a certain incident near the time Morpheus had discovered her… she'd never seen an Agent trip and fall flat on his face, and she couldn't resist the temptation to warp the ground just a little. He'd looked small for an Agent, which gave an illusion of harmlessness, but the 5-inch deep imprints that he'd left in the hard concrete basement floor quickly corrected her mistake. Nevertheless, it was a memory worth treasuring. (Incidentally, Agent Jones hadn't forgotten it either.)

Another little bonus of being special…of being the One-

Brisingamen hit the ground hard, and rolled into a pile of discarded egg cartons and boxes.

The alleyway was quiet again, and she stumbled to her feet- Yeah, she'd had a good time with her status, but that was until she'd found out the truth. The vicious loop completely took away her appetite for saving the world, and Morpheus decided she wasn't suitable, just like all the other Ones before her. He'd said that there was another…someone just like her. An anomaly. A potential. Being the zealot that he was, Morpheus had a use for cowards, and that suited her fine. Brisingamen was happy now. She didn't have to save mankind- just Thomas Anderson… protect him until he was ready to do what she couldn't. She didn't have to stay in the hell that was the real world, where none of the positive sides of being a One applied.

Brisingamen stepped out of the alleyway, and the pretense that was the sun's rays glittered brilliantly on her blue-tinged hair, illuminating the kimono-style bodysuit that served its purpose as a weapons cache. Her caramel-colored skin was unmarked- except for the white rabbit tattoo on her left shoulder. She was a brilliant hacker, a martial arts dojo, a sculptor of the Matrix. Brisingamen had forged these things for herself, like her name, taken from ancient Norse mythology. That was about where her belief in fate ended. The White Rabbit, they called her. After all, no one said what happened to a Two.

"Stop the car," said Smith, and then he disappeared.

As one being, Jones and Brown turned to their right. Pedestrians screamed, and a massive ripple effect coursed through the crowd, almost like a brick dropped into a birdbath. Mothers snatched up their children and dodged fruit stalls in a frenzy to get away, road workers and joggers scattered. "DAMMIT!" Agent Smith stood on the rapidly emptying street, and by the looks of things, this was one business man who'd read something in his newly acquired documents that he didn't like. He was a program, yes. But he was close to human in the respect that he didn't enjoy being ripped off.

The sound reverberated along the skyscrapers and gridlocked cars, and three bullet holes were added to Brisingamen's collection of fabricated information. The wind gusted gently, and loose pages fluttered along the deserted sidewalk. One entangled itself amongst the folds of prim black trousers, and Agent Brown bent to disengage it.

"She…lied…" snarled the sentinel program who was developing an interesting temper tantrum. "Humans are prone to do that, sir," Brown offered, and flicked the paper away dismissively.

He approached the fuming Agent, wrestled the smoking handgun away, and made an awkward attempt at patting Smith's hands in what he perceived as a comforting manner.

"Perhaps it would be wise if you discussed this with us?" Jones called out from the car, wishing his colleague hadn't caused a commotion such as this amongst hundreds of civilians. "In the car," supplemented Brown hopefully.

Agent Smith snatched his hands away, looking like he'd dearly prefer to discuss things with his confiscated handgun.

He slammed the door, and the other two wouldn't have been half surprised to seem him stamp his foot. Cautiously opening the car door again, Brown piled into the backseat on Smith's right as pedestrians started hurrying past again, carefully diverting their gaze from the tinted windows. "What were these files intended to contain?" The Agents were all squashed together like a trio of dignified sardines, generally because shoulder pads tend to devour space when in close contact with one another. Smith made a show of arranging his hands in his lap, cracking his knuckles, and baring his teeth before muttering, "Information. Morpheus. How could she have deceived...?"

Agent Jones was tempted to say, "Very coherent, sir," but he was, after all, the littlest of the group. "You know who she is?"

"I don't…"

"Don't?" Brown's forehead was furrowed. Inconceivable. The Agents knew almost everything about everyone. Agent Smith's blue eyes flashed behind his sunglasses, and flicked his gaze to the rear vision mirror. "I don't know who she was at the moment, Brown. But, as inevitably as I will find Morpheus- I will find her."

Brisingamen stumbled off the creaky excuse for public transport, and lingered until the roar of the diesel engine meandered into the distance. The sun hung like a lantern in the sky, the rays gentle on her skin. She wondered if the machines knew what soft sunlight actually felt like, and whether anything that she believed in was truly close to reality.

The apartment of the White Rabbit was, for want of a better term, minimalist. Barely any furniture littered the floors, and there was a small amount of utensils in the kitchen. Her wardrobe was practically anorexic, and no possession of hers couldn't be either quickly disposed of or instantly portable if the situation demanded it. The most cluttered room of the entire place was her bedroom, where a state of the art lap-top wallowed in encrypted paperwork and ammo cartridges.

Fitting the key absently in the lock, Brisingamen pushed open the door and surveyed her clinically white walls. It was sad really, but Morpheus had ordered her to keep things simple, and she grudgingly agreed that her system of living was wise enough. She quickly entered her room, where all of her important things waited, pre- packaged in a single back-pack. The slimline computer was essential for everyday use, so if she was in a serious hurry, her last option was to take to it with her boot. The underworld persona of the White Rabbit, (not to mention her dealings with the stagger) had earned her enough cash for basic needs, so the rest of her bag was filled with efficient weapons, ammunition and communications. That was all. No personal belongings or sentimental things- the most romantic item she owned was the tattoo on her shoulder. It was all she needed to remind herself that she was an individual… and not an A.I. Brisingamen sighed, and swept a map of New York onto the floor. It was used each day to track Neo's movements, but she didn't risk marking the paper in case it was found. A lot like my life. Will anyone know me for what I did if I have to erase my tracks? It's not really unfair, but even so…

She ended the doubt by sprawling onto her bed, only to be provoked into lucid alertness by the high-pitched squeal and the blur of banded fur that blew out of the covers and through the door. The scuttling of a small quadruped echoed on the wooden floors, and Brisingamen yelled after it, "Sorry, Mike!" (The ferret wouldn't be angry with her for too long, especially as it neared dinner time.)

As she lay inert once more, Brisingamen considered how long it would be until that damned stagger realized his files were about as useful as the 'consumption of beverages'. Whatever that time was, it was moments that she- and her charge- were still safe. The relationship that she had with Neo was, absurdly, as intimate as lovers. she knew almost everything about him, and certainly more than he did about himself. The White Rabbit gave a mirthless little laugh.

Here, in this world, there was no chance of a substantial relationship… she didn't want entanglements that would be painful and worthless… but hate… that was a completely different game altogether. Brisingamen used hate like dry hay to a firestorm; enveloping the Agents and Trinity as two sides to the same coin. The coin of following rules and forcing destiny. There was no utterance of loathing that would do Brisingamen's emotions justice, yet the way in which she regarded Neo might be called love. It was selfish love, a lumbering Frankenstein's monster of relief, protectiveness, empathy and pity all plastered together. Neo knew of the White Rabbit as an enigmatic hacker, and only spared her a few moments of brief, untroubled thought. Brisingamen had made thinking constantly of him her life's work. She wondered what he would do if the roles were reversed, if he would love her in that quirky way, if he would go to the magnificent lengths to prolong her existence that she did every week.

It's just as well he's cute…

She could hardly complain, or her old foe Trinity might descend once more from her leather-clad cloud and scold her to death. Brisingamen gasped sharply as a vicious pain bit her in the leg. Ultra- refined reflexes were put on emergency brakes in case Mike had decided to exact his vengeance. "Oh, right." She reached into her pocket and withdrew the bloated wallet, thinking fondly of the large sum of hard cash Agent Smith had stuffed in it. "And all for a bunch of faux details about evil old-"

The phone rang abruptly, and was just as suddenly cut off as the White Rabbit checked the caller identification, muttered "Speak of the devil," and hit SPEAKER on the unit.

"Morpheus." Brisingamen always liked to initialize the conversation.

"You know how this works, Rabbit…" the voice on the other end of the line was strained, yet as rich as it had always been.

"You know what lies ahead, for it is already beginning." The meaty silence that book ended his voice was excruciating as Brisingamen tried hard to grapple with the implications of that simple remark.

Already? But it's too soon! How can they... She was walking the edge once more, a puerile limbo between hopelessness and aspiration.

"Now? How did they-"

" Ah, little Rabbit. 'How' is not so much the key, but 'when'. When will they come for you? Soon, Rabbit, soon. You're a target, and you know what comes next."

Brisingamen was gripping the phone so hard she was probably making imprints.

"Morpheus, if I lead them away, how can I protect him?" The line's silence almost seemed mocking.

"You are the One, White Rabbit. For now, you must play the part." Using one of Brisingamen's most hated phrases, the surreal connection to the truth of the world cut off, leaving her alone. "No, no, no," she cursed, and began scanning the room, evaluating what should be taken, and how she would weave her web of lies.


The next morning, at exactly 6:00, the One left her apartment for the final time.

The black back-pack carried her essential items, but that didn't mean it wasn't heavy. After arranging for Mike to be looked after, Brisingamen planted some clues to her whereabouts around the rooms in a fashion that indicated a professional who'd slipped up, hopefully on the contrary to a professional just being, well, professional.

She was ready because she had to be. That was all.

Walking briskly against the sharpened air, the White Rabbit thought sympathetically of her orderly belongings that were left behind, and felt the brush of unease on her neck. It was one hell of a risk to take, but as the crows quarreled overhead, she reached out a metaphorical hand to grab it. The dank atmosphere was no friendlier, but Brisingamen still enjoyed a burst of delight when she remembered that this was her last mediocre watchdog job before the true extrication came up. When Neo was fresh for unplugging, Brisingamen would be as far away from any of the free minds as she possibly could. Let them fight their war… she'd have done her time, so there was nothing they could do to evangelize. She reached a secluded area in which she often loitered until Neo made his morning debut. Quite the computer geek, Thomas Anderson's relations with a respectable company had possibly been the most tedious, if not comfortable thing she'd ever dedicated a credible section of her life to. It was time to reload the shotgun, and take to the next phase of her part in destiny.

The buildings stood stark in their foundations and she tightened the straps on her backpack, Brisingamen engrossed herself in the epicurean dream of some time ago, when Agents were small, unsuspecting and suddenly deprived of their irreverent dignity.

Of course, all the smugness in the world couldn't eliminate the uneasy feeling that Brisingamen got when she actually considered what Jones might do to her if he did remember exactly who she was. She was desperately trying to skirt a deep inquiry into why that particular Agent stood out in her mind when a tall Asiatic young man with innocent, deer-esque eyes wandered blithely from an adjacent street. The butt of an automatic Uzi prodded into Brisingamen's well-clad hip as she waited for Neo to open up a safe amount of distance in front of her. Same strategy as it had always been, but everything was about to change. She breathed a lungful of false oxygen, and fell into step in the shadows… One after the other.

Parallels. The System is full of them, and with the immense vestiges of precision the Agents used to go about their concept of 'life', it was ironic that one was existent for them and the seeds of their downfall. Whilst Neo trudged up the crowded path to his 9 to 5, he was being dogged by one of the deadliest free minds in the history of the Matrix. On the other end of the spectrum, a certain young program was engaged in the horrifyingly human behavior of chewing his fingernails. In a small cubicle located on the other side of the city, Jones took another nibble at his pinkie finger, and typed multiple trace commands at a speed of 350 WPM. The white light hung harshly overhead, and the Agent lifted his gaze around the room.

The time he had spent interacting with humans had taught him things that he sometimes yearned to unlearn. Once, an Agent such as himself would have been the epitome of imperturbability. Now, the internal upgrade function built into the code forced such unwanted 'emotions' such as doubt and irritation, things that Jones, personally, dreaded. And that was the whole point! Occurrences, reactions. Jones shook his head, staring dully at the screen. The I.N.C lay dormant in his ear, and the results were completely null, no matter what angle Jones approached the task from.

I'm… lonely. Agent Jones' digits froze over the keys as that treasonous, unbidden thought rose up in his digital psyche.

I do not process this human conception of isolation and/or extradition/rejection/ exile. Exile does not apply in the context of this example. Is the reaction to auxiliary input a malfunction? Does this affect the other applications?

GET ON WITH YOUR WORK.

Jones closed off his small self-analysis executable, no more satisfied than he was before. But rogue ideas kept on forming while he continued, until he could no longer restrain his own deduction. He let the cerebral data slip out onto his tongue. "Is this what it means to be human?"

"What is he doing?" Agent Smith had fed a mixture of anxiety, anticipation and plain old impatience into his functioning, the result being an attitude labeled, in clear, bold titling: PEEVED.

"I believe," replied Agent Brown, after a small stint of thought, "he is conducting a video trace regarding a possible anomaly on the closed circuit system of a company called 'NYCorp.'" Agent Smith pivoted subtly on his heel, and broadcasted such a look of sheer paltriness at Brown that the other Agent visibly wilted under the weight of raw sarcasm. "B R O W N…"

" I'm 78.956 percent certain that Agent Jones is not being extraneous in his method," Brown quickly countered, his voice suddenly acquiring a lovely tremolo quality. "Sir," he added, a nervous tic in his arm adding that extra pinch of groveling reverence.