Chapter 7: The Way it Used to Be
Agent Smith had been much more than just an assembly of complex fractals. He knew that. He was also very good at his job. Very, very good. He knew that as well.
To a typical human being, he could have been easily mistaken out on the streets as a rather tall, clean-cut, roguishly attractive man, his slight receding hairline giving away that he was possibly in his late thirties or early forties. His bitter blue eyes could have riveted anyone on the spot, but they were always hidden behind his rectangular sunglasses.
His voice had the ability to torment as well as enthrall. The manner in which he spoke was low and sustained, leaving the listener hanging on his every word in apprehension. He often spoke in a faintly humor-subdued manner, as though he always knew something that everyone else did not. He loved to confuse his enemies with his cryptic monologues; he found it was easier to defeat them in that manner. His poetic speeches had a tendency to dampen the spirits of his victims to the point where they saw almost no hope left and would give up more quickly. His psychological tactics were very effective. And yet, for some reason, his comrades had not been programmed in a similar manner.
He did not walk; he glided. When he ran down retaliants, every step was a perfectly calibrated motion. Fluidic. He did not lumber, he did not plod, he did not traipse or trudge. His entire body was attuned.
But that was how it used to be. His physical attributes were still as effective as ever, however, his sociological and cognitive aptitude functions had changed. He had gotten sloppy. That, he figured, was how he managed to be captured and sentenced to sit in this "cell" alone. At first, he thought these changes would be a terrible burden on him…and then he changed his mind and postulated that perhaps they could be used to his advantage and improvement. But as it stood right now in his mind, he wanted to cut these deficiencies out of himself.