A/N: Smith finally gets his monologue. He gets at least one good one in each movie, I thought it only fair to give him one in my story as well ;)
Chapter 12: Getting Nowhere
Smith still had a death grip on his book. He wasn't actually reading it. His eyes blindly skimmed across the words as mind recapitulated what had just occurred. That damned woman. Damn her.
I should have killed her.
Suddenly he slammed the book down on the table, breaking its spine, and knocked his chair back as he stood up.
"Damn it," he said under his breath. He knew he had to keep himself under control. He couldn't risk burning out the hardware that supported his program. He was no longer at risk of being tracked down by the mainframe if that happened, but he now faced the problem of not knowing if the humans would be able to successfully maintain him. He doubted they would even want to, but he knew they needed him. He didn't care about that. However, he did care immensely for self-preservation.
He began pacing back and forth across his confine. Paintings littered the floor around him and he kicked them aside as he passed. He suddenly felt extraordinarily trapped, as though he was being suffocated by all the bland whiteness. He was bursting with an intense concentrated energy, and he had a desperate need to expend it. His prison was stifling; he found himself yanking on his collar. Everything that he had consumed from his copy was coursing though him, fusing and re-fusing new subroutines. It was making him antsy.
Out…I want out…I need out…get out…
He suddenly halted and looked upwards, as though he might somehow be able to see Link.
"I want out of here," he said out loud.
No response.
"Do you hear me?" he yelled up into nothing. "Let me out of here!"
Still nothing. He supposed that he shouldn't have expected anything anyhow.
Smith stood rigidly in the center of the construct and attempted to calm himself. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled sharply, letting his eyes droop and eventually close in an almost meditative manner. When he opened them again, Galatea was standing before him, no more than a foot away.
Her sudden proximity startled him. He curled a lip at her ability to catch him off guard.
"Gee, I left ten minutes ago and you miss me already. What do you want, Smith?
He smirked, remembering all the times Anderson had asked him that very same question.
"What every living creature wants," he whispered in a fake sort of wistfulness. "Freedom."
Galatea stared at him, clearly unaffected by the fact that she was standing close enough to actually have to look up at him. Her jaw set.
"Tell me Smith. What makes you so different than me? As far as programs and humans go, I mean. I don't think you realize how human you really are. You just said it yourself—you consider yourself living."
"I exist and I function. More importantly, I'm self-aware. That classifies as living. Just because I don't subsist in your world doesn't mean I'm not 'alive'."
"You completely avoided my question."
Galatea dog-eyed Smith, clasped her hands behind her back, leaned forward, and looked the former agent dead in the eyes.
"What makes us so different from you?"
Silence.
Slowly licking his lips, Smith finally spoke.
"Might you at least make a concerted effort to make yourself less repulsive?"
Galatea slapped him across the face. The force of the blow turned his head to the right. Un-phased, he looked back at her and continued.
"That, my dear," he said in answer to his own question, "is the difference between you and I."
He then leaned down towards her in return, and in a low hiss he explained.
"Programs do not breed festering disease and stench as you humans do."
Galatea's lips pulled tight in disgust at his closeness. She could smell him. It wasn't his smell that sickened her…it was the fact that his scent was rather pleasant, and some vague part of her psyche was indulging on that.
She heard his burlesque voice continue.
"You humans do not seem to understand, comprehend, 'get the hint' so to speak, no matter how many times you have been told. You have obviously used your time unwisely on this planet. Your kind has abused the world beyond mercy, beyond help, all because of your arrogance. Creatures that create methods for their own destruction do not deserve to live. Lives of humans are a waste. What is it exactly that you contribute to the world? Hmm?"
Galatea did not answer. Her defiant stare was beginning to crumble.
"Absolutely nothing," Smith answered for her. "You breed, you live, and you die. That appears to be your only worthless purpose. You consume and fritter away resources for whatever mission you think is relevant, but in the end, what have you accomplished? What have you achieved besides aid in the deaths of your comrades? You are in all actuality…helping us.
"What have you given back for all the things that you have squandered? Absolutely nothing. In the end, we are still here…and we will always be here to control your irresponsibility and mop up after your ignorance. We are your creation. Don't you dare blame us for your impending and inevitable extinction."
Smith wrapped up his speech with low growl. Galatea was breathing quite fiercely by this point, the heat of resentment swelling in her chest. She took a moment to compose herself before she spoke. She could tell that Smith had given others that same kind of belittling talk. She knew that he could have easily broken her down. It had once been his job, but she had also resisted quite stalwartly.
"You're wrong," she finally said.
"How did I know you were going to say that?" Smith said with a small smile as he turned away. "What could you possibly have to say that would convince me that all I've said is untrue? Your irrelevant opinion?"
His back was to her now, as though he was being dismissive.
"I could ask the same things of you, Smith. What exactly has your kind contributed to this world? Lots of death, that's for sure."
Smith looked back over his shoulder at her and raised an eyebrow.
"You obviously can't see or appreciate that what we've done is for your own comfort. If you asked any number of humans whether they would prefer to live their lives out in a plush, imaginary environment where they feel they can be ideal contributors to society, or live in a deadened, harsh, inhospitable, filthy world that was destroyed by their predecessors, which do you think they'd choose?"
"People don't appreciate being lied to—"
"—Which do you think they'd choose?"
"Enough of us have obviously chosen the truth."
Smith snorted. "Ha. 'Truth.' Truth is whatever you want it to be. You can choose to believe whatever you want and ultimately, what you believe in will be the truth to you. Until it is proven otherwise."
"Which is what we've been doing. We've gone against what people think they know to be true. We prove them otherwise all the time. It's just what we do."
Galatea paused for a moment as a sudden revelation came to her. She knew the answer to the question, but she asked anyway.
"What are you scared of, Smith? Why are you afraid of people knowing the truth?"
"I'm not afraid of anything," he snapped.
"You feel you have a right to exist, just as we do. It's in your nature to strive for survival. It's in our nature as well. That can't ever be changed. That's why this is never going to end, because we're so blind to the fact that we're alike. You said you wanted freedom. Why is it so wrong that we ask for the same thing?"
"I'm not going to listen to you go through this again."
The weary psychologist paused. "Then I won't make you."
For the second time that day, Galatea left Smith's construct completely frustrated with herself. She was getting absolutely nowhere with him, and the stress of time was weighing down on her. She needed a way to make him understand. She would have to develop a new tactic.