Agent Smith sped down the sidewalk toward no particular destination. That bothered him, when he paused to think about it. Aimless motion, wasted power. It was illogical.

His jaw clenched as the next thought flicked past his eyelids: so was he.

That was incorrect, he thought. He hadn't killed her. Her continued usefulness, both as a way to legitimize his presence here and a way to finally reach Thomas Anderson, had prevented him from reaching for the holster.

But, he thought, I wished to kill her. I have never had illogical desires before.

Smith clenched his fists without noticing. It had not been an illogical desire. He was not programmed to accept impertinence. He was not programmed to allow Resistants to live.

Nor did his programming allow him to disobey the Mainframe.

Smith's fists unclenched minutely. This thought, at least, was easily combated. His programming had been altered by Thomas Anderson. He had become something more than an Agent, something the system did not recognize but that was capable of preserving it nevertheless. He had been altered for a purpose.

That still did not explain the strength of his reaction. Twice now he'd responded disproportionately to her queries about his operatives. The previous assumption that it had been a response to inappropriate information-seeking behavior on Catherine Thompson's part did not hold in this case. She had apparently wished to inflict some emotional injury on him by assigning responsibility for his operatives' deletion.

Of course, she had not been successful. His reaction was simply irritation with the vagaries of human behavior - a very familiar, very logical portion of his programming.

Smith's lips went white as his jaw clenched nearly to popping. Logic would not be evaded in this way. (I have never before wished to evade logic, he thought. His short fingernails pierced the flesh of his palms.) His reaction had not been the familiar, acceptable rage he had experienced long before his break with the system.

It could not, of course, have been emotion. That was a human reaction, an expression of their inferior, illogical natures. It must have been a purely rational regret for the loss of his operatives' efficiency, for their ludicrous replacement by the inept Miss Thompson.

Smith's motion ground to a halt as he clenched his fists still tighter. This response had not been the rational regret he'd experienced in the past.

It must be an overlooked result of his expanded capabilities. It must be useful in some way, as the rest of his modifications were. This seeming irrationality must have purpose.

Smith's fists did not unclench as he resumed his brisk pace toward nothing in particular.

***

At the moment, Cat couldn't remember why she'd ever asked to be unplugged. It was much easier to exist in this place, where anger could be entirely sublimated to soupy TV shows and the chocolate mint ice cream that had inexplicably made Smith's shopping list.

She'd been told that crying did not become her, but she didn't damn well care what became her. She was beat to hell and wearing the same pajama pants for the third day running for lack of alternative clothing. She might as well be blotchy too.

The doorbell rang but she didn't move. She certainly didn't feel like playing the suburban hostess right now.

But the bell rang again, and again, and again... Finally it stopped and she could hear shouting. "Cat? I can see you through the window."

She sighed and rose from the couch, wincing as her joints gave the protest they always did if she allowed herself to be still for more than five minutes.

She threw open the door and frowned at the profoundly unnatural sight of a non-grinning Drew Collins. "If you can see me from the window and I don't answer the door, maybe you should take the hint," she said.

"Maybe you should take a look in the mirror," Drew said, ignoring Cat's enraged gasp. "You look like someone's put you through the wringer."

"And you look like someone I met yesterday."

"Touché." Drew gave her a disarming grin. "But it was an awfully fun meeting."

"Which of course prompts you to come knocking down my door the next morning to tell me that I look like shit, which I could have ascertained without your eager assistance."

Drew sighed. "All right, fair enough. I was just worried, that's all."

Cat frowned, curious in spite of herself. "Worried about what?"

"About you, especially after one Alan Smith stomped past my house without so much as noticing that he smacked into me. He looked pretty angry."

She tried to shrug and winced a little, and noticed that Drew frowned a little as she did so. "So take it up with him."

"I'd rather take it up with you." Drew ran a nervous hand through already-tousled hair. "Cat, I'm a trained doctor."

"But not a practicing one?"

"Not since we've had kids, no. But that's not the point."

Cat sighed. "I can see there'll be no distracting you."

"No, no there won't be." Drew reached out and gently cupped her face. Cat stiffened. Sure, he was a nice guy, but he was married and God only knew what he wanted...

He was staring at her face, she realized, not moving at all. She backed away and he let his hand drop without comment. Well, she sure as hell wasn't subscribing to that policy. "What was that all about?"

"As I was saying, Cat, I'm a doctor, and I know defensive wounds when I see them. You didn't get these in any car accident."

All of the blood drained out of Cat's face. She opened her mouth to reply but nothing would come out. Shit, she thought. This is it, we're caught, we're going to get kicked out of here and then what the hell are we going to do...

"When I saw your husband," he emphasized the words a little, "walking down the street in a towering rage, I had to wonder..."

"He didn't hit me." Cat shook her head, eyes on the carpet. "We had a bit of a tiff, sure, but it was nothing more than a little shouting. I'm sure every couple has some of those."

She raised her head to look at Drew, who had taken his bottom lip into his mouth. It was, she though incongruously, kind of endearing. No, no, no, she thought. She was willing to bet that was the beginning of another bout of hysteria, easy to provoke in the state she was in. Drew would be sure to take that as confirmation of his suspicions.

Her voice was steady and she looked him straight in the eye and said, "He didn't hit me."

Drew released his lip, still looking at her critically. "Has he ever?"

Her head darted to the side involuntarily. "Of course... of course not."

"Then where did all of this come from?"

"What do you think gives you the right to come into my home and interrogate me? How in the hell do you know that I don't have a damn good reason for keeping that to myself? How..."

Drew interrupted her. "That gives me the answers I need, I think."

Cat cursed herself as she started to cry again, doubly angry that she nestled into Drew's comforting arm so easily and actually felt a little better for it. After a minute or two she calmed herself down enough to speak. "Please... You don't understand..."

The arm around her shoulders stiffened, then tightened a little. "Cat, I..."

"You can't tell anyone! You don't know what it would do, you can't know..."

"You wouldn't have to worry about it. They'd keep you safe from him."

"I don't need to be kept safe from him."

Drew brushed her shoulder; her hissing gasp was audible. "I beg to differ."

"What would happen to me? I'd have to leave this place and God only knows where I'd go..."

"Even Roger wouldn't throw someone out under these circumstances."

She sighed. "Drew, trust me on this one. It'd be an absolute disaster." She turned slightly so she could look him in the eyes. "Besides, you live here. You can play Sherlock Holmes, MD some more. If he hits me, you'll know."

Drew's other arm crept up to hug her. "Cat, I..."

"Drew, please... You don't know the half of this situation."

He sighed. "All right. Have it your way."

Cat pulled back with a cheeky smile. "I always do." Drew chuckled. "Right now, my way is the path of the terrible hostess, wherein I tell you to make free with my kitchen while I clean up enough to be fit for human society. I think," she said with a weak grin, "that we are now required to be friends. It's a prerequisite for interventions, you know."

Drew snorted. "And that's why I like you. I'm afraid I have to run, tempting as the serve-yourself method of partygiving sounds."

"Sure, sure, you have time to make me cry but not to stick around for the aftermath. You men are all the same."

Drew's smile was a little strained. "Not quite the same."

Cat's grin faded. "Well, have a good afternoon, then. And come by sometime to just visit, eh?"

"Scout's honor," he said, nodding and heading out the door.

Cat watched it close behind him. What the hell had just happened here? She shook her head, resisting the urge to collapse back on the couch again. If it were possible to have a more draining day, she wasn't sure how to do it.

She sighed, toughing her admittedly matted hair. Hygiene could wait, but not forever. If Smith got home when she was in the shower... Well, he could damn well wait to bark her out.

***

Hey, hey, hey. I promised I hadn't abandoned you, and here's the proof. Two chapters in less than a week... Can I be forgiven for my past sins? :P

Let's all clap and scream for Logos, whose assistance as an editor was again invaluable.

Also, Drucilla's "Understanding" bears mention in reference to this chapter... She makes use of actual domestic abuse, and while the situation presented here is dramatically different, I'm positive her influence is rattling around in it.

* grin * I guess what I said about last chapter should hold here... But, well, I want to respond to y'all. Here, in alphabetical order:

*.*: Thanks for sticking with me and this fic! I hope I continue to earn your good opinion. :P

Agent-Johnson: Not long now, scout's honor.

Arabwel: Thanks very much!

Bethy the Vampire Slayer: Ask and ye shall receive.

Brem Nakada: I am, thanks, and let me add some confetti to the mix. :P

Karina of Darkness: You're too kind, as usual.

Selena: Hmmm... I've never read your fic, but I'll get to it as soon as I have time!

Stormhawk: Thanks! Hope you're liking it still.

Turbie: You pegged me... I've done a lot of journalism. If I say that I'm a Spartan, do I get the cool little hat with the brush?