The Purpose of Life is to End

Disclaimer: I don't own the rights to the Matrix or anything else for that matter. I also have used the lyrics from the song, "Hotel California" without permission.

Author's Note: A big thanks to smithsbabe65 for all of her very helpful input and advice while I was writing this chapter—Thanks girl, I owe you!

Summary: Bronwyn confronts Smith head-on and learns what happens when you infuriate an agent, with tragic results.

When Jones had knocked over the vase, his intentions had been to awaken Bronwyn and alert her to the danger she would soon face: Smith. However, Bronwyn had fallen asleep almost as soon as he left the bedroom, due to the intensely pleasurable sexual exertions both of them had been eager to engage in as soon as they had returned home. Furthermore, the bedroom door had been closed; and, consequently, she was not aware that anything untoward had taken place in the living room.

Once the deletion of Jones had been complete and Bronwyn did not come out of the bedroom to investigate the sound of the vase breaking, Smith was pondering his next move when he felt his child being aware of his presence in the apartment. Up until now, Smith had not had the opportunity to feel his child's movements while it grew inside of its mother. With Bronwyn obviously still asleep, now was the perfect time to do so without any interruptions.

He walked to the bedroom and entered. Immediately, his nostrils flared as he inhaled in all the secrets the room held within its walls—the smell of Bronwyn's skin, sweat, and above everything else, the undeniable scent of the passionate sex that had been shared and experienced between herself and Jones, assaulted Smith's nasal circuits and capacitors, almost overloading them with the sexual stimuli he was receiving.

Not anymore, he thought. Now that Jones has been done away with, she will no longer know Jones, but me. Standing by the bed, he looked at the sleeping form of the mother of his child. Bronwyn was fast asleep and lying on her back, a hand behind her neck, and to Smith's delight, her breasts were fully exposed.

He watched her sleep for a long time, contemplating what to do next. He had spent many long months thinking about what he would do to Bronwyn once he caught up with her and now, at long last, she was within arm's reach of him, unprotected and completely at his mercy.

You've made my life a living nightmare, he thought, staring at her intently in the darkness. I have spent almost eight long and weary months wanting you, needing you, every minute of that time. Innumerable times in my mind, I have replayed, relived every moment we have spent together, and it still is not enough. You have reduced me—the most feared agent in the Matrix--to what I am now: an obsessed fool who desires nothing more of life than to be with you always.

If you weren't pregnant with my child, I would take you here and now and make you wish you had never crossed my path. All the hell, all the pain you've put me through ever since we met, would be worth it just to see the expression on your face if you were to wake up and find me in your bed, and inside of you. I would give anything to be able to savor the feeling of your body under mine, your most intimate and tender flesh tight and resisting around me as I thrust into you again and again and hear you cry out in pain as I do so.

I need not mention that I have had considerable experience with women over the years. True, none of those encounters had been consensual; I thoroughly raped each and every one of them. I admit and acknowledge that forcing a woman to submit to my will and desires has always been intensely satisfying for me. It always was and always will be the kind of man I am, and I will make no apologies for this aspect of my being. It is my true character, after all.

However, you are now pregnant with my child and I cannot allow myself to be that same man with you.

I must not.

I will have to learn to be gentle and considerate the next time we are together. It will go against my nature, but I have no choice, for the last thing I want is to harm my first-born while he or she still slumbers and grows inside of you.

But perhaps our second time together should be different from the first. The Frenchman's wife is a whore, to be sure, but she made me realize something: intimacy that is shared, with each partner participating freely and willingly, is much more pleasurable than using force.

What would it be like, to have you accept and delight in being in my arms, to feel you responding with pleasure to my caresses, and my becoming aroused when you reciprocate? To have you eagerly anticipating our joining instead of dreading it, as it was before? To feel your body counter-thrusting against me, matching my passion with your own? To feel you shudder in ecstasy and cry out my name as we climax together?

What would that truly feel like, I wonder?

His eyes hungrily traveled over every inch of her skin that was not covered by the sheet. Bending down, he brought his face close to hers and inhaled deeply. The scent of her skin, and that underlying fragrance of femininity that had haunted Smith since he met her, filled his senses. He could feel his groin tighten with expectation and he sat down on the edge of the bed.

He leaned on one elbow and with the other hand, gently trailed his hand from her neck to her shoulder, over her breast and down to her hip, all the while enjoying the touch of her velvet-soft skin beneath his fingers.

His hand caressed her breast and he felt her nipple harden slightly when he pinched its rosy tip gently. Encouraged by her complete lack of awareness to his presence, he bent his head and took her nipple between his lips. He suckled it, feeling it harden completely in his mouth. Bronwyn let out a sigh and arched her back in pleasure, pushing herself farther into him. When he was satisfied with her response to this treatment, he repeated his ministrations on her other breast, delighted when Bronwyn moved her hand behind his neck, and ran her fingers through his hair.

He chuckled quietly in the darkness in smug triumph. Bronwyn may hate me, but her body certainly does not. Perhaps on some subconscious level, she is already anticipating nursing our not-yet-born child inside her, he thought.

A sudden movement from inside Bronwyn's belly caught his notice and turned his attention away from the enjoyable sensations he was feeling from finally being able to touch Bronwyn's body unhindered and uninterrupted, to the signals his unborn child was giving in acknowledgement of Smith's presence.

Gently and cautiously, he touched her abdomen and felt the movements of his baby for the first time. His child responded to his touch by suddenly twisting around excitedly inside Bronwyn, causing her to stir in her sleep and move onto her side.

Both Smith and his child were chagrined and annoyed at her unexpected change of sleeping position; and while Smith would not run the risk of moving her onto her back and waking her up just yet, her child had no compunction in letting her mother know how displeased she was, by kicking her vigorously in retaliation.

This time, her child's energetic twisting and turning was enough to wake Bronwyn from her slumber. She ponderously rolled onto her back again, and sleepily opened her eyes, wondering what had caused her baby to be so active at this time of the night. It was dark in the room and she was unable to see anything. She smiled when she felt that someone was sitting beside her on the bed.

"Jones, what took you so long?" she murmured drowsily, her caressing hand trailing up Smith's arm. Feeling fabric instead of bare skin under her fingers, she frowned. "Why did you get dressed again?"

Bracing one hand on the mattress, Smith took her hand with the other and pressed it against his chest so she could feel for herself that she was not dreaming; that he really was there. Smith leaned forward, bringing his face so close to hers that their noses were almost touching. The temptation to kiss her was too great for Smith to pass up and he hesitated for the merest fraction of a second before lowering his mouth onto hers. He kissed her for a moment before he pulled away as gently as he had come.

"No, Bronwyn," he said quietly, "Jones isn't here, I am."

She froze, and then just as quickly, anger flooded through her, evaporating her fear as if it had never been. This has to be a dream, she thought, shaking her head in firm denial, It just has to be.

"This isn't real; it can't be," she whispered hoarsely, her mouth suddenly dry.

"Oh, this is very real, Bronwyn, and I'm finally where I belong—in your bed, with you." He felt the firm, hard peaks of her nipples press against his chest through his shirt and jacket and he growled with pleasure.

"Smith? What are you doing here?! Where is Jones?" she demanded, trying to wrench her hand out of Smith's grip and get away from him and out of bed, but Smith would not let her. He reached past her and turned the night table lamp on, immediately blinding Bronwyn and she put her free hand over her eyes; because not only did the sudden brightness hurt them, but also she particularly wanted to erase Smith's face from her field of vision.

"He's gone."

"What do you mean 'gone'? Where is he? What have done to him?"

"I did nothing to that idiot that he didn't have coming to him, for one reason or another."

"Answer me! Is he dead? Did you ki…" Bronwyn choked, unable to say the next word, for fear that actually speaking it aloud would make it true.

"I didn't kill him, Bronwyn, if that's what you mean. I took him over."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" she demanded furiously, bringing her hands away from her face and glaring at him.

"Surely he told you about the Matrix?"

"Yes."

"Did he tell you what he really was?"

"Yes. He told me he was a program."

"Correct. As you may or may not know, programs can be deleted, erased. Well, I've done just that. I've deleted his existence, but I've kept his memories. They belong to me now. His body and form are gone, that is true; but his thoughts, his feelings, and his memories are mine. I know everything he ever did, everything he ever thought about; which, not surprisingly, wasn't very much."

"BULLSHIT!" Bronwyn shouted, trying to free herself by wriggling out from under Smith's arm, but it was useless. "Goddamn it, Smith, let me go!"

"I am telling the truth."

"Prove it," she spat angrily.

"And how would you like me to do that?"

"Tell me something only Jones would know."

"Alright," he agreed, and then thought for a moment. "You've had recurring nightmares about me where you thought I would have a C-section performed on you without an anesthetic, leaving you to die, alone and bleeding."

"Wouldn't you?" Bronwyn sneered derisively. "If it was the only way that you could get your hands on my child, you're damn right you would, and you know it." She shook her head firmly. "Not good enough, Smith. I've told a few people about that dream; you could've heard it from any one of them. Think of something else."

"The last few lines of one of your favorite songs are:

"And in the master's chambers, they gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast.

Last thing I remember, I was running for the door

I had to find the passage back to the place I was before.

"Relax," said the night man, "we are programmed to receive.

You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave."

"'Although why anyone would go to a hotel they couldn't leave is most perplexing, wouldn't you say, Bronwyn?' Those were his exact words to you after you insisted on playing that ridiculous song in the car on your way home from the hospital."

She listened with alarm and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. She had told no one, no one other than Jones who had been there, about that. It was true, then—all of it—Jones was truly gone from her forever, Smith had seen to that. She was alone, again, with no one to look after her. Alone with her baby. With Smith.

Before she had time to even blink, let alone deal with the repercussions of what he had just told her, Smith tied her scarf around her neck.

"Your skin is so soft, so fragrant," he murmured, placing his cheek against hers and his voice became husky with desire as he spoke. "With Jones gone, we can be together now, Bronwyn. We were made for each other, you and me. I can give you more nice things, even better than this," he said softly as he fingered her scarf and smoothed out its broad folds. "You are trembling. Here, let me warm you up."

When he was done with the scarf, he held her shoulders in his hands, caressing them gently. He slid his hands down her arms to her elbows, and then touched her nipples first with the palms of his hands, then with his fingers.

His breathing became constrained and he unconsciously sighed in contentment when he tenderly touched her stomach and felt the movements of his child. Their daughter kicked when she felt her father's touch again and Smith smiled.

"You see, Bronwyn, our child knows that I am here with you—as I should be."

Bronwyn slapped his hand away. "Don't touch me!" she hissed like an angry cat and pushed him away from her with both hands. Bronwyn sat up, trying to cover herself with the sheet as best she could. She clutched the sheet over her breasts to hide them from Smith's unrelenting stare and Bronwyn could see the desire in his eyes. "I would never take anything from you, Smith. Ever!" she shouted.

"Who do you think sent you the scarf?" he said, his voice becoming low and dangerous, but Bronwyn was too angry to notice. "Jones didn't send it to you, I did. Remember the card that came with it? 'I thought this would bring out the green in your eyes'. I was right, wasn't I? It does bring the green out and you know it too, or else you wouldn't wear it all the time."

"Take it back, then!" she yelled at him, her eyes blazing. What Bronwyn was not aware of was that anger or rage would make her eyes appear almost emerald in color. It had transfixed several men over the years, and Smith was the latest in a long line of men to be overwhelmed by the intensity of their gaze, as well as their color.

"I don't want it anymore, now that I finally know where it came from and who sent it. For all I know, it's probably some cheap knock-off," Bronwyn said scathingly.

It was no such thing and she knew it; but the Irish temper she had inherited from her father was roused to its fullest extent and she wasn't about to back down. I am through being afraid of you, Bronwyn thought to herself.

"That scarf was a designer original, Bronwyn. It cost me a great deal of money, you know, but I didn't care about that when I bought it for you. I bought it because I wanted to and I thought it would nice on you. Jones certainly could not have afforded it. I paid more for that scarf than that moron did for his entire suit he wore tonight. He was perfectly willing to spend several thousand dollars to make himself look good, rather than buy you a ring to put on your finger, and announce to the world that you are his. That's what I would have done. But what does the big baboon do instead? He buys you a necklace with a fanciful little trinket on the end of it." By the look on her face, he knew that that remark had hit home.

He saw that she was still wearing her necklace with its Egyptian pendant. With a snarl, he tore the necklace from her neck and threw it on the floor.

"Now that you are with me, you will never wear anything that Jones purchased for you, especially that piece of useless junk, is that clear?" Smith commanded.

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Bronwyn shouted, slapping him hard across the face. "You think that you are so much better than Jones, don't you? You are always putting him down, calling him stupid or brainless, well, let me tell you something: you are nothing compared to him. Nothing! And I should know," Bronwyn smirked at Smith knowingly, "because I've slept with both of you and there are plenty of comparisons I could make between you. And guess what, Smith? You lost. You are a lesser man than Jones in every sense of the word." She looked down at his groin with an arch of her eyebrow, then into his eyes so that he understood her meaning.

"You will be with me from now on, Bronwyn, not Jones," he stated, his voice becoming cold and determined. "He is gone, from both the Matrix and your life, and he is never coming back. Deal with it. I've made sure that he will not come between us any longer. Besides, he could never have loved you the way that I can, the way I will. When our baby is born, the three of us will be together. As a family."

"You actually believe that after this baby is born, that she is going to love you?" Bronwyn said incredulously. "Do you really think that we will be some happy little family, with you and me and baby makes three? You have the right to see her after she is born, that is true, and there is nothing legally I can do to change that, but I'm telling you something right now, Smith: I will do everything and anything in my power to see that she hates you as much as I do."

"'She'?" Smith said, surprised. "You know it's a girl?"

"A mother knows," she said sententiously, her stubborn little chin jutted out at Smith challengingly. "Are you disappointed? Or were you hoping for a boy?"

"It doesn't matter to me if it is a girl or a boy, as long as it's healthy; that is what is most important."

Bronwyn laughed, jeeringly. "You mean, as long as there is nothing wrong with it, right?"

He ignored her words until the meaning of what she had said earlier permeated his comprehension. "What do you mean; 'she will hate me as much as you do'?"

"I will teach my daughter to hate and fear and completely despise you. She will hate the sound of your voice, and the very sight of you. She will even turn away in disgust at the slightest mention of your name. She will see you as nothing more than a sperm donor—a fucking psycho who raped me and got me pregnant. That is all you will ever be to her. Oh, I will love telling our daughter what her father is truly capable of--what a monster you are, Smith; really, I will. As a result, I wouldn't count on having any quality father/daughter time with her when she gets older, if I were you."

He grabbed the knot in her scarf and twisted it savagely, the scarf becoming tighter and tighter around Bronwyn's neck. When he spoke, the words came from behind teeth that were clenched together and specks of spittle flew into her face; he was so enraged and angry that his whole body was shaking and the veins in his forehead stood out.

"You bitch! I am warning you: don't you dare think of turning our daughter against me. I will be this child's father, make no mistake about that, Bronwyn. I will take part in her care and upbringing, whether you like it or not. Like you, yourself just said: there is nothing you can do to stop me. As for comparing Jones and myself, who the hell are you to point fingers, anyway? You are nothing more than a whore who would give herself to any man with $20 in his pocket! With all the times he's fucked you, Jones may have given you quantity, but I'm the one who got you pregnant, didn't I?" When she did not answer, he shook her forcefully. "Didn't I? I AM THIS CHILD'S FATHER AND DON'T YOU EVER FORGET IT!"

In his fury, Smith was oblivious to the fact that Bronwyn could not answer. He had twisted the scarf with such force that she was unable to breathe or make an intelligible sound other than a gurgling choke as he slowly and painfully squeezed the life out of her. She tried to claw at his hands to get out of his grip any way she could, however, the flames of his jealousy and lust had been awakened and would not be easily extinguished by any action on her part. She reached up and dragged her nails into his face in a futile attempt to free herself. If anything, her resistance only incensed and aroused him even more.

His voice began to fade from Bronwyn's consciousness, and her struggles were lessening. Without warning, she felt strange and unfamiliar movements happening within her, and she knew that something was wrong with the baby. Bronwyn pressed her hand against her womb as she felt a tearing sensation from within her, followed by a rush of hot liquid leave her body from between her legs.

My water broke, she thought. It's too soon. I can't have this baby now. Please, God, make it stop, make him stop before he kills us…She tried to transmit her dilemma to Smith and somehow make him stop before it was too late, but the blackness of unconsciousness came too quickly.

What she did not know was that it had not been water, but blood.

When Bronwyn lost her struggle to free herself from Smith's unyielding death-grip, her child knew its mother's life was in danger because of what Smith was doing to her. It sent out a soundless scream of such fear and terror--fear of its father, and terror because of the pain his actions were having on its mother--the intensity and desperation of it penetrated Smith's consciousness at last. With horrified comprehension, he realized he was killing her as well as their child, with his fury.

Smith released his hold on Bronwyn's neck and scarf and she fell back onto the bed and did not move. He threw the sheet that had been covering her to one side, and it wasn't until he saw Bronwyn lying in a pool of blood that was gushing from between her legs that he realized how fragile her health—and that of their baby—really was.