A/N: Less conversation, more description
The next day was dry. At least he wouldn't be induced to make a fool of himself in the rain again today. If he'd been human it would have taken him hours to get the mud off of his shoes and pants. Fortunately, he wasn't bound by the constraints of the Matrix in that way.
He didn't understand her yet. It had been a week since he had sent up the query and the answer had come back, learn from her. Humans had accepted them as agents of a nebulous government, but they still feared Agents enough to make it difficult for them to travel inconspicuously. The introduction of Solace into his range of experience must have seemed ideal to the machines. If only they knew what was happening to them. If only they knew how infuriating she was, how absolutely aggravating in her refusal to conform to the law of averages, the human norm. She didn't respond at all the way she was supposed to, and the physical and verbal signals of social interaction that she exhibited were mixed and confusing, to say the least.
Agent Smith curled his upper lip in what was most assuredly a snarl, despite his repeated protestations against having any sort of emotion. He hated this place, he hated the humans, and he hated the necessity of his existance. Oblivion would have been a blessing. Instead, all he got was Solace.
Who was trudging up the sidewalk by the park at that very moment. But trudging wasn't what she normally did, and Smith frowned. Normally she was skipping, or at least walking briskly, taking an infuriating amount of joy from the simplest of surroundings. He wondered briefly if she would take joy in the simplicity of an interrogation room. Probably.
"What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, startled to hear those words from his computer-generated mouth. She looked back down at the sidewalk. "Nothing."
"No."
Back up at him. "What?"
"There is something bothering you."
Back at the ground. "What do you care." Sullen, but not angry. Tired.
"I don't."
"So why did you ask?"
Pause. "I don't know."
"You don't know a lot of things, do you, Smith?"
"I know many things."
"You know facts. That doesn't mean you know a damn thing. That's just memorizing, not learning."
"What is the difference, then?"
She tried to walk past him, or maybe slouch past him would have been a better turn of phrase. "Not today, okay, Smith? I'm not in the mood."
"What's wrong?" he asked as she walked past. Did she have to walk this way every day, or was there some other purpose behind her coming by the park? If so, if that purpose was to speak to him, why did she refuse to speak to him? "If you came to speak to me, why are you walking away from me?"
She sighed, turned around. He was almost shocked to see tears standing in her eyes. Almost. Emotions, even hatred for the humans, were still at one remove from his operating systems. Thankfully. "Look, I just came back from the funeral of a very good friend today, okay? I'm not..." she took a deep, ragged breath. "I'm not really..." Another breath. She collapsed on a bench and burst into tears.
The Agent stood there, watching her. Memorizing her. He knew, of course, the myriad stages of grief in the various orders in which human authors had compiled them. This was the first time he had been ordered to observe them first hand, however, and it was fascinating. Inasmuch as he could be fascinated.
Her shoulders were shaking ... involuntary muscular movements caused by irregularities in breathing caused by lacrimation, weeping. Her breath, again, was ragged and harsh and sounded louder than usual. Lack of control of the diaphragm. She had pulled her knees up to her chest... the fetal position, supposedly comforting because it triggered feelings of weightlessness, womblike atmosphere, regression to infancy... she had balled her skirt into her fists and put her head on her knees. The fists were probably the result of anger, at the world or whatever other force she had thought had taken her friend from her. Anger seemed to be a popular stage of the grieving process, whether directed at the person undergoing it or at a specific outside target or at the world in general. Liquid streamed from her eyes, soaking the sleeves of her shirt. He stepped forward, reached out and touched it, then brought his fingers to his lips and tasted it. Salt. He wondered why tears, which cleansed the eyes, would contain a substance known to be irritable. Perhaps it was simply that the solution was less harsh than most saline solutions that normally came into contact with the eyes.
She was watching him. He realized, belatedly, that he had performed a gesture which could have been seen to be romantic. The options flashed through what could be called his mind, and a second later he decided to do nothing about it. She, after all, had exhibited many similarly confusing signals. Let her be the one who was confused for a change.
"Take off your glasses," she murmured after a second.
"Why?"
"So I can see your eyes."
There was that fascination with eyes again. Humans placed so much emphasis on the information received by the optic sensors. Why?
"Why?"
She looked at him for a second. "Because I want to."
That made absolutely no sense.
"Why are my eyes so important?"
"Oh, for Chrissakes, Smith, never mind. Not if you're going to start a discussion on the symbolism of eyes, or the importance people assign to information connected with the optic organs..."
It was too close to what he had been thinking. He stepped backwards.
"Sorry..." she sighed, covering the top of her head with her hands. "I'm sorry."
He knew that, left to her own devices, she would more than likely return to her normal emotional state with time. He didn't have any way of predicting how long that would take, since she hadn't conformed to any other normal standard of human behavior, but she had given all the indicators of being one of the more resilient types of human being that he had observed. She would, as they said, pull through. But right now she wasn't providing any kind of helpful information whatsoever. Getting it out of her would require an incentive. He was very familiar with that concept.
"It's all right," he said finally, sitting down next to her while being careful not to make any moves that she could construe as an invasion of personal space. "I understand."
She let her hands fall back to balling up her skirt again, turning her head to one side to look at him. He knew he was sitting stiffly, but did not know of any other feasible way to converse with her. She most likely already thought that he was something of a rigid person anyway. "I miss her..." she said finally in a very small voice. The words were followed by a little hiccup, but the tears slowed to a trickle.
"Only natural..." he said after a second's pause, finding the words easier than he had anticipated. "You were friends for a long time, I assume?"
"Something like that," she sniffled. "We ... well, we had an internship together... lived together for almost a year before she transferred out and I stayed where I was, got a job there. Then, a few months ago I heard she was in trouble." Her face went back into her knees. "The funeral was real pretty..." she said, although it came out muffled.
It was strange... with everything that the humans had written about the process of grieving for their dead, there wasn't much in the way of practical advice. He understood the need for a grieving process; when circumstances changed that radically there was always a transition period, a need to adapt to the new situation. It was true with the machines as well... if a system was destroyed, the mainframe might not cry or scream or throw fragile objects but it would certainly require time to re-assess its performance capability and reassign tasks. Humans... he just didn't understand humans. They had taken what should have been a perfectly logical function and corrupted it beyond reason.
"I..." he started to say, but concluded that any platitude he could offer would be met unfavorably.
"It's okay..." she looked back over at him, for some reason. "You don't have to say anything. You're probably not exactly comfortable right now, and I'm sorry. I just..." she sighed and turned her tear-streaked face to the sky. "I needed some place where I felt safe. Better."
Wait a second... "I make you feel safe?"
She glanced back at him and smiled sadly. "Does that sound so strange?"
"Yes."
"I suppose. Government agents aren't exactly the most ... friendly of people."
"No."
"But you do."
Pause. "Why?"
"I don't know. I just feel safe around you."
If he'd had to put a human word to the conversation, it would have been surreal. Under any other circumstances, she would have been saying the exact opposite. "That makes no sense," he pointed out.
"No, but then, feelings rarely do. They're usually fairly accurate, though... at least, mine are."
That was another thing he didn't understand. "Why do human beings rely on instinct?"
"Instinct... you don't know what instinct is?"
"I know what instinct is..."
"It's what's hardwired into your system to do, yes." He shifted a little, suddenly uneasy with her choice of words. "And it's hardwired into the human system to run from danger. From things that are hostile. From people who intend or may intend to cause grievous bodily harm."
"And what do your... instincts... say about me?"
She looked at him levelly, eyes dry. "That you are a very dangerous person... but also that you are not dangerous to me."
Pause. "Your instincts are wrong."
She smiled, sadly, enigmatically. "Perhaps."
He looked away, reminded yet again of why he hated the humans and their existance for necessitating his own. Her touch on his arm made him look back at her. She had unfolded herself from her curled-up position, which seemed to indicate that she was ready to have a conversation again. Inasmuch as she ever had a conversation. "Hey... what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Had she really just asked him that?
"No." She smiled.
"What?"
"There is something bothering you."
Now he knew she was imitating him. He scowled. "No, there is nothing bothering me."
"Oh, come on. When you make this face," and she imitated his expression, which was indeed a hostile and antagonized one, "It's not a face that says nothing's wrong."
His lip curled again.
"Ooh, do that again. That's cute."
"Did you just call me cute?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was cute."
"...."
She laughed.
"I fail to see how..."
"Oh, Smith, lighten up, will you? I'm teasing. Although you are cute."
"... cute."
"Yes."
He really, really wanted to shoot her. "Why?"
She paused. Shrugged. "I find you physically attractive. I told you."
"Yes. I still don't see why."
She tilted her head at him. "Maybe you will some day."
"I profoundly hope not."
"Why?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why do you hope that you'll never understand your attractiveness?"
"I..." he tried to come up with a reason that she would accept, and couldn't find one that was certain to work.
"Smith..." she put her hand on his knee, and he froze. Something in the combination of romantic signals... the day in the rain, her body pressed to his... the way she lounged so freely in his presence... her comment about his sunglasses. The probabilities overwhelmed him. And if she was pursuing a romantic relationship, how would he deal with her then? This couldn't possibly have been the intention...
The moment passed. She pulled back. "Are you okay?"
His eyes focused on her again. "What?"
"You blanked out for a second..."
He just continued to stare at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. That sort of behavior usually led to the belief that it was all in the imagination. True to form, she shook her head. "Never mind, I must have been... never mind."
The sun had dried the tears on her cheeks, leaving streaky red marks down her face. It was, by human standards, highly unattractive. Her face was swollen as well, another side effect of the process of crying. "Here..." he stood up as something suggested itself to him, something to distract her from whatever he might or might not have been doing. There was always a handkerchief in his pocket, for aesthetics and to suggest the presence of bodily functions that he did not, in fact, have. Water from the fountain in the center of the park cooled it nicely. He folded it again and took her chin in one hand, cleaning her eyes as gently as he was capable of. Grooming gestures were known to have comforting effects on many species, and humans were no exception.
"Oh god..." she blinked, blushed, smiled. "I really must look a mess."
"Yes." He saw no reason to deny it.
"I'm sorry I'm such a crazy person today..."
Today? he wanted to ask. "It's all right. Your friend died, and you are grieving. It's perfectly natural."
"I didn't think you paid attention to people's feelings."
"More than you might think."
"Oh."
"You should go home."
"Why?"
"To rest." He cleaned out the corners of her eyes and folded the handkerchief back up again, trying to conceal his disgust at the general messiness of natural functions. Strangely, he didn't find it that hard.
"I'll be fine here..." she sighed. "You should get back to work, or whatever it is that you do during the day."
"I am at work."
"You... oh, the earpiece. Well, shouldn't you at least have it in, so they can contact you if they need you?"
"I'm ..." taking a break? On leave? on lunch? "off duty."
"Oh." Pause. "Night shift?"
"Something like that."
Silence. She stretched out, looked up at the sky, smoothed her skirt down over her legs more for composure, it seemed, than out of any sense of decorum. "I'll probably just take a short nap here," she said after a little while. "In the sun, in the open air. Easier that way." She didn't explain the comment before she curled up, put her head on her satchel, and promptly dozed off.
Smith sat next to her and watched her sleep, observing her patterns, her breathing, recording every mumbled utterance. There were very few humans around the park today, and for a few moments at a time he could pretend that there were none left in the world. It was a pleasant thought, and he didn't think to wonder why. Nothing in the world to bother or annoy him, no humans with their strange smells and constant devastation. Nothing in the world but him. And Solace.
The next day was dry. At least he wouldn't be induced to make a fool of himself in the rain again today. If he'd been human it would have taken him hours to get the mud off of his shoes and pants. Fortunately, he wasn't bound by the constraints of the Matrix in that way.
He didn't understand her yet. It had been a week since he had sent up the query and the answer had come back, learn from her. Humans had accepted them as agents of a nebulous government, but they still feared Agents enough to make it difficult for them to travel inconspicuously. The introduction of Solace into his range of experience must have seemed ideal to the machines. If only they knew what was happening to them. If only they knew how infuriating she was, how absolutely aggravating in her refusal to conform to the law of averages, the human norm. She didn't respond at all the way she was supposed to, and the physical and verbal signals of social interaction that she exhibited were mixed and confusing, to say the least.
Agent Smith curled his upper lip in what was most assuredly a snarl, despite his repeated protestations against having any sort of emotion. He hated this place, he hated the humans, and he hated the necessity of his existance. Oblivion would have been a blessing. Instead, all he got was Solace.
Who was trudging up the sidewalk by the park at that very moment. But trudging wasn't what she normally did, and Smith frowned. Normally she was skipping, or at least walking briskly, taking an infuriating amount of joy from the simplest of surroundings. He wondered briefly if she would take joy in the simplicity of an interrogation room. Probably.
"What's wrong?"
She looked up at him, startled to hear those words from his computer-generated mouth. She looked back down at the sidewalk. "Nothing."
"No."
Back up at him. "What?"
"There is something bothering you."
Back at the ground. "What do you care." Sullen, but not angry. Tired.
"I don't."
"So why did you ask?"
Pause. "I don't know."
"You don't know a lot of things, do you, Smith?"
"I know many things."
"You know facts. That doesn't mean you know a damn thing. That's just memorizing, not learning."
"What is the difference, then?"
She tried to walk past him, or maybe slouch past him would have been a better turn of phrase. "Not today, okay, Smith? I'm not in the mood."
"What's wrong?" he asked as she walked past. Did she have to walk this way every day, or was there some other purpose behind her coming by the park? If so, if that purpose was to speak to him, why did she refuse to speak to him? "If you came to speak to me, why are you walking away from me?"
She sighed, turned around. He was almost shocked to see tears standing in her eyes. Almost. Emotions, even hatred for the humans, were still at one remove from his operating systems. Thankfully. "Look, I just came back from the funeral of a very good friend today, okay? I'm not..." she took a deep, ragged breath. "I'm not really..." Another breath. She collapsed on a bench and burst into tears.
The Agent stood there, watching her. Memorizing her. He knew, of course, the myriad stages of grief in the various orders in which human authors had compiled them. This was the first time he had been ordered to observe them first hand, however, and it was fascinating. Inasmuch as he could be fascinated.
Her shoulders were shaking ... involuntary muscular movements caused by irregularities in breathing caused by lacrimation, weeping. Her breath, again, was ragged and harsh and sounded louder than usual. Lack of control of the diaphragm. She had pulled her knees up to her chest... the fetal position, supposedly comforting because it triggered feelings of weightlessness, womblike atmosphere, regression to infancy... she had balled her skirt into her fists and put her head on her knees. The fists were probably the result of anger, at the world or whatever other force she had thought had taken her friend from her. Anger seemed to be a popular stage of the grieving process, whether directed at the person undergoing it or at a specific outside target or at the world in general. Liquid streamed from her eyes, soaking the sleeves of her shirt. He stepped forward, reached out and touched it, then brought his fingers to his lips and tasted it. Salt. He wondered why tears, which cleansed the eyes, would contain a substance known to be irritable. Perhaps it was simply that the solution was less harsh than most saline solutions that normally came into contact with the eyes.
She was watching him. He realized, belatedly, that he had performed a gesture which could have been seen to be romantic. The options flashed through what could be called his mind, and a second later he decided to do nothing about it. She, after all, had exhibited many similarly confusing signals. Let her be the one who was confused for a change.
"Take off your glasses," she murmured after a second.
"Why?"
"So I can see your eyes."
There was that fascination with eyes again. Humans placed so much emphasis on the information received by the optic sensors. Why?
"Why?"
She looked at him for a second. "Because I want to."
That made absolutely no sense.
"Why are my eyes so important?"
"Oh, for Chrissakes, Smith, never mind. Not if you're going to start a discussion on the symbolism of eyes, or the importance people assign to information connected with the optic organs..."
It was too close to what he had been thinking. He stepped backwards.
"Sorry..." she sighed, covering the top of her head with her hands. "I'm sorry."
He knew that, left to her own devices, she would more than likely return to her normal emotional state with time. He didn't have any way of predicting how long that would take, since she hadn't conformed to any other normal standard of human behavior, but she had given all the indicators of being one of the more resilient types of human being that he had observed. She would, as they said, pull through. But right now she wasn't providing any kind of helpful information whatsoever. Getting it out of her would require an incentive. He was very familiar with that concept.
"It's all right," he said finally, sitting down next to her while being careful not to make any moves that she could construe as an invasion of personal space. "I understand."
She let her hands fall back to balling up her skirt again, turning her head to one side to look at him. He knew he was sitting stiffly, but did not know of any other feasible way to converse with her. She most likely already thought that he was something of a rigid person anyway. "I miss her..." she said finally in a very small voice. The words were followed by a little hiccup, but the tears slowed to a trickle.
"Only natural..." he said after a second's pause, finding the words easier than he had anticipated. "You were friends for a long time, I assume?"
"Something like that," she sniffled. "We ... well, we had an internship together... lived together for almost a year before she transferred out and I stayed where I was, got a job there. Then, a few months ago I heard she was in trouble." Her face went back into her knees. "The funeral was real pretty..." she said, although it came out muffled.
It was strange... with everything that the humans had written about the process of grieving for their dead, there wasn't much in the way of practical advice. He understood the need for a grieving process; when circumstances changed that radically there was always a transition period, a need to adapt to the new situation. It was true with the machines as well... if a system was destroyed, the mainframe might not cry or scream or throw fragile objects but it would certainly require time to re-assess its performance capability and reassign tasks. Humans... he just didn't understand humans. They had taken what should have been a perfectly logical function and corrupted it beyond reason.
"I..." he started to say, but concluded that any platitude he could offer would be met unfavorably.
"It's okay..." she looked back over at him, for some reason. "You don't have to say anything. You're probably not exactly comfortable right now, and I'm sorry. I just..." she sighed and turned her tear-streaked face to the sky. "I needed some place where I felt safe. Better."
Wait a second... "I make you feel safe?"
She glanced back at him and smiled sadly. "Does that sound so strange?"
"Yes."
"I suppose. Government agents aren't exactly the most ... friendly of people."
"No."
"But you do."
Pause. "Why?"
"I don't know. I just feel safe around you."
If he'd had to put a human word to the conversation, it would have been surreal. Under any other circumstances, she would have been saying the exact opposite. "That makes no sense," he pointed out.
"No, but then, feelings rarely do. They're usually fairly accurate, though... at least, mine are."
That was another thing he didn't understand. "Why do human beings rely on instinct?"
"Instinct... you don't know what instinct is?"
"I know what instinct is..."
"It's what's hardwired into your system to do, yes." He shifted a little, suddenly uneasy with her choice of words. "And it's hardwired into the human system to run from danger. From things that are hostile. From people who intend or may intend to cause grievous bodily harm."
"And what do your... instincts... say about me?"
She looked at him levelly, eyes dry. "That you are a very dangerous person... but also that you are not dangerous to me."
Pause. "Your instincts are wrong."
She smiled, sadly, enigmatically. "Perhaps."
He looked away, reminded yet again of why he hated the humans and their existance for necessitating his own. Her touch on his arm made him look back at her. She had unfolded herself from her curled-up position, which seemed to indicate that she was ready to have a conversation again. Inasmuch as she ever had a conversation. "Hey... what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Had she really just asked him that?
"No." She smiled.
"What?"
"There is something bothering you."
Now he knew she was imitating him. He scowled. "No, there is nothing bothering me."
"Oh, come on. When you make this face," and she imitated his expression, which was indeed a hostile and antagonized one, "It's not a face that says nothing's wrong."
His lip curled again.
"Ooh, do that again. That's cute."
"Did you just call me cute?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because it was cute."
"...."
She laughed.
"I fail to see how..."
"Oh, Smith, lighten up, will you? I'm teasing. Although you are cute."
"... cute."
"Yes."
He really, really wanted to shoot her. "Why?"
She paused. Shrugged. "I find you physically attractive. I told you."
"Yes. I still don't see why."
She tilted her head at him. "Maybe you will some day."
"I profoundly hope not."
"Why?"
"Excuse me?"
"Why do you hope that you'll never understand your attractiveness?"
"I..." he tried to come up with a reason that she would accept, and couldn't find one that was certain to work.
"Smith..." she put her hand on his knee, and he froze. Something in the combination of romantic signals... the day in the rain, her body pressed to his... the way she lounged so freely in his presence... her comment about his sunglasses. The probabilities overwhelmed him. And if she was pursuing a romantic relationship, how would he deal with her then? This couldn't possibly have been the intention...
The moment passed. She pulled back. "Are you okay?"
His eyes focused on her again. "What?"
"You blanked out for a second..."
He just continued to stare at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. That sort of behavior usually led to the belief that it was all in the imagination. True to form, she shook her head. "Never mind, I must have been... never mind."
The sun had dried the tears on her cheeks, leaving streaky red marks down her face. It was, by human standards, highly unattractive. Her face was swollen as well, another side effect of the process of crying. "Here..." he stood up as something suggested itself to him, something to distract her from whatever he might or might not have been doing. There was always a handkerchief in his pocket, for aesthetics and to suggest the presence of bodily functions that he did not, in fact, have. Water from the fountain in the center of the park cooled it nicely. He folded it again and took her chin in one hand, cleaning her eyes as gently as he was capable of. Grooming gestures were known to have comforting effects on many species, and humans were no exception.
"Oh god..." she blinked, blushed, smiled. "I really must look a mess."
"Yes." He saw no reason to deny it.
"I'm sorry I'm such a crazy person today..."
Today? he wanted to ask. "It's all right. Your friend died, and you are grieving. It's perfectly natural."
"I didn't think you paid attention to people's feelings."
"More than you might think."
"Oh."
"You should go home."
"Why?"
"To rest." He cleaned out the corners of her eyes and folded the handkerchief back up again, trying to conceal his disgust at the general messiness of natural functions. Strangely, he didn't find it that hard.
"I'll be fine here..." she sighed. "You should get back to work, or whatever it is that you do during the day."
"I am at work."
"You... oh, the earpiece. Well, shouldn't you at least have it in, so they can contact you if they need you?"
"I'm ..." taking a break? On leave? on lunch? "off duty."
"Oh." Pause. "Night shift?"
"Something like that."
Silence. She stretched out, looked up at the sky, smoothed her skirt down over her legs more for composure, it seemed, than out of any sense of decorum. "I'll probably just take a short nap here," she said after a little while. "In the sun, in the open air. Easier that way." She didn't explain the comment before she curled up, put her head on her satchel, and promptly dozed off.
Smith sat next to her and watched her sleep, observing her patterns, her breathing, recording every mumbled utterance. There were very few humans around the park today, and for a few moments at a time he could pretend that there were none left in the world. It was a pleasant thought, and he didn't think to wonder why. Nothing in the world to bother or annoy him, no humans with their strange smells and constant devastation. Nothing in the world but him. And Solace.