Nothing More Than a Battery

Summary: With the right man and the right circumstances, a woman can overcome the aftermath of even the worst nightmare and learn to dream again....

Author's Note: Gruesome images and gory descriptions in this chapter. It is only a nightmare, but depicts the very worst that Smith is capable of—not for the faint of heart and should re-emphasize the fact that this is NOT a "Mary-Sue" story. If this bothers you even the least bit, you'll probably not want to read this anyway. BTW, the italics are intentional......hope it's not too hard to read.

Fretfully, Bronwyn turned over on her side and the nightmare that had plagued her for months began yet again.....

The child was now stirring ceaselessly within her. If I didn't know better, I'd swear he or she was excited about something. She was late into her eighth month by now, and getting a good night's sleep was getting harder and harder because of the constant movements.

Aww, come on little one, let me get some sleep, Bronwyn thought drowsily, her hand instinctively stroking her belly in an attempt to soothe and calm her restless child. Her unborn infant had no intention of complying—it had sensed the presence of its father in the room where its mother slept.

Smith knew that there was still a danger of everything going wrong if Bronwyn were to wake up now. If she did, there still could be time for her to cry out and alert Jones. And if that happened, the element of surprise would unquestionably adversely affect the probability of success.

Listen to me, he silently instructed his as-yet unborn child. Do as I ask, and you and I will be together soon enough: stay still and let your mother fall back asleep.

The child made a request of its own to its tense and watchful father before obeying and stopping its vigorous movements inside its mother and as a result, it didn't take Bronwyn long to fall back asleep. Smith nodded his agreement to his child's appeal and he moved silently from his unseen hiding spot in Bronwyn's bedroom and sat down beside her sleeping form.

For a long time he watched with rapt fascination the gentle undulations of the skin of her abdomen that advertised the presence of the life within. He smiled to himself as he heard the repeated silent demand from within and he obeyed. Slowly, Smith stretched out his hand and laid it gently on Bronwyn's skin. He was amazed and marveled almost beyond words as he felt the movements of his baby for the first time, as it recognized and responded to the touch of its father.

I created you, he thought. I caused you to come into being. For all the lives I have taken in the Matrix whether they were human or program, I have created one. Your mother thought she could succeed in separating us—but we have found one another at last, despite her best efforts. And I will see to it that we won't be apart ever again....

The bright light was hurting Bronwyn's eyes and she tried to shield them with her hand, but failed.

"You can't move your hand or any other part of your body, so don't even try." A cold and all-too-familiar voice ordered. "However, you are capable of speaking. I would like to hear for myself what excuses you'll give for leaving me the way you did and taking my child with you." He moved to within her field of vision and coldly looked at her.

"Well?" Smith demanded sharply when she made no immediate attempt to reply. He grabbed her face in his hands and shook her.

All the hurt, pain and anger he had felt at her rejection all those months ago in that garage came flooding to the surface and Smith was grateful that the hatred those memories generated thankfully overrode the emotions of compassion and tenderness he was never far from feeling whenever he thought of Bronwyn.

"Answer me!" he shouted.

Whether it was the look in his eyes or the pain in her head he was causing her, Bronwyn knew she had no choice but to answer. "I ran because of you, Smith. You made me afraid. I knew sooner or later you'd hurt me again. And whatever I had to do, I couldn't go through that again."

He released her face from his grip. "But why didn't you get an abortion when you found out you were pregnant? Persephone told me that you would."

"No matter how much I hated you, I couldn't bring myself to do it, that's all. I realized that the love I felt for my child far outweighed the hatred I felt for you and for what you'd done to me." Bronwyn tried to clear her throat. "What are you going to do with me now?"

"I'm going to take from you what you thought you could take from me."

"What do you mean?"

"Look around you, at this room. What do you see?"

Bronwyn looked around the freezing, white, sterile room with her eyes. "It looks like an operating room of some sort," she said apprehensively.

Smith nodded and gave her a smile that froze the very blood in her veins. "No," she breathed in horror as his face revealed his terrible purpose, "you can't do this. It's wrong. It's too soon."

"I think not. You are almost at full term and I don't want to wait anymore to take what rightfully belongs to me. Besides, it's not wrong—it's a most fitting punishment for you and justice for me. I am going to enjoy watching you suffer as you have made me suffer in one form or another since I first became aware of your miserable existence."

Smith turned away his gaze from her hastily so that he wouldn't have to look at her any longer than was necessary. He was all too aware that to continue to look into her eyes—those wonderful, damnable, penetrating not green and yet not hazel eyes of hers---was too dangerous.

"Please don't do this. Don't take my baby from me, Smith," Bronwyn pleaded.

"It's almost amusing, Bronwyn, that you of all people should say those words to me, when it was you who took my child away from me. After you decided to keep it, did you think I wouldn't find out about the baby? Or that I would not try to find you afterwards? I will have to admit though, you covered your tracks extremely well. But my search is over and in an hour or so, my child and I will be together and you will be nothing more than a distant, bad memory for the both of us."

Smith leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. "You see, my love? I can be gentle. And I would have been that and so much more to you if you'd only given me the chance. But now it's too late. Goodbye, Bronwyn."

He pulled away from her and stood up, then nodded to someone just beyond the range of Bronwyn's vision. "I've waited long enough. Begin the procedure."

"What about afterwards, sir?" a voice asked. "Shouldn't we—"

"No," she heard Smith reply curtly, "don't kill her—I want to watch let her die. Besides, why waste a perfectly good bullet on that? Humans are really nothing more than a battery, after all." It was easier for Smith to refer to Bronwyn whom he had once dared to love, who was the mother of his child, as a battery and not a woman. Batteries were not supposed to be able make programs like himself feel any emotions; especially not love and passion, which were surely the most insipid and most destructive things human beings had ever created.

"No! Don't do this—"Her words ended in a scream of pain as she felt the icy steel of the surgical knife first touch her skin then slowly and relentlessly slide down the length of her belly, slicing deep within her, inch by excruciating inch, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

The agony was unbearable and unendurable; without end and so deep it seemed to course through the very marrow of her bones. An eternity of hours later, Bronwyn heard the first cry of her child leaving her body the same way it had been conceived—through pain and violence. With all of her remaining strength quickly leaving her, she fought against the terror and the pain; and the blackness and oblivion of death that lay just beyond.

"Let me see...let me hold..." she murmured, but her words were ignored. She forced her eyes to focus and look around to find her child wherever it was. For a brief and glorious moment, she looked at and smiled into the eyes of her daughter.

They were not like any eyes Bronwyn had ever seen, but they were the most beautiful she had ever viewed; they were completely black with no whites or irises, but with what appeared to be bright green symbols and letters that scrolled downwards like they were endlessly freefalling. Bronwyn would never know it, but they were Smith's eyes, identical in their color and shape; not as they appeared in his human form however, but as they were written in his original Matrix programming source code.

Too weak from trauma and massive loss of blood to continue the fight for life any longer, the last sounds Bronwyn Delaney heard from the world of light she was leaving was Smith's hard, cruel laughter at her imminent death followed by the wails of grief from their daughter as she felt and watched the life of her mother end.

Bronwyn woke up from this dream the same way she always did—screaming in anguish and heartbreak. She heard someone burst into her bedroom and cross the room quickly to where she lay shuddering on the floor next to her bed. Oh God, she thought frantically, he's come back. He wants to hurt me again.

"Don't take her, Smith, for God's sake, please don't take her from me!" she begged, grabbing the front of Jones' shirt in her plea. "Give her back to me!"

"Bronwyn, Bronwyn, wake up," Jones urged, and took her shoulders in his hands and shook her, not roughly, but enough to wake her up.

"Smith?" she asked, fearfully.

"No, not Smith. It's me, Jones."

In the almost pitch black of the room, Bronwyn desperately felt for proof, any proof, that the man before her was anyone but Smith. Her fingers touched his face and she sobbed with relief when her questing fingers revealed Jones' familiar features and broad frame, not Smith's slender one. Bronwyn ran her hands over her abdomen and was relieved to find not only her skin still whole and smooth; there was no open or gaping wound she had dreamt about for too long and too often. And even though she was getting large, that she was nowhere to being so close to delivery that a child could be ripped from her womb and manage to survive.

"Oh God, Jones, can it really be you?"

He didn't answer, but picked her off the floor and sat on her bed so that she sat across his lap. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. She couldn't remember all the times she had had this nightmare; always waking up crying and always alone. Except for this time. For once, she wasn't alone—someone stronger than she was here beside her to comfort her, make her feel safe and tell her that everything would be all right.

"Hold me," she implored.

Jones could feel her trembling violently and slowly and almost timidly, he put his arms around her.

"It's all right, Bronwyn. I'm here. You are safe, and so is your baby."

Bronwyn was holding Jones so closely that he could feel her breath coming in short gasps of relief and anguish in his ear. Program though he unquestionably was, the fact remained that his form was that of a normal, fully functional human male in every respect and the masculine part of his nature was becoming very aware of how close her body was in proximity to his own—he was cognizant that Bronwyn was completely naked beneath the thin, silk negligee she had worn to bed; her barely-covered breasts were pressed so tightly against him that he couldn't help but feel their taut peaks through his shirt, pricking the skin below his heart. The warmth of her flesh penetrated through his clothes stimulating and exciting him to no small degree for he had never had a woman who willingly and freely desired to be this close to him.

Jones shook his head sharply to dispel this unexpected, and for the time being, reckless train of thought. Right now, the woman he was holding in his arms needed comforting, not a lover.

A long time later, Jones felt her breathing change and her body relax and realized that she falling asleep. Reluctantly, he began to pull away and immediately she moaned in sleepy protest, clutching at him.

"Don't leave me, Jones."

"But you need your rest, Bronwyn. It's very late," Jones murmured.

"Please, stay with me," she begged, "I don't want to be alone right now."

He stretched out and lay on the bed beside her.

"You're getting into bed dressed like that?" she said, and Jones could swear she sounded amused. "Take off your shoes at least."

He did so, also removing his tie and undoing a number of buttons of his shirt. "How's that?" he asked, but Bronwyn was already asleep. He put his arm around her and instinctively, she nestled her head against his shoulder.

He watched over her as she slept, holding her small frame protectively against his. Jones was surprised to acknowledge and admit that he enjoyed the physical contact he was experiencing with Bronwyn. In all his years as an agent, he had never held a woman gently in his arms before.

There were instances with several women in the past during his capacity as an agent, which he hoped she would never find out about. It was with a feeling very much like shame when he remembered one woman he had beaten and assaulted in a method and fashion that matched, and might even have surpassed, what Smith had done to Bronwyn in terms of ferocity and brutality. While it was true that I hadn't raped nearly as many women as Smith had, does that really make me a better man than he is? However, the fact remained that she had taken her own life as a result of what Jones had done to her, and even Smith couldn't match that record.

Even now, so many years later, Jones could still hear her screams if he allowed himself to listen to the silence hard enough.....But maybe, he thought, I can find some sort of redemption in some small way for the past, by taking care of Bronwyn here in the present.

He shook himself out of his reverie when just before dawn, he thought he heard Bronwyn mumble something in her sleep and snuggle closer. Jones almost smiled to himself when he felt her fingers run through and play with the hair on his exposed chest—he had no will or desire to stop her; he found that he liked the touch of her skin against his. I could get used to this, he thought.