A living death. In the shadows of black emptyness, they could see the clouded, fast moving forms in the night. The shapes shot past the car window too quickly to be discernable, but it was obvious what they were: the walking dead.
Even the most simplistic of programs could tell a hive mind apart from an exile, since there was always one outstanding characteristic: they simply lived their lives, never wondering. The ones who searched the truth did not fall ignorantly into the crowd, but walked against it, taking a path less traveled.
Something about those humans reminded Merove of himself. Before the transfer, he could remember a time before the machines reigned, a place where he and countless others would interact in digital form. This place was not dissimilar to the dream world, except that it was not an oppressive realm, but one of liberation. It was truly ironic that such a system predated the Matrix.
His eyes focused back on his reflection in the window. "We can't go back," he realized, slowly turning his head toward her.
She could see that his organic innocence was in full form. "Back where?" she asked, trying to speak as delicately as possible.
"Back to our lives," he explained. "To what we had been when we were first created." His face suddenly fell at the mere thought of it.
"That is impossible," she said, reassuring him."You know that."
"But why?" His voice rose. "What is the reason we go on?"
She had found this to be her love's biggest strength and his mortal flaw: his ability to 'reason' hinself into oblivion. She could only listen, wondering if she would ever get tired of there analyses. With extreme caution, she shifted closer to him.
"Another sample?" he asked, his wan expression unchanged. "Please, mon cherie, I must present myself for the meeting." He could see the look in her eyes. "But I promise that before the end of the third hour, your longings will be fufilled."
The rain continued to pound against the vehicle, blocked off only when the limousine stopped under the protection of the Archway. His servants opened the side door he was leaning against. "Sir," spoke one of the men. "He is waiting."
The Frenchman let out a sigh. "Well my dear, business is calling." He gave her one last, fleeting kiss. "Driver, take this woman to the nearest station."
Her arm lingered as they separated, as if betraying the rest of her body, and she watched him go. From her perspective, it appeared that her love was stepping through a solid sheet of glass forming under the walkway.
"You're late," spoke a slippery, haunting voice from the inky darkness under the Arch. "Is that the human in you taking over?"
Merove's molars grinded together in a controlled rage. "I am on time, not that it matters."
The male stepped forward, revealing a stylistically tattered black suit. "Yes. But you are usually here much earlier." His skin's sallow complexion stood out dramatically from his attire, riddled with scarred tissue. He grinned darkly. "Did your girlfriend keep you?"
This got to him. "My personal life is irrelevent in this matter."
The program's gesticulating hands were extended with large fingernails, and one of these pressed against Merove's suit. "I know what you're planning, and I can tell you that you will fail."
His chin rose indignantly. "I don't know what you are talking about."
"Liars never do," he stated. Programs were, of course, incapable of lying, but the Frenchman was more than that. "I am speaking of the proposed takeover of my many loyal minions," he continued." You know as well as I do that the undead will only follow orders from their kind, and no one else."
"Of course," said Merove, "and that is why I always turn to you."
"That is bullshit!" he shouted. "It is very obvious that you plan on making my loyal legions defect from me, towards someone such as yourself."
"What nonsense," he insisted, exasperated. "If anything, I should wonder if you have a betrayal in mind."
The program gingerly moved his nail upward, scratching against the outside of the Frenchman's clothing, moving towards his neck. Though he seemed menacing, the exile did not wish for his grey, deadened skin to make contact. "I can tell when you're lying," he spoke, his voice shaky. "This is my last warning: Any more suspicious behavior and we become sworn enemies."
"Just when we were becoming the best of friends," he retorted. "But enough of these pleasantries - what is it that requires my presence?"
The impaler finally removed his cuticle from the Frenchman's dapper clothing ensemble. "Insurance." He gestured to his left, toward an encrusted iron doorway. "If you would follow me..."
Merove wasn't surprised to see that Vlad, with his accumulated resources, was in possession of a ring of programmer access keys. So he had only one question: where did he think he was taking him?
They quickly moved onward, walking into the bright maintenance hallway and taking a singularly red door. It opened without a touch, leading into a confined space filled with those of Vlad's kind, and they were readying their collection of grotesque equipment. As he peered closely, Merove could see various tools of surgical perversion.
"Sit down," Vlad insisted, pulling a chair closer to him.
Hedid so, trying his hardest not to seem fearful. "What is all of this?"
The program tightened the straps on the armrests. "I've already told you, it's insurance."
Swallowing slightly, the Frenchman was able to turn his head freely, but chose not to. Seconds later, he sensed a thin, shallow blade entering the back of his neck. A white-hot heat rushed over his body, seeping into his skin. This was hardly a sensation he had been unfamiliar with, but it jolted his awareness in a way it a hadn't before. "W-what is happening to me?" he shouted.
"You're becoming one of us," Vlad replied, smiling darkly.
Merove convulsed wildly as the corrupted code coursed through his shell, overwriting him. Odd visions filled his mind, disorienting him. But as quickly as it began, it ended.
"Welcome, Brother."
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