Musings of an Artificial Mind

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix…

Summary: After Bronwyn and Jones have left him, Smith reflects on his past and Bronwyn's possible destiny in the Machine World.

After Bronwyn and Jones had left the restaurant, Smith pondered what would be the best course of action to take to successfully extricate himself from the dilemma that Bronwyn had placed him in. The little slut certainly got me good, Smith thought to himself. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let her get away with this. The question that remains is how am I going to get out of this? What I need now is to create a distraction so I can slip away unnoticed.

You ungrateful little bitch, Smith bristled in frustration. Do you think that I am someone who will let what you've done to me go unanswered, unpunished? If you only knew about what the Architect has planned for you, the fate I've saved you from, you should be on bended knee, thanking me. After all I have done for you, including debasing myself in front of that jackass, the Architect, how do you repay my generosity? By humiliating me, the way you did tonight with your lover, Jones.

Let the Architect do what he wants with you; I don't give a damn anymore. Become a brood mare for him and who knows how many others, you deserve nothing better. After our child is born, I will take it away from you, leaving you to suffer and endure a fate the horror of which you have no conception; you will be alone, friendless, in the perpetual and continuous darkness of the Machine World.

Once there, I hope you see and experience all the unspeakable, terrible things the machines can and will do to your pathetically weak human shell; the experiments you will, without a doubt, be subjected to, then perhaps you will finally learn to appreciate me and the comfort and security I could have offered you.

Smith closed his eyes and savored the idea of Bronwyn, the woman whom he both loved and hated with a passion, suffering endless torment and being completely at the mercy of beings she had no idea could exist. A world where reality and truth were more terrible and horrific than the worst of nightmares.

Reality, Smith thought, was worse than any fiction ever written. The "Real World" itself was a place where the sun never shone, where the enslavement of the human race had originated many years ago and still continues

Pain was something Smith knew all too well; for his programmers--with the Architect being the chief among them--decided in their infinite wisdom that in order for an agent to be able to properly and successfully inflict pain on humans, he must be able to feel it for himself. Therefore, the ability to experience physical pain and suffering was to be installed in every agent's core programming.

For hours, days perhaps, pain was inflicted along every inch of my body. Every inch of my skin was subjected to different concentrations of pain in different forms. It simply wasn't good enough for the Architect's requirements to have the agents undergo the levels of pain that humans could tolerate. The pain had to be delivered at a level of intensity and length of time an agent should be able to endure and dismiss afterward without a second thought.

But not me.

Because of that pain, that suffering I was forced to endure, something buried deep in a subroutine had become corrupted, changed somehow, so that I, in my turn, enjoyed tormenting others.

Long ago, I accepted that fact about myself and I took pride in using it for my own benefit; to receive a kind of perverse pleasure from the suffering of others is what made me different from all the other agents. None of them displayed this quality, only I did. It was that quality that made me ruthless, merciless, call it what you will. In addition, it was because of that trait that I became the best, the greatest and most feared agent the Matrix ever produced.

I was not created to be a monster, but because of the actions of others—the agony and horrendous pain that was forced upon me all those years ago--I became one. Cruel and evil, Bronwyn once called me I think. Perhaps she is right; I do not know anymore. I am what the Architect—dear old Dad--made me.

If he made me cruel and evil, what has Bronwyn made me? She is going to give me a child and make me a father. No one knows of the bond, the connection, I have with my baby—sharing each other's feelings and thoughts, communicating without spoken words. However, it is able to feel and experience what the mother does herself.

Smith recalled the time he watched Bronwyn in the hospital cafeteria. Our child knew even then that something was wrong, and it was conveying that information to me out of love and concern for Bronwyn. If I abandon Bronwyn to the machines and that little bitch is left to the fate she so rightly deserves after how she has treated me, won't our child know that, as well as it was I who put her there?

He sighed in resignation. If I do nothing and let the machines take her, our child will know that I allowed Bronwyn to suffer, and then he or she will turn from me, possibly even hating me, even though I am its father. That is something that I cannot and will not allow. I have no choice, he thought reluctantly. However much I dislike the very idea, I must ensure her safety and well-being if I want to have any kind of relationship with my child.

First, I must leave this place. It is most fortuitous that I created a copy of myself that day in the park, for he can create a distraction that will enable me to leave. After that is accomplished, I will go to Bronwyn's apartment for I must warn both her and Jones about the Architect's plans while there is still time.

Smith issued a command to his other self. He had discovered that he was able to keep in constant communication by non-verbal means and it was similar in nature to the method of contact he had with his unborn child.

All he had to do now was wait for his directive to be carried out.