AUTHOR'S NOTE: All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.
alocin-Will Seraph get a cookie? All will be revealed...^^
Dark Puck- Thank you! The original fic won't be up for a while yet, but I'll let you know when it finally goes up.
Fade Out- I know what you mean about the whole cameo thing, and rest assured, this fic is primarily about the two main characters, so any cameos will be few and brief...and, don't feel bad about the whole, "constructive criticism" thing....^_~
seatbelt37- Well, thank YOU for that review...I did go through a few versions of that scene with the Oracle though, because I kinda wanted to get as close to the character in the films as possible, you know? Glad you liked it.
Selina Enriquez- Selina, Selina, Selina; I can always count on you to remind me about the seemingly endless list of, "things to love about Smith". What a trooper; thanks for the review, girl!
Morithil.
SERAPH
"Though to recount almighty works
What words of tongue or seraph can suffice,
Or heart of man suffice to comprehend?"
- Paradise Lost (bk. VII, l. 112) [Creation]
It was a secure place, Seraph was sure of that.
Like the last apartment that he had found for the Oracle, this was inconspicuous and mundane. It was slightly bigger, with a few separate rooms; a living room, a kitchen and a small bedroom. A short corridor lead from the door into the living room, in which sat a weather-beaten sofa worn with many years of use and a few items of dated furniture. Nothing unusual or noticeable, which was exactly how it should be. The Oracle should not be at all too obvious to other beings in the Matrix.
That would prove to be dangerous.
When Seraph entered the kitchen that morning the Oracle was not alone. She lounged in one of the small chairs that surrounded the kitchen table, the customary cigarette burning slowly with each drag. Sitting opposite her in another chair was another programme. Seraph recognised the small stature and bespectacled form of the Keymaker. He nodded without speaking as the other programme rose from the seat.
The Keymaker took his leave of the Oracle, who waved him off with a small sweep of the cigarette in her raised hand. Seraph bowed formally as the short figure shuffled out under the beaded curtain and out of the apartment.
Smoke curls from the cigarette traced ornate designs in the air. A warm, sweet smell from the other end of the kitchen hinted at the cookies baking in the oven. The Oracle looked over the top of her glasses.
"Well, look who it is; my very own protector. Sit yourself down, Seraph; make yourself at home"
Seraph looked reluctantly at the chair before brushing aside his shirttails and sitting down on the offered seat.
"You look a little pensive. Thinking about the old place again?"
Seraph looked up slightly, at first surprised at the Oracle's accurate intuition, before realising that she was usually first to recognise such things. He nodded silently, his hands rested on each of his knees.
The Oracle smiled a little sadly.
"I know what you're thinking. It was beautiful, Seraph, really something. What you've got to realise is that things change. I suppose some would say that it's the one thing that's inevitable; change"
Seraph looked at her. It was true; the first, the garden, as he saw it, had been more beautiful than he had the ability to put into words, those descriptive tools that did it no justice.
"I know that it does not exist anymore, Oracle. Change does happen. But you have not said what you would call the one thing that is inevitable"
The Oracle chuckled deep in her throat. She tapped the end of her cigarette into the ashtray in the centre of the table and readjusted her glasses more firmly onto the bridge of her nose.
"Nothing gets past you, does it? I'm the Oracle, Seraph. There are any number of outcomes and possibilities, and they are only determined by the choices that are made. I've seen an infinite number of things that could only have happened if certain choices had or hadn't been made. How can you see past the choices that you don't understand? That's a tough one, to be sure. Sometimes it's hard to say whether anything is certain until its happened, if you've seen what I have"
Seraph considered this quietly. The Oracle smiled.
"Enough of that, though. I've been baking some cookies today; you want one?"
The other programme almost smiled. Perhaps there were some things that would never change.
SMITH
"Far off his coming alone."
- Paradise Lost (bk. VI, l. 768) [Anticipation]
Parasites, that's what they were. A plague, a disease. Smith hated them.
But was an agent designed to hate? Was technology meant to include emotion?
Unanswered questions that Smith was beginning to find very irksome. He had discovered the previous location of the Oracle, without any significant assistance from his associates, Brown and Jones. This did give Agent Smith the barest hint of satisfaction. At least some things were constant for the time being.
Unlike Seraph's movements.
Another run through the files on the programme. Another extensive analysis, a breakdown of Seraph's past and present. Only two could determine his future. He and Seraph.
The competition had begun.
Smith smiled wryly, a rare expression usually given to displaying joy or surprise. But in Agent Smith a smile took on a more sinister definition. Confidence, yes. But also a hint of having the upper hand, a master class in the look of someone who knows more than they let on.
The enigma flitted, here and there, darting about the Matrix in a paced but nevertheless seemingly erratic pattern. But there was a pattern. The programme had made sure that he frequented every single location at least twice to avoid making one seem more important than the rest. Ultimately, this had resulted in Smith being confronted with mundane points on maps, insignificant rooms on blueprints, empty buildings and no sign of Seraph. But Smith was breaking the pattern, catching up to Seraph, and now, now he was closer.
A ghost, they called him. Vanishes at will, is impossible to chase.
Nothing is impossible; Smith grimaced as the joints in his fist cracked resoundingly in the darkness of the corridor. He exited the foyer and stood, for a while motionless on the sidewalk.
Pigeons cooed and flapped away, clattering against the whiteness of the slowly darkening sky.
Smith looked upwards, as if called by something imperceptible above him. He returned his gaze to eye level. He adjusted the lapel of his jacket slowly.
The humans bustled. Individuals ran down the street, groups sought refuge in shop doorways. Children laughed and tugged on parents' sleeves.
Smith checked his reflection in the black shiny surface of his shoes, his face showing up darkened and distorted.
When he relinquished his empty focus on his appearance Smith returned to his usual alienated posture.
He turned smoothly on one heel and walked down the street.
The air was cold. Smith ignored the drop in temperature.
It was snowing.