AUTHOR'S NOTE: All original characters from the Matrix trilogy belong to Warner Bros. and the brothers Wachowski; I'm just ad-libbing.
alocin-ahh, the Seraph-cookie issue...never fear, I'm sure that will happen soon...(!) Thanks for the review.
Dark Puck-Yep, always wondered how Seraph came to work for the Frenchman, I always figured it couldn't be a completely legitimate arrangement, so obviously it's a cover! ^^ Anyway, thanks for your review,...wasn't trying to be THAT cruel...
Morithil.
SERAPH
"Who overcomes
By force, hath overcome but half his foe. "
-Paradise Lost. (Bk. I. 648.)
Seraph dodged the punch, swaying slightly on his feet, using his arms to make sweeping motions upwards in order to fend off the ramrod punches of the agent who never strayed further than one pace away from him.
That was either a sign of confidence, or another aspect of sentient programming designed to intimidate, Seraph considered. But which? This agent was, for all appearances, like all others, and yet-
It was the code.
The code was the same, with the subtlest of variations that flickered before the electronic eye before disappearing.
This agent was different.
Although he had never taken interest in his own image, Seraph knew what his appearance to the experienced eye was like. Glowing burnt yellow and gold against the green and black of the Matrix. It had always interested him how statues of Buddha that littered the marketplaces were often the same colour, and how he and the effigies seemed to share the same sitting position. No matter, but this agent seemed to have inherited some aspects from a source other than the sentient design.
Humans could not accept a perfect world, but were machines able to tolerate an imperfect one?
Seraph looked, in-between the lightning attacks and split-second dodges, and saw more than even the agent itself was perhaps aware of.
Anger.
Hatred.
Frustration.
All these were merely hints, suggestions of evolving intelligence beginning to form bases of emotions. It was incredible how artificial intelligence could form these things without being programmed to develop them, even more so that an agent could do this. Seraph could tell that this process was not intentional, rather a subconscious action. But the last made Seraph's eyes widen slightly behind his round glasses.
The desire to be free.
At this point, Smith aimed another in a seemingly endless cycle of punches at Seraph's chest. Moving swiftly, Seraph grabbed the extended arm with both hands, and, using the snow underfoot to his advantage, slid under the arm, rising to kick the agent sharply in the side before dropping to a crouch.
Seraph spun round on one secure foot, the other held out where it caught on the agent's ankles, tripping him.
The agent fell to the floor, sending snow flying up from the thickly covered ground. But Seraph knew when to step back, for the agent then hammered both fists into the ground on either side of him and catapulted himself back into a standing position. Seraph cartwheeled gracefully away from the searching blows and, once a secure distance away, turned back to face his opponent.
The agent's jaw tightened in a grimace. Seraph watched with muted interest as the fingers of one hand curled into a tight fist.
SMITH
"My sentence is for open war."
-Paradise Lost. (bk II. , 51)
This was not proceeding exactly as planned.
The extensive list of manoeuvres implanted into Smith's memory were designed to fit every possible type of attack or defensive move from the opponent. Smith was a form of artificial intelligence at the height of advanced technology, an visually understated study in minimal effort, software at once broken down to its barest features and yet astonishing in its subtlety and complexity.
Seraph was still standing.
Incomplete analysis. Seraph was still visibly unharmed.
Agent Smith gritted his teeth and registered the molars grinding unpleasantly against one another.
Strategy 330.110 executed to similar effect.
Frustration is not something Smith has been programmed to deal with. He has learnt to cope with it himself, in his own unique way. Quietly, menacingly.
Now this method wavers.
Seraph appears to be getting progressively stronger, faster, and more adaptive to his normally unstoppable onslaught.
Smith improvised.
Punches flew in fractions of seconds; heavy-handed blows that travel as fast as their owner can dodge.
Seraph still managed to elude receiving the full impact of a blow. His hands shoot upwards and away, sweeping gestures that leave Smith's equilibrium in question.
Agent Smith became more brutal, if such a thing were possible for an agent to become. Brutality is quiet in agents, it lies under the surface. Not now, not now that Seraph has leapt into the air, suspended irritatingly gracefully in the air, snow flying around him. He kicks out.
Smith flew into the back of a nearby tree.
The bark cracked and splintered off in shards, each as sharp as the daggers that stared out at Seraph from behind the dark glasses the agent wore.
Smith rose up from the ground in an unnatural fluid movement. He had been thrown down again. This was not something he was accustomed to. He brushed off his suit and adjusted the lapel.
When they came at each other again, Seraph rebounded from the branch of a tall pine, launching himself at the agent, who stood, iron dusted with snow, in the middle of the torn grass.
The other programme was close now, Smith noted.
This time the combat was short distance, he and the renegade literally in each other's faces, invading personal space and executing blows in painfully while in painfully close range of each other. Again Seraph matched him, kicking away his punches, brushing aside his kicks.
Agent Smith became more frustrated, erratic in his attacks. He sought to outwit Seraph through the sheer speed that agents possess. In doing so, in allowing himself to lash out, the agent lost his momentum.
Seraph was apparently aware of this. Warding off the more desperate blows, he pulverized the agent's face and upper body, circling him quickly, seeking to throw him off balance.
Incomprehension. Smith could not fathom why he appeared to be gradually losing. And he was in fact, losing.
An unexpected head butt swiftly followed the final blow to his head.
Smith acknowledged a shard of his glasses cracking and falling in the uneven snow.
He realised that he was on the ground.
Seraph stood over him, breathing heavily from exertion, one white sleeve slipping over an outstretched palm, implying one of two things.
Rise, and fight again, or rise and accept defeat.
Smith glowered up at the expressionless Seraph from his frozen bed on the ground.
His eyes smouldered hatred and silent fury.
Seraph wiped his brow slowly with one sleeve as his breath clouded the frosty air.
The snow fell more slowly, flakes brushing Seraph's face and strewing Smith's suit with cold particles of ice.
Smith bared his teeth in a rare snarl.