A:/run/program/3.exe
Disclaimers: The Matrix belongs to those pervert brothers. Has anybody else played Enter the Matrix from Niobe's POV and reached the Chateau level? I grumble deeply. Fanboys and their fan service.
Warnings and Rants: This is a Smith-fic, and I'm experimenting with the style. Eventually will be slashy, but for now, it's all pretty general. I'm getting there, though… slowly… slowly… __ I even got a review that thought this was a Smith/Persephone fic…
Summary: Agent Smith decides to rid himself of that key…
Status: 3/?
Look at the sky, he tells himself. Maybe you'll see Neo, the hero he thinks he is, soaring above, maybe you'll catch a glimpse of him as he blazes past you and doesn't spare you a second glance. There are clouds up there, he thinks, clouds, vapor, whatever it is, and if you see those move, maybe it's because of the wind that moves them, maybe it's Neo ripping through them like paper, not because of air currents and opposing electrical charges.
When it rains, it will rain something organic, something like blood.
Drop the key, he tells himself. Drop it.
But. Look at the water, see the rippling, see how volatile it is. That is what you are. You are this one minute and then that the next.
He feels the thing between his fingers, he is clenching it tight, so that it bites into his skin, like it did before, when he first found it. He can almost taste the metal of the opportunity, this opportunity that he holds, the one that unlocks the door, the one that promises him an understanding of what he cannot possibly comprehend. I want to, he thinks. I want to throw it away.
And so he does. He watches the key slip out of his hands, almost as if he is a spectator and not the one doing it-- he watches the key fall a little way before being swallowed by the murky depths of the ocean, the white froth of the ship cutting through the water, and he blinks, but Agents don't do that.
And then he sees it again, this code, this black, this green, these electromagnetic pulses that also run through the core of his body. The code is constantly changing, because it is fluid, because information is volatile, sudden. He watches this two-dimensional world, he sees the code of the key as it changes to accommodate the depths of the water, how it seems to sink deeper and deeper, but is actually remaining in the same place. Doesn't anybody else know that? That this, that the Matrix, in itself, is only a thing of paper? That once you crumple it, you, the speck, this insignificant thing, can jump to another spot? And then when that crumpled thing reopens, reawakened, reloaded, then you will end up somewhere completely different.
Agent Smith is standing at the end of a deserted pier, the rotting wood creaking gently under his feet, a promise of better things to come, a prophecy of the world around him. The nails stick up irregularly on the planks, their curling fingers seek to twist, and yet, they are undemanding. He watches this, he observes all of this, how the key has fallen into the water, how it is searching for a way to the bottom. The sky is a mocking blue, the water is uncomprehending, it is turquoise, and aqua, and green. And at the same time, there is no color.
The gulls flap mindlessly in the air, and Smith realizes that all these animals are programs as well. Only the humans are the real things, only the humans are alive.
Aren't you alive as well?
The definition of being alive was ambiguous, he reasoned. If it meant flesh and blood, he could not be included in that category. But if it meant a semblance of adrenaline, if it meant that it was as if blood was pounding through your veins, the he could be.
He feels himself disappearing as he thinks about this, a wave of water seems to be engulfing him, that's what it feels like. He is still standing on the pier, and he has done what he has wanted to do, he has disposed of what was distracting him from his purpose, the only thing he has left. He is not alone in his endeavors, but he is alone in his reasons.
He realizes it when something changes, something noticeable, in the air, in the water. It seems as if everything stands still for a second, as if the physics, the anatomy of this world, has changed in that one moment. And when it returns to normal, this distinct pulsing is gone, and Smith turns around.
A man in white stands in front of him, his hands are held loosely at his sides. "You are there." He says. He does not say, hello, he does not say, how are you, he does not say I was sent here to dispatch you. Formalities are disrupted, and Agent Smith wonders, and wonders why his hands are shaking, why he is thinking about the key which has sunk to the bottom of the Matrix, to the bottom of a heart he does not possess.
"Will you come with me?" The man asks, peers at him behind his sunglasses. He cannot decipher whether those eyes are curious or whether they are indifferent, but although the voice is cold, it is courteous. The man points to an abandoned warehouse, a hundred feet away, the metal sheeting of the roof rusted, the walls crooked, the windows cracked. And when did this happen? When did the building fall apart, or had it always been that way? Was this man part of a process he had to fulfill, or was this the only question he could ask? He looks away, sees a lone fisherman out on the wharf.
"Where to?" He asks, turns back to the man in white.
"I would like to speak with you." The man replies.
"You can speak to me here." Smith says, slowly. This man, he thinks. I should kill him. I know who he is, who he works for. This man is Seraph, he thinks, racking his brains, searching for the data. This man is Seraph, guardian of the Oracle. He takes people in, shows them out. He was there when I fought him, he was the one who told Neo that they had to leave, that there was something coming. And then Neo put his sunglasses on, and I've never seen his eyes since when he killed me.
It's his fault.
For doing what?
"I believe." Seraph says, walking so that he is closer, walking so that both of them are standing over the edge of the pier, and one of them will shove the other one in, it is expected. "I believe you lost something."
"I didn't lose it." Smith says.
I willingly gave it up.
It was never meant for him, never should have been. He does not know why he visited the Merovingian's wife, why he saw the black and the green and the code of the Matrix without willing himself to. There is an infinite cloud, this eternal mystery, and Seraph doesn't hold the key to it, and the Merovingian's wife doesn't hold it either. This is the one flaw, he tells himself. It's not the Merovingian and his playground, it's not the rebels, it's not anything that plagues the world with sickness and disease and hunger. This imperfection is what makes the Matrix perfect, and Neo is the one who will be its undoing.
"You realize." Seraph said, clasping his hands behind his back, looking out to sea. "You realize it was meant for you."
This is the mistake, he tells himself repeatedly. This is the mistake. This key. What purpose does it serve, what purpose did it serve, what purpose will it serve? It is the same question you ask yourself.
"I left it there." Seraph says, turning his head slightly towards the agent, and Smith wills himself to look away. "The Keymaker gave it to the Oracle before he left, and that day, you know that day."
"You." Agent Smith suddenly turns around to face him. "What are you?"
Seraph smiles. "I am just a messenger." He says. "You would never meet Delphi herself, would you?"
Smith doesn't say anything, he stands there, waiting. There is a moment of enlightenment that dawns on all humans at one point in their lives, he thinks. And yet, this experience, in all its varying degrees, will never happen to us, these machines, this world. A messenger is just a messenger, with winged feet, he recalls, Greek legends, Hermes. And that is what Seraph is.
The man turns away, starts walking in the opposite direction, and Smith does not follow him with his eyes, the sun is going down, and the fisherman is bringing his boat in, reeling his nets in, watch the fish gleam in the last rays of sun.
"It is your decision." Smith catches the words, and hears the clink of metal against wood, that deadened, hollowed ringing sound. "But each one of us has a part to play, whether it is dictated by ourselves, or by something else."
Smith and waits until Seraph's footsteps disappear, and he turns around.
She opens the door and stands in the doorframe. He is standing outside, one hand hovered over the doorknob.
"Hello." She says, and smiles, walks back into the room, ignoring the white of the hallway, ignoring the fact that there is a programming room. "I thought you had thrown it away." She busies herself with her nails, inspecting them. "That was your intention last time, n'est pas?"
"Yes." He says, his voice is a monotone, and he feels dead. He wants the adrenaline back, he wants to feel a semblance of blood pounding through his head, he wants to make his lips work, he wants to make them frown, maybe smile in arrogance. He wants to laugh at something, be angry, furious, pound something into the ground, he wants to feel all of this coursing through his body, what the Matrix has given him, what he has been written with, written for. He lifts his head up, looks at the Merovingian's wife, and she pretends she doesn't notice, only looking at herself in the mirror. He feels nothing.
"And did you throw it away?" She asks. "Was it given back to you?"
He doesn't answer, but takes a seat, and watches her leisurely, watches her thick black hair cascading over her shoulders, watches her waist move as she twists around to face him, so she can look at his face, although it is impassive. She shouldn't ask so many questions, when she knows the answers.
She stares at him in silence, and even without touching him, he can feel her reaching out into his mind, her fingers weaving through the thoughts that constitute his database, her nails tripping over the irregular patterns, her knuckles scraping the tangible. She sees everything, it seems like, without using her eyes. No, but her eyes are looking at him, big pools of black nothingness, and she is a machine as well. They are all machines, and there is no reason why she should be amusing herself with her petty games, why her husband should be wasting his life when he could be existing in oblivion.
"You are feeling... what?." She says, draws back, and Smith feels the icy fingers draw away, and he unconsciously presses a hand harder into the material of the couch, relieved. She laughs. "Contempt? For me? For my frivolous lifestyle?"
She shakes her head sadly. "But you are in bliss, you are in ignorance. For when you have been functioning as long as I have, when your programming is exhausted, you must resort to these things to keep yourself amused. And life is absurd, yes, but there are so many things to watch."
She is walking towards him, and he wants to ask, her why she is not being guarded, why she trusts him with her life like this, opens doors for him, but he doesn't. She sits down across from him, but leans forward so that her collarbones are protruding, so that he can see the milky white flesh of her chest, the shadow there that would entice men, that had seduced the Merovingian once.
She leans in, whispers conspiratorially, as if she were a girl planning a secret meeting. "But, my dear program," she says, her lips shaping the words carefully. "we are A.I. We can adapt to anything we want to, we can learn new things, and discard the old. And that is what makes you different, that is what makes me different, it's because we are like them."
She means the humans, of course, Smith realizes, and looks out her window, watches a bird take flight.
"We," she says, sitting back, regarding him with a curious eye, "are free to feel whatever we want. We don't confirm to anything. The reason why I tell you this is because otherwise you would go on like nothing had ever happened since your death." She smiled. "You hate him." She takes a breath, and expels it, this simple motion of breathing. "Why?"
Because he killed me. Smith thinks. Because if I kill him, then I won't have to exist anymore.
"Does it bother you that I kissed him?" She says.
If I kill him, I won't have to exist anymore. He thinks. The rare spark of anger when he first saw him, when he first caught him at the bottom of the skyscraper, the struggling as he had been shoved in the car, his brows had furrowed, he had asked for his phone call, the workings of the modern day, he had asked for something that had resembled justice, and it had all been a facade. And when he had fought Smith for the last time, when he had dared to resurrect, something had happened, and for one moment, their codes had mixed together, and it had been so intimate, so shattering, it had ripped him apart and thrown him back together again. And he had come back, and when they had fought, one hundred against one, before he discovered the key that led him here, he had tried to infect him the same way, had managed to tap inside that source of repressed life, because when Neo faced him, his face betrayed nothing.
For that one moment, he had known what was inside his head, what the inner workings of his mind were.
"Does it bother you?" She was saying, and he didn't hear her.
For that one moment, he thought, and he had known everything.
That was a really random chapter, but only because Smith's thoughts are getting more and more screwy. And why does he have that key, anyway? I will get around to that in the next chapter… ^_^;;; Meanwhile, reviews are really appreciated! ::hinthintcoughcough:: I seem to do this after every chapter, don't I? Subtly (yeah right) hinting? O_o Forgive me!! But I grovel thus anyway. Ergo. I don't think I used that in the right context. _