Cat woke to a slamming car door. She groaned and rose from the couch, half-hobbling to the door; her nap must have given everything a chance to stiffen up again.

She couldn't help chuckling as she threw the door open. There was something fundamentally off in a world where Agent Smith sauntered up a driveway laden with grocery bags. At least the sour look on his face was true to form.

"Alan, you're a sweetheart," she quipped, taking the crutches he carried and enjoying his deepening scowl. It was almost too easy to provoke a reaction from him. And after all, Cat thought, there was no harm in mixing business and pleasure. A little emotion might get Smith to let something slip, and if not, well, it was just plain fun to tease an Agent.

She took an experimental step forward on the contraptions and pitched onto the porch stairs. Cat didn't have to look at Smith to know he was smirking at her. She sighed and hauled herself off the ground. "I don't suppose you could be persuaded to pick those up for me."

Smith quirked an eyebrow. Cat shot him a dark look and went through the painful process of bending down to retrieve her crutches. After testing them out with a little more caution, she felt was able to pole her way into the living room. She eyed the little stack of papers sitting next to the printer. All of the effort she'd put into that stupid report... She'd even tried to write it in Smith-speak as a sort of peace offering, although she was regretting her generosity in the face of Smith's superior look.

"So, I thought you'd probably find this easier if you were well briefed. Here's a quick history of our life together, complete with little personal stories in case Cyndi corners you or something. I tried to take your more charming personality traits into account when I wrote it, so you should be able to fake it convincingly."

Smith made no move to rise and Cat glared, limping over to his chair. "Smug bastard," she muttered and handed the file to him.

It was fascinating to watch him read; his eyes flicked down a page in a matter of seconds. He finished her fifteen-page report in a minute or two, and Cat was pretty sure he'd read it over twice.

"All right, quiz time. Where did we meet?"

"We occupied the same office building for several years. We began to meet socially after a retreat designed to build team feeling."

Cat blinked. Something about Smith referring to "we" threw her off. She tried to think back on her past conversations with him, but nothing came to her. She shook her head, wincing as the motion wrenched something or other. She was really going to have to get out of that habit.

Smith leafed through his papers. "We occupied the same office building for several years. We began to meet socially after a retreat designed to build team feeling," he read, his forehead creasing. "What induced negative response?"

Cat bit her lip, puzzled. "Oh! I'm sorry about that. I shake my head to clear it sometimes." She considered Smith. "That sounded like you read it right off the page. I don't suppose you could make it sound more natural?"

She sighed when he remained silent. This was less than promising. "You'd think with all of those years spent fooling coppertops into thinking you're from the government, you could fake being married, too."

"My interactions were not extensive."

"And let me guess. You did all the asking." Cat settled back in her chair. "Well, that'll have to do. If someone asks a personal question, you can just growl at 'em." She grinned wickedly. "Alan, my darling, love of my life..." She paused to enjoy his narrow-eyed glare and compressed lips. He was too easy to tease. "Looks like it's your lucky day. They come bearing casseroles."

Smith brushed past her without comment and opened the door. "Hello, Alan!" Cyndi squeaked, then skittered across the room to hug Cat. "We thought you might not feel like cooking tonight, so we brought dinner."

"Hey, thanks." Cyndi helped Cat out of her chair and into the foyer. Cat had always been terrible with names; she'd forgotten half of them before Cyndi even finished the introductions. She settled for a headcount instead. 3 couples, six people. Maybe this was manageable.

A tall, blonde man who Cat thought was Cyndi's husband shifted the dish he was holding. "Um, this is getting kind of hot to hold."

Smith, thankfully, caught Cat's pointed look and led the way to the kitchen. A couple who looked to be at least 20 years older than the others stayed behind with Cat. She didn't get good vibes from either one of them; the man looked thoroughly impressed with himself and was wearing an ugly sweater to boot, and Cat was sure that his wife tried to distract people from her weasely features with that giant rope of obviously fake pearls.

"Welcome to Paradise Falls," the woman said, exposing slightly pointed teeth.

"Name's Stewart. Roger Stewart." Cat winced; that was more barking than speech.

"You poor dear." Mrs. Stewart drifted over to Cat and laid a weak-wristed hand on her arm. "We heard all about your terrible accident."

"Wouldn't have allowed this otherwise. Highly irregular."

Cat resisted the urge to wince again. What did that man have against complete sentences? "What, now?"

"Bit sudden on the transition, eh? No advance notice and all that. 'Scuse me." Roger started making a noise that sounded like actual barking, going quite purple and doubling over. His wife wafted back over to him and patted at his back.

"Er, is he going to be all right?" Cat asked and immediately wished she hadn't. The gleam in Mrs. Stewart's eye didn't bode well.

"It's his allergies. It's a terrible time of the year for them. And this heat isn't good for his joints, I'm convinced of it…"

"Oh, Mr. Stewart!" Cat was certain she'd never be so happy to see Cyndi again. "Let me help you to a chair."

Cat crept behind Mrs. Stewart, who was detailing just exactly what the wrong sort of chair would do to her husband's back. Lord. This was going to be a long dinner.

She was surveying the table, hoping to pick the spot least likely to be next to the Stewarts, when Smith came up behind her and took her crutches. She was too busy regaining her balance to yell at him properly. By the time she'd stabilized again, he'd pulled out a chair. Smith was making a habit of pre-empting her decisions, she thought, but if it had been anyone else she would have called this a sweet gesture. As it was, she had to admire Smith's acting ability. He clamped on to her elbow and led her to the chair, and Cat couldn't help grinning a little; he must have picked up his manners from that fancy restaurant.

Cyndi was struggling to get the massive Roger into his chair at the head of the table. Cat's smile widened; he was neither next to her nor across from her. Her general good will spilled over to Cyndi, so obviously in her element as she served the food. She tried to imagine her in the dank galley that passed for the kitchen of the Sekh and failed; Cyndi would be cruelly out of context in the real world.

Cat flinched. That bordered on traitorous. Sure, standard Resistance training admitted that the Cyndis of the world weren't ready for the truth, but she'd been headed beyond acceptance to approval. She's being lied to, Cat admonished herself. Her happiness is based purely on fiction.

She turned her attention back to the dinner conversation. Somewhere along the line, Roger Stewart had launched into what threatened to be a very long speech. Cat didn't even try to pay attention to it; if he said anything important, Smith could spit it back later anyway.

"He does this every time someone new moves in," the man next to her muttered out of the side of his mouth. "It's the selfsame speech he gave us five years ago."

"You have to give him credit for remembering the whole thing," Cat whispered. "He can't have written it, though. He's using pronouns."

The man snorted and tried to cover the noise with a cough. Roger glared at him and then launched back into his monologue.

Cat waited a few minutes to make sure it was safe; a quick glance confirmed that all glazed eyes were on Roger. "Hey, I didn't catch your name."

"I've got one of those forgettable faces."

"Scout's honor, I'll remember it with a name attached." Cat, too, developed a mysterious cough as Roger paused to look at her.

Her companion took advantage of the noise. "It's Drew Collins."

Cat's breath hissed in as Smith took her wrist in one of his patented vise grips. "You are being rude."

Cat smiled an apology at Drew and attempted to focus on the speech. Smith's hand served as quite the distraction; Cat had to concentrate on not giggling. Why shouldn't they hold hands under the table? They were married, after all.

Roger, thankfully, was near the end of his address. Cat forced herself to smile as he wound down. "Thanks, Mr. Stewart, for a greeting that exceeded expectations." Cat couldn't help grinning as Drew suffered another coughing fit. He should appreciate this, as well. She tugged her hand, trying to free it from Smith. He didn't bat an eye. "Honey, I need that hand." That got a reaction; his grip loosened just enough for her to pull her wrist free. She flexed it under the table; it would almost certainly bruise. Just when Smith was starting to seem tolerable…

She lifted her wine glass. "Always, Paradise Falls."

Cat turned to knock her glass with Smith's and was startled to see his lip twitch. He reacted to her jokes, then, as well as his own. Why would any programmer put a sense of humor into an enforcement program? She gave Smith a hard look. Maybe he transcended his code.

Cat began to wonder just how many times she'd be indebted to Cyndi that evening as the woman latched on to Smith. The hyper-speed prattling betrayed that she was still nervous around "Alan." Cat couldn't help but smile. If only she knew.

"Thinking of attempting a rescue?" Drew asked.

Cat jumped a little. "I forgot you were there for a second."

"I told you. It's the face."

Cat beamed at him; this promised to be a fun conversation. Granted, anything would look good after days with nothing but Smith's sarcasm and literalism. And there could be no harm in it' Cyndi showed no signs of letting a word in edgewise. "Oh, Alan can dangle for a while. For one thing, I want to talk to whoever hired the welcoming committee."

"That man's whole life was leading up to this. It's kind of pathetic, when you think about it." Drew shook his head. "Ol' Rog raised residential regulation to an art form."

Cat bit her lip; the gesture was fast becoming her favorite surrogate head shake. "Residential regulation?"

"Oh, you know. That silly little book you got when you bought this place."

Cat checked her impulse to kick Smith under the table for omitting crucial information. "Truth be told, I was too busy to deal with the whole moving bit, so I kinda let Alan take care of everything."

"So you just let him buy this place without even looking at it?" Drew shook his head. "Every wife should be so reasonable."

She grinned. "I would say I like to live dangerously, but Alan's such an anal retentive that leaving it up to him is anything but."

Drew grinned. "Tell him to join the club. Roger's always wandering around making sure that hedges and grasses are regulation length."

"Lord. That's what's in this little rule book?"

"Little is hardly the word for it. Tolstoy wouldn't dare publish something half so thick, but I guess it has to be. There's a regulation for anything you can think of, right down to fencing materials. No American-dream style pickets here, thank you."

Cat smirked a little; how like Smith to pick someplace where everything was numerically proscribed. "That seems awfully restrictive."

"Hey, what do you expect, living in a gated community?"

An electronic "Fur Elise" shattered Cat's already fraying nerves. She yelped out loud, eyes darting around the table. Any one of them could turn into Johnson... God, he had enough hosts to bring his whole squad this time....

The woman next to Drew pulled something from her pocket. "Dr. Collins speaking."

Drew put a hand on Cat's arm. "Hey, are you all right? You're as white as a ghost."

She gave him a shaky smile. "I think my painkillers might have worn off. I'll be right back."

She fled into the upstairs bathroom, gripping the sink's edge and closing her eyes. Take deep breaths, she thought. God, she had been so sure that Johnson had called the numbers on the cell phone bill...

Her stomach turned as she played the evening back in her head. There were so many little things that would set the gossips in this godforsaken place off, and if they did their chatting over the phone instead of in person... Cat shuddered. Johnson would be on them in a second. It was nothing short of a miracle that Smith hadn't drawn his gun on somebody already.

Nothing terrible has happened, she told herself. You have to calm down. She breathed as deeply as she could. She just needed a couple moments to compose herself...

The door burst open. Shit. Smith. "I don't suppose there's any chance you'll just get the hell out of my sight."

"Are you injured?"

"What do you think? Some of us don't heal overnight." Cat narrowed her eyes at the Agent; this was all his fault, after all. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? You're a frickin' computer..."

"I am a program."

Cat's knuckles went white on the sink's edge. "Whatever. I know damn right well that the fact that this house is in the middle of a gated community did not just slip your mind. You couldn't be bothered to tell me that little detail, hmm? What the hell were you thinking? Did you stop to research what these things were like for one second? A very specific kind of person moves in here, Smith. A person with a quiet little life, who likes nothing better than to weed the garden as an excuse to spy on the neighbors. Everyone knows everything about everyone else's business. Not exactly a prime place to hide. Oh, but the petty little concerns of the viruses weren't worth noticing, even if you could have saved yourself a lot of trouble..."

Smith's lip curled. "I did not anticipate the loss of my first residence."

"Great. Just great. But you're 'cautious,' and so you went and got a house that would be useless at worst and near impossible to actually hide in at best. I don't know how the hell you talked that Stewart creature into letting a single man buy this place anyway..."

"I purchased the property while still under the auspices of the system."

"Wonderful. So you manipulated code. It's a wonder Johnson isn't here already."

Smith frowned at her. "I did no such thing."

"But you just said..."

"The Mainframe finds it useful to create a certain aura of authority around its enforcement operatives."

Cat paused mid-rant. That definitely wasn't in the information Neo had given her, and she hadn't even had to drag it out of Smith, not really... She filed that away for later consideration. "So, what was the master plan?" she continued in a calmer voice. "I mean, I don't think you exactly planned to acquire a 'wife,' and there's like seven rules against living single here."

Smith didn't answer. Cat let herself slump forward; Smith made her so tired sometimes. On the upshot, her little outburst had gone a long way toward dissipating the panic. "never mind, then. You're off the hook for now, but when everybody's gone I want some answers. There won't be any more nasty little surprises."

She intended to brush past him but he latched on to her elbow. "Stupid restaurant manners," Cat muttered as he led her down the stairs.

"We're in here," Cyndi called from the living room. Cat looked around as she came in, but Drew was nowhere to be found. "The Collins' said to tell you goodbye. Linda had to rush in to the clinic."

Cat felt like her only ally had deserted her. She started to sulk as she looked for a place to sit; the Stewarts had the couch cornered and Cyndi's husband hovered behind her chair. That left just one seat. "Take it," she muttered, sinking down on the armrest. It wasn't terribly comfortable, but Smith was in easy pinching range if he did anything too conspicuous.

"You poor thing," Mrs. Stewart said, clucking. "Why, Roger's always having a turn after meals himself, but you're so young."

Cat shifted a little, working the chair's edge out of her back. "Oh, my stamina's just not quite back to speed yet. I only just got out of the doctor's."

"How thoughtless of us!" Cyndi squeaked. "Of course you're tired."

"Nonsense," Roger bellowed. "Do her some good to get back in society."

Cat's smile was more than a little forced; she should have expected something like that. There was no way she'd get out of this so easily.

"My wife is quite... fragile." Cat jumped a little; Smith hadn't exactly been Mr. Talkative that evening.

"Of course she is," Cyndi said, smiling sympathetically. "We were just on our way out, weren't we, Mr. Stewart?"

"Of course, of course," he barked, hauling his ponderous form from the couch. He lumbered over to Smith and offered a meaty hand. "Always glad to have decent folks coming into the neighborhood."

Cat managed a watery smile. "You'll have to come back when I'm fit to entertain."

"Yes, yes," he muttered as his wife shooed him toward the door. "Feel better dear."

Cyndi popped up from her chair and embraced Cat. "I really hope you feel better."

Cat smiled and meant it; Cyndi was kind of sweet, even if she was empty-headed. "I really can't thank you enough for arranging this. I just wasn't up to cooking today."

"Think nothing of it," her husband said, shaking hands with Smith.

Cyndi snuck back for one more hug before bouncing out the door. Cat lolled back on the chair as it closed behind her, suddenly exhausted. It had been a very long evening. "You know what, Smith? I'm just too tired to deal with you tonight. We'll have that chat tomorrow, hmm?" He didn't answer. Cat sighed. She hadn't really expected him to. "It's your turn to have the bed."

"I do not require it."

She sighed. "Have it your way," she muttered, ignoring that he was doing her a favor. It was much easier to be angry at him for nothing in particular.

She trudged up the stairs without saying goodnight. It wasn't like he'd care, anyway. She brushed her teeth with unnecessary force; the fear and frustration were definitely starting to get to her. Sometimes she was very, very aware that she had no way to leave the Matrix for more than a week. If the Agents came, she was as good as dead.

Cat shook her head; that ws a bad train to catch right before bedtime. She was halfway to her bed when she paused and went back to lock the door behind her. After all, it couldn't hurt.

~~~~~

A/N: Wow. I had amazing amounts of technological trouble with this thing. My disk went bad, the word processor had a fatal error, and the screen just blinked off... In short, I ended up writing this thing five separate times. When I finally got that all done, ff.net's servers crashed... Maybe it was a sign from God that it just wasn't ready to post until now... In any case, I do apologize for the inordinate delay. I really can't imagine that it'll happen again.

To all of you who reviewed: if it weren't for you, I probably would have just gotten frustrated and given up this time around. I want to respond to everyone, but I am too afraid to wait to post... Watch the author's note next chapter. You should all go check out the wonderful site Smithfan recommended, too. :P

Oh, and a big thanks goes to my friend Thom. He really helped me out with some editing this time around. Eyes Only also gets a shout-out for providing some useful Agent Johnson advice.

By the way - think calm before the storm. *mysterious wink*