The program that called itself Agent Smith was breaking down.
He stood on the balcony of his apartment, the construct that had been programmed into one of the many back doors in the system, staring out at the computer-generated sky, watching the computer-generated birds in their pre-programmed flight patterns. Faint lines of code overlaid the people and things in his vision, in and of itself a sign that he was losing control. When he was functioning normally he saw as the humans did, or saw the code, there was no mixing. To mix with the humans was to invite degradation, destruction, deletion.
And yet that was what he had done. He had taken up with the human woman, met and conversed with her human friends, socialized. He had invited his own destruction, and now he was paying the price. And the worst part of it all was that he still didn't understand why. There was nothing in his makeup that explained this sudden quirk of character, nothing that could account for why he had agreed to that first, fatal interview.
There was nothing that he could find that accounted for his actions of the past fifty days. Nothing that explained his acquaintance with the woman, that could rationalize how he had grown close to the human over days, weeks. Nearly two months now. That, he had decided, was the critical point. It was because of his association with humans that the emotions, invested in him by Neo (damn him), had been exacerbated. It was because of the association with humans that he now felt contempt, anger, confusion, fear. Worse, he felt calm, curiosity, respect, regard... friendship. Because of his connection to the human woman he was degrading, had been exiled, was becoming weak and fragile, and most likely it would be because of her that he would eventually die.
... be deleted.
Die?
He scowled. There were no breakables left in the apartment; he had smashed everything he could. And again, in and of itself that was an emotional act, deeply satisfying where he should not have felt satisfaction. The cycle only fed upon itself and grew, frustration at the emotions that overwhelmed him, blind and unthinking rage, destruction, satisfaction, frustration again. It went on and on, and he thought he was going mad as a result.
So this is what going mad feels like.
He remembered the television saying something to that effect, minutes before he had smashed it in with the lamp. It had been one of Solace's favorite programs, a short-lived space drama. She always liked the strangest things.
And there she was again in his thoughts! Damn her! Damn her and her whole species for existing, for causing him to exist, for ever inventing the first computer. Damn them all for damning him to the thankless, lunatic existence he was now forced to endure.
Solace. What an ironic name. She gave no solace; she was the cause of all of his suffering, at least at the moment. The ultimate cause was, of course, the humans, but she was accessible. It was easier and more practical to blame her, destroy her, than to attempt to destroy all humans. He had even tried, that one night he had followed her to some kind of wild party... she had been dressed so strangely. Granted, she had never been one for physical modesty, but... and the way she had been dancing, deliberately provocative. It was so outside her usual character.
Provocative. And damn him for being provoked. She had been dancing in a sensual, erotic way that she never had danced for him. The humans would have called it pulse-pounding; he, of course, had no pulse. It had all been very much like something out of a poorly-made romanticized dawn-of-time film, the savage people with their drums and their fires and their dances. And yet it had been sophisticated too, elegant and delicate, and the image had burned itself into the back of his mind for the next two days. As had the image of her audience, staring and appreciative and murmuring about her in the background.
That wasn't fair. They had been watching politely but a number of them had been carrying on other conversations low in the background. It had all seemed very normal to them, as it had that day in the park when she had sung on the stage, and there had been dancing. He had seen a number of those people at the fireside. It had all been very cozy, as though they had done that sort of thing for years. But for some reason beyond his understanding all he had seen had been Solace, her costume, her dance, and her friends watching her. And the one man, sitting on the log, with the strangeness in his eyes.
Fury. He remembered the fury, the rage, the thought that, how dare they stare upon and covet that which was his. The utterly human feeling of possession, which even among the humans was considered aberrant and unhealthy. It had been the jealousy, combined with the frustration and desperation of the past few days, that had nailed his feet to the ground. And then when he had been challenged on it ... well, as with most males of any species, there had been a fight.
Why was he reacting so typically male? What was wrong with him? He didn't know, couldn't guess, couldn't understand, and it terrified him more than he was willing to admit even to himself. Mostly it just made him mad. His fists were clenched even now, as though there was something else he could hit that would possibly make him feel better. He struggled to think, to regain control. There had to be something he could do to achieve a balance again. What could he do?
He stared up at the birds. Watched their myriad colors flash and dart about in the sky. He thought of another day, with turmoil, and birds, and watching them build their nest out of the flotsam and jetsam of the city. He thought of the pattern of her skirt, and the touch of her fingertips as she undid his tie and rumpled his shirt. It had been reassuring, then. What had changed?
He had, of course. The analytical nature of his mind refused to let him hide that fact from himself, even though he could get away with hiding the fear, pain, and self-doubt. He had gone to see the Twins, listened to their sniggering superiority. He had been summarily rejected, given no helpful advice, and walked in the rain for five hours. And Solace, standing in the doorway, had done nothing but tell him to go get changed. And then sat and waited for something to happen like a lump. He scowled. Why had she done that, when it had been perfectly plain that...
Memory crashed like a silent wave over his mind. That same day in the park. Her voice smiled and murmured in his head. Words. Phrases. Sentences. Paragraphs.
"If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. I'll worry, but if you don't want to talk it's not my place to try and force you. But I am worried about you, and I would like to know what's going on. You've helped me enough... you've helped me more than I have words for. And I'd like to try and help you. If it's something that can be helped."
"No power in the 'verse can stop me."
"You keep trying to put me into a category, a box. Don't. That's a sign of sloppy thinking, for one thing."
"What would you say if I told you..." "... Told me what?" "... Nothing."
She never pushed. Never pressed, or asked for personal information unless it was absolutely necessary. She waited, patiently...
"Time and patience."
... for the subject of her observations to come to her. She wouldn't have said anything even had he put his head through the glass. Well, perhaps then. But she wouldn't have asked why. Not until he gave some indication of wanting to tell her. And even then she would be hesitant, and accept no as an answer.
If he had been human he would have smacked himself in the head with the realization. If he had been a cartoon character, there would have been a light bulb roughly the size of the Liberty torch. Instead he leaned forward and gripped the railing hard enough to leave finger marks, bowing his head. He had been such a fool.
Perhaps it was time to tell her. Not all of the truth, but at least some of what had happened. Explain the reasons behind his erratic and hostile actions of the past several days. Try to undo some of what he had done, decrease the sense of alienation from the one creature in the virtual world whom he could count on as an ally. She was a reasonable and, more importantly and relevantly, a compassionate person. If she heard what had happened she would understand and forgive, assuming he was appropriately contrite and apologetic.
The program that called itself Agent Smith added another emotion to its depressingly large repertoire.
Hope.
He repaired the damage to his apartment and balcony with a thought and began to exit the building. The cell phone that he had manifested but never used was on the table by the front door, or at this point really was in the table by the front door, since the table was now in splintered pieces. He waited until he was outside and on his way to the park before dialing the restaurant, making reservations, and speaking with the man there. He waited until he was actually in the park to call her. She wasn't at home... of course. She had a job, like most humans did, or at least tried to. He dialed her office.
"Solace Tremain," she answered the phone with the cacophony of the news room behind her. It sounded as though she was busy... he could hear her shuffling papers in the background. Did he want to interrupt her when she was busy? What would he say to her?
"Look, it's already busy, so speak or get off the phone, kiddo. This ace reporter doesn't have all day."
Did she know it was him on the other end of the line?
"All right, last chance."
"No, wait..." Urgency forced the words out, and from there the rest was easy. As soon as he regained his composure. Dammit. "Solace...?"
Pause. "Smith?"
Her voice was laced through with pain, anger... and even worry. Why, of all things did she worry about him even now? Humans were so irrational. "I... would like to see you. If you are willing."
There was a very, very long silence. The only reason he knew she hadn't hung up the phone was because he could still hear the bullpen in the background. Most likely she was weighing the possibility of an apology against the likelihood of him resorting to fisticuffs again.
"I would like to apologize..." If that helps you any in making your decision. He didn't say it, though. There was only so much emotion he could take, it seemed, before it slid back into rage and hatred again.
Another long silence, though still shorter than the first. By forty five seconds. "All right..." she said slowly. "In the park?"
"At a restaurant...I will meet you there." In case the man's flunkies decide to have me thrown out, he thought. In case another fight erupts. Better if she come in her own conveyance. "Tomorrow night? Seven o'clock?" Perhaps she had another appointment. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.
"All right..." she said again, a little less slow of words this time but she still sounded extremely tired. He wondered what she had been doing in the past few days.
"I will see you there."
"See you there."
Pause. What did he say? What could he say? It had all been so... confusing. Intense. And soon it would be all over.
Oh. That's right. "Thank you."
She made a little startled noise, as though she hadn't expected him to say that. "You're welcome..." she said, sounding surprised at herself as well. Then it was, "See you tomorrow..." and she hung up.
Smith took a deep breath and looked around at the trees, and the birds. He looked around at the park in which he had been spending so much time lately. It was still green, although the flowers were giving way rapidly to leaves. The chess tables were still there, with their usual mix of ragged and businesslike folk. The stone benches on which he had spent all those hours were impassive, solid. Almost comforting.
The Agent squared his shoulders and walked over to one of the chess tables. Perhaps Joe would have some valuable insights for him.
He stood on the balcony of his apartment, the construct that had been programmed into one of the many back doors in the system, staring out at the computer-generated sky, watching the computer-generated birds in their pre-programmed flight patterns. Faint lines of code overlaid the people and things in his vision, in and of itself a sign that he was losing control. When he was functioning normally he saw as the humans did, or saw the code, there was no mixing. To mix with the humans was to invite degradation, destruction, deletion.
And yet that was what he had done. He had taken up with the human woman, met and conversed with her human friends, socialized. He had invited his own destruction, and now he was paying the price. And the worst part of it all was that he still didn't understand why. There was nothing in his makeup that explained this sudden quirk of character, nothing that could account for why he had agreed to that first, fatal interview.
There was nothing that he could find that accounted for his actions of the past fifty days. Nothing that explained his acquaintance with the woman, that could rationalize how he had grown close to the human over days, weeks. Nearly two months now. That, he had decided, was the critical point. It was because of his association with humans that the emotions, invested in him by Neo (damn him), had been exacerbated. It was because of the association with humans that he now felt contempt, anger, confusion, fear. Worse, he felt calm, curiosity, respect, regard... friendship. Because of his connection to the human woman he was degrading, had been exiled, was becoming weak and fragile, and most likely it would be because of her that he would eventually die.
... be deleted.
Die?
He scowled. There were no breakables left in the apartment; he had smashed everything he could. And again, in and of itself that was an emotional act, deeply satisfying where he should not have felt satisfaction. The cycle only fed upon itself and grew, frustration at the emotions that overwhelmed him, blind and unthinking rage, destruction, satisfaction, frustration again. It went on and on, and he thought he was going mad as a result.
So this is what going mad feels like.
He remembered the television saying something to that effect, minutes before he had smashed it in with the lamp. It had been one of Solace's favorite programs, a short-lived space drama. She always liked the strangest things.
And there she was again in his thoughts! Damn her! Damn her and her whole species for existing, for causing him to exist, for ever inventing the first computer. Damn them all for damning him to the thankless, lunatic existence he was now forced to endure.
Solace. What an ironic name. She gave no solace; she was the cause of all of his suffering, at least at the moment. The ultimate cause was, of course, the humans, but she was accessible. It was easier and more practical to blame her, destroy her, than to attempt to destroy all humans. He had even tried, that one night he had followed her to some kind of wild party... she had been dressed so strangely. Granted, she had never been one for physical modesty, but... and the way she had been dancing, deliberately provocative. It was so outside her usual character.
Provocative. And damn him for being provoked. She had been dancing in a sensual, erotic way that she never had danced for him. The humans would have called it pulse-pounding; he, of course, had no pulse. It had all been very much like something out of a poorly-made romanticized dawn-of-time film, the savage people with their drums and their fires and their dances. And yet it had been sophisticated too, elegant and delicate, and the image had burned itself into the back of his mind for the next two days. As had the image of her audience, staring and appreciative and murmuring about her in the background.
That wasn't fair. They had been watching politely but a number of them had been carrying on other conversations low in the background. It had all seemed very normal to them, as it had that day in the park when she had sung on the stage, and there had been dancing. He had seen a number of those people at the fireside. It had all been very cozy, as though they had done that sort of thing for years. But for some reason beyond his understanding all he had seen had been Solace, her costume, her dance, and her friends watching her. And the one man, sitting on the log, with the strangeness in his eyes.
Fury. He remembered the fury, the rage, the thought that, how dare they stare upon and covet that which was his. The utterly human feeling of possession, which even among the humans was considered aberrant and unhealthy. It had been the jealousy, combined with the frustration and desperation of the past few days, that had nailed his feet to the ground. And then when he had been challenged on it ... well, as with most males of any species, there had been a fight.
Why was he reacting so typically male? What was wrong with him? He didn't know, couldn't guess, couldn't understand, and it terrified him more than he was willing to admit even to himself. Mostly it just made him mad. His fists were clenched even now, as though there was something else he could hit that would possibly make him feel better. He struggled to think, to regain control. There had to be something he could do to achieve a balance again. What could he do?
He stared up at the birds. Watched their myriad colors flash and dart about in the sky. He thought of another day, with turmoil, and birds, and watching them build their nest out of the flotsam and jetsam of the city. He thought of the pattern of her skirt, and the touch of her fingertips as she undid his tie and rumpled his shirt. It had been reassuring, then. What had changed?
He had, of course. The analytical nature of his mind refused to let him hide that fact from himself, even though he could get away with hiding the fear, pain, and self-doubt. He had gone to see the Twins, listened to their sniggering superiority. He had been summarily rejected, given no helpful advice, and walked in the rain for five hours. And Solace, standing in the doorway, had done nothing but tell him to go get changed. And then sat and waited for something to happen like a lump. He scowled. Why had she done that, when it had been perfectly plain that...
Memory crashed like a silent wave over his mind. That same day in the park. Her voice smiled and murmured in his head. Words. Phrases. Sentences. Paragraphs.
"If you don't want to talk about it, just say so. I'll worry, but if you don't want to talk it's not my place to try and force you. But I am worried about you, and I would like to know what's going on. You've helped me enough... you've helped me more than I have words for. And I'd like to try and help you. If it's something that can be helped."
"No power in the 'verse can stop me."
"You keep trying to put me into a category, a box. Don't. That's a sign of sloppy thinking, for one thing."
"What would you say if I told you..." "... Told me what?" "... Nothing."
She never pushed. Never pressed, or asked for personal information unless it was absolutely necessary. She waited, patiently...
"Time and patience."
... for the subject of her observations to come to her. She wouldn't have said anything even had he put his head through the glass. Well, perhaps then. But she wouldn't have asked why. Not until he gave some indication of wanting to tell her. And even then she would be hesitant, and accept no as an answer.
If he had been human he would have smacked himself in the head with the realization. If he had been a cartoon character, there would have been a light bulb roughly the size of the Liberty torch. Instead he leaned forward and gripped the railing hard enough to leave finger marks, bowing his head. He had been such a fool.
Perhaps it was time to tell her. Not all of the truth, but at least some of what had happened. Explain the reasons behind his erratic and hostile actions of the past several days. Try to undo some of what he had done, decrease the sense of alienation from the one creature in the virtual world whom he could count on as an ally. She was a reasonable and, more importantly and relevantly, a compassionate person. If she heard what had happened she would understand and forgive, assuming he was appropriately contrite and apologetic.
The program that called itself Agent Smith added another emotion to its depressingly large repertoire.
Hope.
He repaired the damage to his apartment and balcony with a thought and began to exit the building. The cell phone that he had manifested but never used was on the table by the front door, or at this point really was in the table by the front door, since the table was now in splintered pieces. He waited until he was outside and on his way to the park before dialing the restaurant, making reservations, and speaking with the man there. He waited until he was actually in the park to call her. She wasn't at home... of course. She had a job, like most humans did, or at least tried to. He dialed her office.
"Solace Tremain," she answered the phone with the cacophony of the news room behind her. It sounded as though she was busy... he could hear her shuffling papers in the background. Did he want to interrupt her when she was busy? What would he say to her?
"Look, it's already busy, so speak or get off the phone, kiddo. This ace reporter doesn't have all day."
Did she know it was him on the other end of the line?
"All right, last chance."
"No, wait..." Urgency forced the words out, and from there the rest was easy. As soon as he regained his composure. Dammit. "Solace...?"
Pause. "Smith?"
Her voice was laced through with pain, anger... and even worry. Why, of all things did she worry about him even now? Humans were so irrational. "I... would like to see you. If you are willing."
There was a very, very long silence. The only reason he knew she hadn't hung up the phone was because he could still hear the bullpen in the background. Most likely she was weighing the possibility of an apology against the likelihood of him resorting to fisticuffs again.
"I would like to apologize..." If that helps you any in making your decision. He didn't say it, though. There was only so much emotion he could take, it seemed, before it slid back into rage and hatred again.
Another long silence, though still shorter than the first. By forty five seconds. "All right..." she said slowly. "In the park?"
"At a restaurant...I will meet you there." In case the man's flunkies decide to have me thrown out, he thought. In case another fight erupts. Better if she come in her own conveyance. "Tomorrow night? Seven o'clock?" Perhaps she had another appointment. He wasn't sure which he hoped for.
"All right..." she said again, a little less slow of words this time but she still sounded extremely tired. He wondered what she had been doing in the past few days.
"I will see you there."
"See you there."
Pause. What did he say? What could he say? It had all been so... confusing. Intense. And soon it would be all over.
Oh. That's right. "Thank you."
She made a little startled noise, as though she hadn't expected him to say that. "You're welcome..." she said, sounding surprised at herself as well. Then it was, "See you tomorrow..." and she hung up.
Smith took a deep breath and looked around at the trees, and the birds. He looked around at the park in which he had been spending so much time lately. It was still green, although the flowers were giving way rapidly to leaves. The chess tables were still there, with their usual mix of ragged and businesslike folk. The stone benches on which he had spent all those hours were impassive, solid. Almost comforting.
The Agent squared his shoulders and walked over to one of the chess tables. Perhaps Joe would have some valuable insights for him.