The Second Enlightenment
Disclaimers: The Matrix belongs to the Wachoski brothers.
Warnings and rants: Written for a challenge, and doesn't follow the canon. Neo/Smith (kinda sorta). May be OOC. ::shrugs:: Rated PG. It's not as poetic as Vic's Triad, but I can only hope it will suffice. ^^;; Can be like a sequel to Incarnate, if you want to think of it that way. Since it's now posted as chapter 2 to Incarnate. well, I guess that's redundant. O_o
The Agents here are more ... relaxed? Laid back? Timeline here is Matrix 1.0, so I'm guessing the security will be more lax. ^^;;
Summary: Smith has a job (or not), meets a hacker, suddenly remembers, and it's not so empty anymore. Matrix 1.0.
Radishface
~
It was the Matrix, version one, and the skies were white.
It was seemingly peaceful, and it was empty.
Agent Berkeley had told him that it was supposed to be this way, these white walls, this endless white box. He had told him that if his AI demanded that he express boredom, there was an simple way to eliminate that. Agent Smith had expected something ominous, but Agent Berkeley had laughed and had told him to imagine whatever he wanted to, and the whiteness would become just that.
When he had stepped out of the building, after his orientation, it was as if electricity was hanging in the air, tangible, and he stopped himself from reaching out for what wasn't there. The air tingled around him-- he felt the newness of the system, this world, which was his, which was for the machines.
Yes, something in the back of his head told him, yes, because we don't need them.
He remembered something, that an architect, or a judge, or somebody, some machine, had told him he should come here, that his memory should be erased, that he could restart, that he could refresh himself in this oasis, that this world had been made for him, for machines like him. He remembered that it had hurt, that his AI had been screaming, had been clawing at the confines in his head, to get out, to kill something.
He didn't remember now.
Perhaps it was better that he didn't remember, that he kept his artificial intelligence, gifted to him by humans, this blessing, this curse, it was better that he kept it within himself, and did not let it affect his judgment. He was naturally logical, he was naturally calculating, because he was a machine, he had a computer chip for a brain.
Agent Berkeley walked away, and disappeared when a hole opened up in the ground and swallowed him. Agent Smith had the urge to run over and see where he had went, but restrained himself. The hole disappeared, and it was a seamless, perfect white.
The first thing that came to his head was a building, a specific hallway, perhaps it was at night, maybe it was right before dawn. And then it was as if rocks were dropping from the sky, because the walls fell in place, and there was a door in front of him, a hallway lit with a fading light bulb, flickering in the dark.
He turned the doorknob and entered. The lights were off in this apartment, the sound of water dripping in the kitchen sink, and a computer screen in the living room, an empty chair, facing his direction.
The script on the computer monitor scrolled as he approached it, as he tried to decipher what it was saying. It called out to him, it was whispering things, the wind caressing his ear, but he didn't understand, because it was running too fast, the text was scrolling too fast. It was then that he felt his limitations, in this pretend-world, that he realized that he couldn't do everything at once, that it was impossible.
Other things were impossible, too, he thought, and he didn't know why, because he realized that there was a light coming from the direction of the bathroom, there was the sound of water running. And he found that he was leaning forward, as if straining to hear a voice, and the door was slightly open, as if the person inside had thought themselves alone in this apartment, that they were ensured complete and total privacy.
He drew back, as if burned.
We don't need them.
"This is interesting."
Agent Smith turned around, and found Agent Johnson standing in front of him, his eyes roaming curiously around the little apartment, his sunglasses in one hand. But it was night, of course, why should he wear them?
"What is?" Agent Smith said, and his hand tightened on the doorknob, and the sound of water filled his ears.
The other Agent glanced curiously at him, but his expression was indifferent. "They didn't tell us you were an incarnate."
"I assumed you would know."
"I never thought to ask." Agent Johnson said, and shrugged. This motion was unfitting, because there was no need for him to be indifferent, to be uncaring. They were all machines. "It would be an invasion of your privacy."
Agent Smith felt something click and whirl within his head, something that was whispering gibberish into his ears, why are you here, why are you here, why are you here.
"We are all new programs." Agent Johnson said, and picked up a pencil, twirling it experimentally in his fingers. "We don't have a grasp of how to alter the code of the Matrix." He put the pencil back down, and turned away, to look out the window, to watch the lights outside, heard the cars as they drove by, the chirping of crickets. "This is an extremely detailed simulation. I'm surprised."
He wanted to say, it's more than a simulation, it doesn't feel like a simulation, but I don't know what it is, how it got in my head.
"Did they upload your original format into the system?" Agent Johnson was asking him. "What were you before?"
"I was--" Smith paused, and he heard the water stop running, he felt the warm gush of air, the heat, felt it on his fingers, spread over his side. He heard footsteps shuffling around, he smelled soap, and a scent that he knew, a human one.
"I was a machine."
The apartment disappeared around him, the lights of the city outside gave way to an empty white, the walls around them lifted away and into the infinite space above them, and the warmth and the smells surrounding him vanished, as if a gust of wind had blown them away, and he felt bereft as the door handle crumbled under his hand and disappeared.
Agent Johnson lifted an eyebrow. "Did they erase your memory?"
"Yes." He answered, unthinkingly.
"They must have missed something."
~
It might have been years, or months, or an hour, but time didn't exist in the Matrix. He was conjuring birds out of the air one day, because he remembered them. The other Agents only understood geometric designs, only understood material things, compositions and structures of things, only understood spatial relations, gravitation, the natural laws that governed the human world, physics and chemistry.
Agent Smith remembered something living, something biological, and when he crushed the bird in his hand, a red liquid oozed over his fingers, stained his clothes, and it smelled like metal.
Agent Johnson had appeared behind him one day, and Agent Smith had quickly willed the broken remains of the bird away, had willed his hands to be clean, and they were. It seemed to him that this was something to be kept secret, to be kept safe, and he couldn't share it with Agent Johnson or Agent Berkeley, because they wouldn't understand, they would only say, oh, this is interesting.
"They're bringing in machines." Agent Johnson had told him, and Agent Smith had looked up, and both their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. It was suddenly important that he see his eyes for the duration of this conversation. Without thinking, he willed them to disappear, and then Agent Johnson was blinking bewilderedly.
"What did you do?" He asked, and there was no malice in his voice, only an empty curiosity.
Agent Smith suddenly felt an acute embarrassment, and told himself that having this artificial intelligence was a curse, because it made him illogical, it made him irrational. A conversation did not need depth behind the eyes to prove anything meaningful.
"I wanted to see your eyes." He said, forced himself to say it, because it would be worse, it would be even more illogical, if he did not give an explanation, if he did not justify himself.
The other Agent nodded, and there was no hesitation, there was no uncertainty. Agent Smith was suddenly jealous of his control, of his ignorance.
"They're going to upload new programs and data." Agent Johnson was saying. "They're going to upload other machines as well. They're going to take their hard drives and install them into the Matrix."
Like me, he thought. Agent Berkeley and Agent Johnson were created from scratch, from raw code, and Agent Smith had already existed, and that was the fundamental difference between them.
"That's what I wanted to tell you." Agent Johnson said, and looked at Agent Smith for a second. They stared at each other like that, and then Agent Smith looked away.
"My eyes are blue." Agent Johnson said, after a moment.
"I know." Agent Smith said. He had wanted them to be brown.
~
The sky had been blue that day, with a few clouds, and Smith had been walking along a deserted wharf, his shoes clicking against the pavement, the smell of the ocean reaching his nose, salty.
Agent Berkeley had dropped out of the sky and had walked in step with him for a couple of miles, and the ocean was endless. Smith wanted a sunset, and the sun immediately dropped so that it hovered over the horizon.
"What were you before?" Agent Berkeley asked him.
Agent Smith shrugged, and the beach went away, and they were walking in ordinary white again, and it was normal. "I don't remember."
"But you remember other things." Agent Berkeley pointed out, and he meant the way the ocean looked, the way the sun set, the way an apartment could look empty and full at the same time. You could not know these things unless you had experienced them.
"I'm sure you can construct anything."
Agent Berkeley made a slight gesture, and a penthouse rose out of the ground, glass towers gleaming in the artificial light. "But," and with a flick of his hand, it collapsed to the ground, "it's not like yours. Agent Johnson tells me that you put incredible detail into yours."
Agent Smith looks away. "Really?"
"Right down to the chewed eraser on the end of a pencil."
"I see."
"It might be because of an incomplete memory erasure." Agent Berkeley said. "They might not have done a thorough job. We can set up an appointment for them to clear everything else, if that was the intended result."
Agent Smith remembered waking up, even though he never slept. He remembered somebody else, even though he was alone. He remembered a faint, musky smell, clean and dirty, salty and sweet. It assailed upon his senses, reminded him that there was once a time when his soul had been empty, like this world around him, that his soul had been empty for a reason.
"No." He said, and shook his head. "I don't think that's necessary."
Agent Berkeley shrugged. "It's your business."
~
It was tiring, waiting for something.
It was different when you didn't know what you were waiting for.
Agent Smith had been walking along a white path and had not seen Agent Berkeley or Agent Johnson, and he didn't know where they were. It was as if the Matrix was comprised of the three of them, and they had no purpose, other than to amuse themselves as they saw fit, and report to each other the news in the world outside, what they were going to do.
Therefore, it was surprising when a black cat crossed his path, one of which wasn't his will.
He looked up, and a young woman was standing a few feet away from him, and she was looking after the cat.
"Excuse me, sir." She said.
They stared at each other, and Agent Smith realized that she was real. She was standing there, her dark hair ending right above her shoulders, her green eyes looking around her, her mouth set in a thin line. She was not wearing any clothing, as if this nakedness was a part of her.
He willed her into a modest black suit, and she glared at him before her clothes melted off her and into a pile of black ash on the ground.
"May I set up residency here?" She asked, and he averted his eyes.
"You may."
A glass box floated above her head, and it grew in size, before hovering into the air. Agent Smith watched as the white space around them disappeared and was replaced by water, and he found himself floating in it. The girl had changed, her hair had grown long, had begun to resemble seaweed. Her legs had lengthened and had merged together, and a fine layer of scales had started to grow on them. Her eyes had narrowed and had flashed before turning into a gold color, her lips had melted off to be replaced by a series of gills.
"What were you before?" He found himself asking.
I was a domestic servant, she thought, her golden eyes flashing, and he could hear her, even though she had no mouth to speak with.
"How many more are coming?" He asked.
She seemed to smiled, and it was surprising to him, that a machine could smile, that they could find an emotion within their computerized brains to allow them to move their facial muscles to resemble something like a smile. Her gills had stretched, had elongated, pulled back to her feathery ears. He thought it looked like a smile.
Many more. But not the one you want. Not yet.
The girl swam into the glass box, and a black fish with whiskers followed her.
~
It was then that a programming room was set up to keep the different machines apart. The room was white, with green doors. Beyond each door was a machine's own universe, whether it was water, fire, forests, raw code, or a facade of domestic tranquility. Agent Smith had seen a husband and a wife with their three children sitting together at a breakfast table, enjoying eggs and pancakes and sausages and he had asked them what their previous vocations had been.
Everyone had disappeared but the father, the kitchen had melted around them, and the man had given him an empty look. He had been a line worker.
When Agent Smith left, the kitchen fell into place again, and the children were laughing about something, and their mother was gently admonishing them. Their father sat with a cup of coffee in his hand, his face hidden by a newspaper.
Agent Smith had been sitting in that apartment, listening to the water run in the shower, when Agent Berkeley had knocked on the door and entered. He had told Agent Smith that their purpose in the Matrix was to ensure the happiness and the welfare of the machines. He had told Agent Smith that eventually, the Matrix would play a key part in the outside world.
Right now it was a haven, a respite, and Agent Smith's eyes were on the computer screen as the green and white text scrolled by furiously, as if trying to run away, to keep him from discovering something, and at the same time, trying to tell him what it was they wanted him to know.
It was something out of his memory, and he didn't know what it was.
It surprised him, one day, when he returned to that apartment, when he had finished documenting the most recent group of arrivals, and he had come back to this memory, had watched it take form around him, the darkness of it was soothing, the way the shadows played over the floors, the way the orange light from the bathroom shone around the edges of the door, the way the water sounded as it echoed in Agent Smith's ears.
He was stuck in that time frame, that singular moment playing for an eternity.
It surprised him, one day, when he returned to that memory, that the computer was not humming as it usually was, that there was a message imprinted across the screen, blinking at him.
What is this?
Agent Smith stared at the computer screen, and he didn't know what he was doing when his fingers were brushing the keyboard on their own accord, he didn't know what they were doing when they typed a response back.
This is the Matrix, version one.
Electricity filled the air, and Agent Smith could feel it as if it had been the first time he was released into the Matrix, this empty world of white space and impersonal machines.
Who are you?
The sentence appeared across the screen slowly, as if hesitating, as if they had never expected to receive a response.
Who are you?
It appeared again, the type was faster, and Agent Smith wanted to reach out and transcend this boundary, this blocked memory that kept him in the same place in time, this endless loop of something he didn't remember.
I am an internal sentinel. He typed, slowly, and waves of uncertainty and confusion washed over him, and he ignored them.
AI?
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question, at how he didn't know whom he was conversing with, at why he was doing this.
Yes.
Who are you?
A sentinel. An Agent.
Do you have a name?
What makes you think I have a name?
You're an AI. You must have a name.
Why are you here?
I thought I was alone.
What are you?
What do you mean?
Are you a machine?
No, I'm a human.
What's your name?
Neo.
No, not your alias.
A pause, and Smith was leaning forward in the chair, one of his hands clenched in a fist.
Thomas. Anderson.
He drew away from the computer, as if burnt. He opened the door to the bathroom, and warm air breathed over him, and the steam curled over him, and the shower curtain was open. Nobody was there, and Smith stood there, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He walked out of the apartment, and he didn't look back as it crumbled and disappeared.
~
Agent Johnson and Berkeley were sitting on a bench in the white, staring off into space. Agent Johnson had a pencil stuck behind his ear, and Agent Berkeley was smoking a cigarette. Agent Smith approached them.
"What do we do with hackers?" Agent Smith asked.
Agent Johnson stared at him blankly, and Agent Berkeley blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Hackers?"
"Yes." Agent Smith said, and the word was suddenly hard to say. "Hackers."
"It's impossible for anybody to hack into the Matrix." Agent Berkeley said, chewing on the end of his cigarette.
A lot of things were impossible, and Agent Smith thought of water dripping into the hollow of a throat, of the press of lips that kissed them away, and wondered why it was so familiar.
~
The apartment appeared in front of him one day, and he had not put it there.
It wasn't just the hallway-- it was the entire building. The illusion only stretched as far as the topmost floor, and everything else was white, like it always was. A hint of grass under his foot, and Agent Smith walked into the lobby.
He took the elevator to the topmost floor, because he remembered the apartment number, he remembered that even though he only saw the interior, that he knew what it was like outside as well, because it was a part of him. He had visited this apartment once, twice, countless times, and he had visited somebody.
When he opened the door, the sun streamed through the windows, through the blinds. Something was in the microwave, and the computer was turned off.
"Why are you here?" Smith asked, and it was like when he asked before.
The young man on the couch jumped when he heard him, and turned around. "Sorry." He said, and his brown eyes laughed when he said it, his lips turned upwards in a smile.
~
Almost bordering on fluff, but not quite. _ Feedback...: uhh... no need, but it is appreciated. ^^
It's been edited, so there are some slight changes from the original The Second Enlightenment.
Disclaimers: The Matrix belongs to the Wachoski brothers.
Warnings and rants: Written for a challenge, and doesn't follow the canon. Neo/Smith (kinda sorta). May be OOC. ::shrugs:: Rated PG. It's not as poetic as Vic's Triad, but I can only hope it will suffice. ^^;; Can be like a sequel to Incarnate, if you want to think of it that way. Since it's now posted as chapter 2 to Incarnate. well, I guess that's redundant. O_o
The Agents here are more ... relaxed? Laid back? Timeline here is Matrix 1.0, so I'm guessing the security will be more lax. ^^;;
Summary: Smith has a job (or not), meets a hacker, suddenly remembers, and it's not so empty anymore. Matrix 1.0.
Radishface
~
It was the Matrix, version one, and the skies were white.
It was seemingly peaceful, and it was empty.
Agent Berkeley had told him that it was supposed to be this way, these white walls, this endless white box. He had told him that if his AI demanded that he express boredom, there was an simple way to eliminate that. Agent Smith had expected something ominous, but Agent Berkeley had laughed and had told him to imagine whatever he wanted to, and the whiteness would become just that.
When he had stepped out of the building, after his orientation, it was as if electricity was hanging in the air, tangible, and he stopped himself from reaching out for what wasn't there. The air tingled around him-- he felt the newness of the system, this world, which was his, which was for the machines.
Yes, something in the back of his head told him, yes, because we don't need them.
He remembered something, that an architect, or a judge, or somebody, some machine, had told him he should come here, that his memory should be erased, that he could restart, that he could refresh himself in this oasis, that this world had been made for him, for machines like him. He remembered that it had hurt, that his AI had been screaming, had been clawing at the confines in his head, to get out, to kill something.
He didn't remember now.
Perhaps it was better that he didn't remember, that he kept his artificial intelligence, gifted to him by humans, this blessing, this curse, it was better that he kept it within himself, and did not let it affect his judgment. He was naturally logical, he was naturally calculating, because he was a machine, he had a computer chip for a brain.
Agent Berkeley walked away, and disappeared when a hole opened up in the ground and swallowed him. Agent Smith had the urge to run over and see where he had went, but restrained himself. The hole disappeared, and it was a seamless, perfect white.
The first thing that came to his head was a building, a specific hallway, perhaps it was at night, maybe it was right before dawn. And then it was as if rocks were dropping from the sky, because the walls fell in place, and there was a door in front of him, a hallway lit with a fading light bulb, flickering in the dark.
He turned the doorknob and entered. The lights were off in this apartment, the sound of water dripping in the kitchen sink, and a computer screen in the living room, an empty chair, facing his direction.
The script on the computer monitor scrolled as he approached it, as he tried to decipher what it was saying. It called out to him, it was whispering things, the wind caressing his ear, but he didn't understand, because it was running too fast, the text was scrolling too fast. It was then that he felt his limitations, in this pretend-world, that he realized that he couldn't do everything at once, that it was impossible.
Other things were impossible, too, he thought, and he didn't know why, because he realized that there was a light coming from the direction of the bathroom, there was the sound of water running. And he found that he was leaning forward, as if straining to hear a voice, and the door was slightly open, as if the person inside had thought themselves alone in this apartment, that they were ensured complete and total privacy.
He drew back, as if burned.
We don't need them.
"This is interesting."
Agent Smith turned around, and found Agent Johnson standing in front of him, his eyes roaming curiously around the little apartment, his sunglasses in one hand. But it was night, of course, why should he wear them?
"What is?" Agent Smith said, and his hand tightened on the doorknob, and the sound of water filled his ears.
The other Agent glanced curiously at him, but his expression was indifferent. "They didn't tell us you were an incarnate."
"I assumed you would know."
"I never thought to ask." Agent Johnson said, and shrugged. This motion was unfitting, because there was no need for him to be indifferent, to be uncaring. They were all machines. "It would be an invasion of your privacy."
Agent Smith felt something click and whirl within his head, something that was whispering gibberish into his ears, why are you here, why are you here, why are you here.
"We are all new programs." Agent Johnson said, and picked up a pencil, twirling it experimentally in his fingers. "We don't have a grasp of how to alter the code of the Matrix." He put the pencil back down, and turned away, to look out the window, to watch the lights outside, heard the cars as they drove by, the chirping of crickets. "This is an extremely detailed simulation. I'm surprised."
He wanted to say, it's more than a simulation, it doesn't feel like a simulation, but I don't know what it is, how it got in my head.
"Did they upload your original format into the system?" Agent Johnson was asking him. "What were you before?"
"I was--" Smith paused, and he heard the water stop running, he felt the warm gush of air, the heat, felt it on his fingers, spread over his side. He heard footsteps shuffling around, he smelled soap, and a scent that he knew, a human one.
"I was a machine."
The apartment disappeared around him, the lights of the city outside gave way to an empty white, the walls around them lifted away and into the infinite space above them, and the warmth and the smells surrounding him vanished, as if a gust of wind had blown them away, and he felt bereft as the door handle crumbled under his hand and disappeared.
Agent Johnson lifted an eyebrow. "Did they erase your memory?"
"Yes." He answered, unthinkingly.
"They must have missed something."
~
It might have been years, or months, or an hour, but time didn't exist in the Matrix. He was conjuring birds out of the air one day, because he remembered them. The other Agents only understood geometric designs, only understood material things, compositions and structures of things, only understood spatial relations, gravitation, the natural laws that governed the human world, physics and chemistry.
Agent Smith remembered something living, something biological, and when he crushed the bird in his hand, a red liquid oozed over his fingers, stained his clothes, and it smelled like metal.
Agent Johnson had appeared behind him one day, and Agent Smith had quickly willed the broken remains of the bird away, had willed his hands to be clean, and they were. It seemed to him that this was something to be kept secret, to be kept safe, and he couldn't share it with Agent Johnson or Agent Berkeley, because they wouldn't understand, they would only say, oh, this is interesting.
"They're bringing in machines." Agent Johnson had told him, and Agent Smith had looked up, and both their eyes were hidden behind sunglasses. It was suddenly important that he see his eyes for the duration of this conversation. Without thinking, he willed them to disappear, and then Agent Johnson was blinking bewilderedly.
"What did you do?" He asked, and there was no malice in his voice, only an empty curiosity.
Agent Smith suddenly felt an acute embarrassment, and told himself that having this artificial intelligence was a curse, because it made him illogical, it made him irrational. A conversation did not need depth behind the eyes to prove anything meaningful.
"I wanted to see your eyes." He said, forced himself to say it, because it would be worse, it would be even more illogical, if he did not give an explanation, if he did not justify himself.
The other Agent nodded, and there was no hesitation, there was no uncertainty. Agent Smith was suddenly jealous of his control, of his ignorance.
"They're going to upload new programs and data." Agent Johnson was saying. "They're going to upload other machines as well. They're going to take their hard drives and install them into the Matrix."
Like me, he thought. Agent Berkeley and Agent Johnson were created from scratch, from raw code, and Agent Smith had already existed, and that was the fundamental difference between them.
"That's what I wanted to tell you." Agent Johnson said, and looked at Agent Smith for a second. They stared at each other like that, and then Agent Smith looked away.
"My eyes are blue." Agent Johnson said, after a moment.
"I know." Agent Smith said. He had wanted them to be brown.
~
The sky had been blue that day, with a few clouds, and Smith had been walking along a deserted wharf, his shoes clicking against the pavement, the smell of the ocean reaching his nose, salty.
Agent Berkeley had dropped out of the sky and had walked in step with him for a couple of miles, and the ocean was endless. Smith wanted a sunset, and the sun immediately dropped so that it hovered over the horizon.
"What were you before?" Agent Berkeley asked him.
Agent Smith shrugged, and the beach went away, and they were walking in ordinary white again, and it was normal. "I don't remember."
"But you remember other things." Agent Berkeley pointed out, and he meant the way the ocean looked, the way the sun set, the way an apartment could look empty and full at the same time. You could not know these things unless you had experienced them.
"I'm sure you can construct anything."
Agent Berkeley made a slight gesture, and a penthouse rose out of the ground, glass towers gleaming in the artificial light. "But," and with a flick of his hand, it collapsed to the ground, "it's not like yours. Agent Johnson tells me that you put incredible detail into yours."
Agent Smith looks away. "Really?"
"Right down to the chewed eraser on the end of a pencil."
"I see."
"It might be because of an incomplete memory erasure." Agent Berkeley said. "They might not have done a thorough job. We can set up an appointment for them to clear everything else, if that was the intended result."
Agent Smith remembered waking up, even though he never slept. He remembered somebody else, even though he was alone. He remembered a faint, musky smell, clean and dirty, salty and sweet. It assailed upon his senses, reminded him that there was once a time when his soul had been empty, like this world around him, that his soul had been empty for a reason.
"No." He said, and shook his head. "I don't think that's necessary."
Agent Berkeley shrugged. "It's your business."
~
It was tiring, waiting for something.
It was different when you didn't know what you were waiting for.
Agent Smith had been walking along a white path and had not seen Agent Berkeley or Agent Johnson, and he didn't know where they were. It was as if the Matrix was comprised of the three of them, and they had no purpose, other than to amuse themselves as they saw fit, and report to each other the news in the world outside, what they were going to do.
Therefore, it was surprising when a black cat crossed his path, one of which wasn't his will.
He looked up, and a young woman was standing a few feet away from him, and she was looking after the cat.
"Excuse me, sir." She said.
They stared at each other, and Agent Smith realized that she was real. She was standing there, her dark hair ending right above her shoulders, her green eyes looking around her, her mouth set in a thin line. She was not wearing any clothing, as if this nakedness was a part of her.
He willed her into a modest black suit, and she glared at him before her clothes melted off her and into a pile of black ash on the ground.
"May I set up residency here?" She asked, and he averted his eyes.
"You may."
A glass box floated above her head, and it grew in size, before hovering into the air. Agent Smith watched as the white space around them disappeared and was replaced by water, and he found himself floating in it. The girl had changed, her hair had grown long, had begun to resemble seaweed. Her legs had lengthened and had merged together, and a fine layer of scales had started to grow on them. Her eyes had narrowed and had flashed before turning into a gold color, her lips had melted off to be replaced by a series of gills.
"What were you before?" He found himself asking.
I was a domestic servant, she thought, her golden eyes flashing, and he could hear her, even though she had no mouth to speak with.
"How many more are coming?" He asked.
She seemed to smiled, and it was surprising to him, that a machine could smile, that they could find an emotion within their computerized brains to allow them to move their facial muscles to resemble something like a smile. Her gills had stretched, had elongated, pulled back to her feathery ears. He thought it looked like a smile.
Many more. But not the one you want. Not yet.
The girl swam into the glass box, and a black fish with whiskers followed her.
~
It was then that a programming room was set up to keep the different machines apart. The room was white, with green doors. Beyond each door was a machine's own universe, whether it was water, fire, forests, raw code, or a facade of domestic tranquility. Agent Smith had seen a husband and a wife with their three children sitting together at a breakfast table, enjoying eggs and pancakes and sausages and he had asked them what their previous vocations had been.
Everyone had disappeared but the father, the kitchen had melted around them, and the man had given him an empty look. He had been a line worker.
When Agent Smith left, the kitchen fell into place again, and the children were laughing about something, and their mother was gently admonishing them. Their father sat with a cup of coffee in his hand, his face hidden by a newspaper.
Agent Smith had been sitting in that apartment, listening to the water run in the shower, when Agent Berkeley had knocked on the door and entered. He had told Agent Smith that their purpose in the Matrix was to ensure the happiness and the welfare of the machines. He had told Agent Smith that eventually, the Matrix would play a key part in the outside world.
Right now it was a haven, a respite, and Agent Smith's eyes were on the computer screen as the green and white text scrolled by furiously, as if trying to run away, to keep him from discovering something, and at the same time, trying to tell him what it was they wanted him to know.
It was something out of his memory, and he didn't know what it was.
It surprised him, one day, when he returned to that apartment, when he had finished documenting the most recent group of arrivals, and he had come back to this memory, had watched it take form around him, the darkness of it was soothing, the way the shadows played over the floors, the way the orange light from the bathroom shone around the edges of the door, the way the water sounded as it echoed in Agent Smith's ears.
He was stuck in that time frame, that singular moment playing for an eternity.
It surprised him, one day, when he returned to that memory, that the computer was not humming as it usually was, that there was a message imprinted across the screen, blinking at him.
What is this?
Agent Smith stared at the computer screen, and he didn't know what he was doing when his fingers were brushing the keyboard on their own accord, he didn't know what they were doing when they typed a response back.
This is the Matrix, version one.
Electricity filled the air, and Agent Smith could feel it as if it had been the first time he was released into the Matrix, this empty world of white space and impersonal machines.
Who are you?
The sentence appeared across the screen slowly, as if hesitating, as if they had never expected to receive a response.
Who are you?
It appeared again, the type was faster, and Agent Smith wanted to reach out and transcend this boundary, this blocked memory that kept him in the same place in time, this endless loop of something he didn't remember.
I am an internal sentinel. He typed, slowly, and waves of uncertainty and confusion washed over him, and he ignored them.
AI?
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question, at how he didn't know whom he was conversing with, at why he was doing this.
Yes.
Who are you?
A sentinel. An Agent.
Do you have a name?
What makes you think I have a name?
You're an AI. You must have a name.
Why are you here?
I thought I was alone.
What are you?
What do you mean?
Are you a machine?
No, I'm a human.
What's your name?
Neo.
No, not your alias.
A pause, and Smith was leaning forward in the chair, one of his hands clenched in a fist.
Thomas. Anderson.
He drew away from the computer, as if burnt. He opened the door to the bathroom, and warm air breathed over him, and the steam curled over him, and the shower curtain was open. Nobody was there, and Smith stood there, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He walked out of the apartment, and he didn't look back as it crumbled and disappeared.
~
Agent Johnson and Berkeley were sitting on a bench in the white, staring off into space. Agent Johnson had a pencil stuck behind his ear, and Agent Berkeley was smoking a cigarette. Agent Smith approached them.
"What do we do with hackers?" Agent Smith asked.
Agent Johnson stared at him blankly, and Agent Berkeley blew a cloud of smoke into the air. "Hackers?"
"Yes." Agent Smith said, and the word was suddenly hard to say. "Hackers."
"It's impossible for anybody to hack into the Matrix." Agent Berkeley said, chewing on the end of his cigarette.
A lot of things were impossible, and Agent Smith thought of water dripping into the hollow of a throat, of the press of lips that kissed them away, and wondered why it was so familiar.
~
The apartment appeared in front of him one day, and he had not put it there.
It wasn't just the hallway-- it was the entire building. The illusion only stretched as far as the topmost floor, and everything else was white, like it always was. A hint of grass under his foot, and Agent Smith walked into the lobby.
He took the elevator to the topmost floor, because he remembered the apartment number, he remembered that even though he only saw the interior, that he knew what it was like outside as well, because it was a part of him. He had visited this apartment once, twice, countless times, and he had visited somebody.
When he opened the door, the sun streamed through the windows, through the blinds. Something was in the microwave, and the computer was turned off.
"Why are you here?" Smith asked, and it was like when he asked before.
The young man on the couch jumped when he heard him, and turned around. "Sorry." He said, and his brown eyes laughed when he said it, his lips turned upwards in a smile.
~
Almost bordering on fluff, but not quite. _ Feedback...: uhh... no need, but it is appreciated. ^^
It's been edited, so there are some slight changes from the original The Second Enlightenment.