PRISONER OF WAR

Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.

Summary: I've decided to take a break from writing my Matrix style period piece "The Wages of War" for a while and jot this down instead. This started out as a one-shot ficlett that was conceived from an e-mail I sent my best friend Linda one day. It is written in second person format so that the reader can picture themselves in the story. Smith has taken into custody a female rebel six months before Neo is found. He suspects that she may have ties to Morpheus and perhaps access to the codes to Zion's mainframe. However, during the interrogation, Agent Smith gets much more than he bargained for, much more. Please read and review.

Author's Note: For you Anglos or non-Hispanics out there, just so you know, a quinceañera is Latinos' version of a Sweet 16 and coming out party all rolled up into on big ass celebration. Only difference is that it is done on a girl's 15th birthday not her 16th.

Special Acknowledgement: Once again a heartfelt thank you goes out to the best friend and beta-reader a girl could have. Linda, you're the best and as a token of my appreciation, I dedicate this story to you.

Chapter One

Like a Rat in a Trap

You've awoken from a deep stupor only to find yourself lying in wait on a cold metal slab, strapped down against your will. Your limbs feel as if they are encased in lead, your mouth is dry and your throat is parched. After first you're groggy, your memory is a hazy jumble of images as you try to recall what got you into your current predicament. Then suddenly like torrent of waves, it all comes rushing back, inundating your mind and drowning your senses. The mission, the trip to the Oracle and the ambush that followed were all now replaying in your head. One memory although stands out from the rest, making your blood run cold: the death of your shipmates.

One by one, the agents' bullets had systematically mowed them down, but that had not even been the worst of it. As you were returning rapid fire from your semi-automatic weapon, the lead agent had tossed aside his weapon of choice, a Desert Eagle. With lightening speed, he had aggressively assaulted your captain, Ramses. Once again you tried your best to distract him by firing your gun, but as expected, the agent dodged every single projectile effortlessly. The bullets had only managed to annoy him, like the buzzing of flies, nothing more. He then had proceeded to lift Ramses with one hand by the scruff of his neck like a helpless kitten, his arms and legs had been flailing about feebly. All you could do was watch, powerless to stop what had happened next, your impotence and fear had rooted you to the ground you had been standing on.

Afterward to your own horror you had witnessed the agent plunge his free hand deep inside Ramses' chest cavity and with one deftly savage motion, extract the still beating heart of your now dead captain. As Ramses' lifeless body collided with the pavement below, his mouth and eyes had been opening and closing like a fish in its death throes. The memory of it now brings hot, angry tears to your eyes.

I did fight, you tell yourself, or at least I tried to. Your fury and grief had rendered your body mobile again and you had found yourself bum-rushing the agent that had murdered your friends with a rebel's cry.

Surprisingly, you had somehow caught the bastard off guard and managed to land a bone crunching blow right across his jutting jaw line, but too soon the tables had turned. Although you are highly skilled in the marital arts of Tae-Kwan-Do and Jujitsu, you were still no match for one agent, no less three of them.

You fought with all of your might, a valiant effort really, but the agents soon overpowered you and you were taken. Caught like a rat in a trap.

You had lost consciousness somewhere along the way to the government building that loomed ominously over Mega City like a tower of doom.

As you had drifted in and out your state of unconsciousness, you remembered one of the agents saying, "Are you sure this is the one you want?"

Then came a low rumbling reply, "Yes, I've had my eye on her for a very long time."

Now here you are, dreading the moment when the agent that has captured you makes his appearance. The incessant ticking from the clock on the wall is deafening, as the passage of time drags on. You close your eyes hoping against hope that this is all just one hell of a nightmare and that you'll soon wake up safe onboard the Luxor or better yet, your living quarters in Zion. Ramses and the rest of your comrades will still be alive, but then your heart sinks when you hear the door open followed the foreboding sound of heavy foot falls created by a man's size 15 highly polished wingtip shoes slowly approaching you.

Paralyzed by fear, you dare not look up, and yet you feel his presence all around you, enveloping you in his suffocating power. Slowly, you will your hazel eyes to turn and face him, only to find that his own eyes are no longer obscured by the dark shield of his government issued sunglasses and he is no longer wearing his earpiece.

They're so blue, you think to yourself, surprised that a program that is so cold can possess eyes that seem so warm and inviting. You continue to stare into the deep celestial pools that are intently sizing you up, trying to detect any flaws or weakness.

Although the interrogation room's temperature is a mild 72 degrees, you start to feel very warm under the probing gaze of the agent only known to you as Smith.

Smith, the boogeyman of Zion, the ruthless killer that haunts the dreams of every free human that knows of his existence. You snort as you remember that parents actually tell their unruly children at bedtime that if they don't go to sleep, Smith will get them. Now you are his prisoner and only one thought keeps playing over and over in your head: What will he do with me?

Will he torture you first? He is a master of inflicting pain for the purpose of extracting vital information after all and many rebels such as you have succumbed to his punishing tactics.

Then suddenly and without warning, Smith starts to come closer. You begin to quake with fear, trying so hard to suppress the terror you're feeling, but your body betrays you. Desperately, you struggle against your restraints, trying to get yourself free but alas you lack the strength since you are still weak from your battle in that dark alley behind the Heart O' the City hotel.

His face now hovers above your own as his warm breath brazes your skin like the caress of a balmy summer breeze. He's so close to you now his gaze is heavy and unyielding, a hint of aftershave assaults your nasal cavity with its spicy scent. Agents wear aftershave? I thought all of you metal heads smelled of motor oil, you think cynically. The cockiness you feel however is soon squashed when Smith moves his face down even closer. You can't help but notice his nostrils flare as he begins to sniff you like a curious animal.

You feel your heartbeat begin to accelerate as blood and adrenaline race through your body like an out of control freight train. You breathe in shallow desperate gulps of air, as if this man, or correction, machine has suddenly reduced the room's oxygen supply with his mere presence.

You wonder angrily, why is he just staring at me like that? Frantically your mind screams at him, if you're going to kill me just get it over with you piece of shit! After what you did to Ramses and the others, you'd better kill me or I'll take you apart circuit by circuit with my bare hands, you son-of-a-bitch!

Smith suddenly gives you a knowing smirk, as if he were somehow amused by the defiant gleam in your eye and the hate burning in your heart.

Finally he speaks in a slow drawling tone. Every word over enunciated as is the custom of every agent program, "Well, well, well Miss Campos we finally meet. I trust that you've found your 'accommodations' to your liking." He then reaches up and gives the metal shackles around your wrists a hard tug for good measure.

His sarcasm does nothing but infuriate you further prompting you to hiss out your response, "The name's Isis, you fucking hunk of metal!"

The smirk now broadens into a smile, and you find yourself thinking he's not bad looking for a computer program. However the realization sets in that your eyes have lingered a bit too long on his rugged face so you turn away. Smith is perturbed by your actions, so he grabs your face with his long elegant fingers and twists your head back roughly causing you to wince in pain.

"Isis is it? Why does your kind insist on selecting such ridiculous aliases when your real names suit you just fine?" Smith inquired casually, not caring if he got an answer or not.

Defiantly you proclaim, "Isis is my real name you moron, more real than the slave name I was branded with before I was freed!"

Shockingly Smith throws his head back in laughter; the hearty sound sends shivers up and down your spine. You know full well that agents are incapable of feeling any emotion and yet this agent seems to be the exception to that rule. Was this the same Agent Smith that a few short hours ago had massacred your fellow crewmembers with cold precision? It couldn't be, it just couldn't. This Agent Smith was almost acting human and that's what is frightening you most of all. The training programs onboard your ship had prepared you to some degree on what to expect from the sentient beings that police the Matrix, but this particular agent's behavior has thrown you for a loop.

"Miss Campos, do you think you are free? From where I'm standing it doesn't appear that way," he continues then adds, "however if you chose to cooperate, I can make your time here more tolerable, maybe even loosen your restraints a bit, what do you say?"

From deep inside the pit of your churning stomach, the deep seated hate you feel for all machines is on the verge of being exorcised from you in the forms of vomit and bile. What he has just said sickens you to the very core of your humanity. Cooperate with you, never! I will never betray my people or my freedom for the false promises of a simulated reality.

The upper lip of your pouting mouth curls up in a rebellious sneer as you respond to the agent's proposal, "I say you can take your 'offer' and shove it up your ass, Mr. Roboto!" There that ought to shut him up; you think triumphantly but then you realize that you just told an agent, and the most dangerous one to boot, to cram it! One of Smith's highly arched eyebrows shoots up even farther on his huge forehead then he places his large masculine hands on either side of your head. You body starts to tremble, your fear is very obvious to Smith now and he's basking in it, enjoying the response he's elicited from you.

Oh, shit, this is it, he's going to kill me now, your mind tells you, convincing you that your demise is imminent. Your eyes squeeze shut, not wanting your last sight to be the visage of a cold calculating machine. You think of Zion, your fallen comrades and hope that if there is such a thing as an after-life you'll be joining them there soon.

You wait for his hands to encircle your delicate throat, or for the muzzle of a gun to be jutted up against your temple, but after a few agonizing moments, nothing has happened! Could it be that this is all just a dream, you ask yourself hopefully. Carefully you open one eye, praying that your surroundings have changed, but to your bitter disappointment Smith's still looming above you boring his incredibly blue eyes into you. The heat of his gaze is very apparent and it scares the shit out of you. The expression on his handsome face is one you've seen before on the men in your world. Your eyes flutter fully open as you look back at him amazed that a machine can appear to be so human. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear that Smith was displaying lustful longing.

Bullshit! This is just a trick to tear down my defenses! Well it won't work Mr. Blue Eyes, you won't get a single thing out of me, you mentally shout at him. All the while you can't help but think that he's the hottest thing you've seen in a long time and it has been a long time, for you. The last thing you've been intimate with was the shower massage in the ship's locker room.

Your mind can barely recall the last time you've actually done the mattress mambo with a live person. Ever since your last relationship albeit hot and passionate had burned itself out, its flames extinguished by the harsh reality that your lover was still in love with someone else, you've resorted to having sexual encounters in the simulated reality of the training construct.

I guess that's what I get for getting involved with a man that's on the rebound. Captain Niobe was a hard act to follow, not that I didn't give it the old college try to get Morpheus to forget her, you remind yourself.

Then the true nature of your captivity hits you like ton of bricks, Morpheus! Oh my God! That's why I'm here! The machines must somehow know that I was involved him and plan to use me as bait to flush him out. Well they're about three months too late for him to give a damn about what happens to me. He's probably on the bridge of the Neb right now pining away for Niobe while he monitors the Matrix for signs of the One.

"Miss Campos, judging from your reaction, you've come to the realization of your purpose here. We know that you so-called rebels monitor the activities of the Matrix, but has it ever occurred to you that we monitor yours as well?"

You make the decision to stay silent for now, electing to listen to his prattling to see if he reveals what he has planned for you.

"I deduce from your lack of a witty rejoinder that you have been ignorant of these matters, Miss Campos, or may I call you Esmeralda?" your name rolls off his tongue with the perfect Spanish pronunciation.

Still, you do not reply, so Smith accepts your silence as permission to call you by the name you went by before you were enlightened. Esmeralda, the sound of your birth name sounds so alien to you now. No one's called you that since you were unplugged. A flash of memory flickers before your eyes, and you begin to see yourself sitting on a park bench with your father feeding the birds so long ago.

"Esmeralda?" your father asks.

"Si, Papa?"

"Are you excited about your birthday tomorrow?"

You look over at your father's beloved face and smile, "Yes, Papa, very much!"

Your Papa smiles back and puts his arm around you protectively, lovingly.

"I can't believe that my little jewel is going to be 15! It seems like only yesterday that I cradled you in my arms, so tiny you were, so helpless. Now when I look at you I see…" his sentence cut short by a small sob.

You take his hand in yours and give it a little squeeze and say gently, "I know, Papa. I miss her too."

Wiping a tear from his eye, your father rises from the bench, taking you with him. "Come on hijita. We have to go or you'll be late to your own quinceañera rehearsal."

The memory of that day starts to get distorted like a Monet watercolor when tears well up your eyes. Then the present come into full focus in the darkly clad guise of Smith.

"Esmeralda", he says again, this time more sensuously as if he were savoring it, delighting the way it plays on his lips and tongue. Your mind begins to wander as you contemplate how that very tongue would feel on your skin right now.

Watch it, girl, you warn yourself, he's not even real. Don't let your imagination or your libido get carried away! Yeah he's easy on the eyes, but so are the playmates in your "training" program like your versions of Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt. It was incredibly ironic when you found out that those two actors turned out to be programs anyway. That explained why there weren't any really good-looking men in Zion. God, why did the machines create their male programs to look so sexy? This situation might be much easier to handle if Smith looked more like C-3PO rather than a hottie secret agent man!

There you go again, Isis! Always the horn-dog! You're strapped down on a gurney with an agent just minutes away from torturing you and all you can think about is getting into his pants!

Just then your thoughts are interrupted as you hear the door to the interrogation room open once more. Again your ears make out the sounds of footsteps coming toward you, only this time they are more magnified until you realize that two more agents have entered the room.

"What are you doing?" asks the younger of the two new arrivals. To which Smith gruffly replies, "Brown, how many times have I told you not to interfere when I'm in the middle of an interrogation?" Smith then turns around slowly, places his discarded earpiece back into his ear, and faces his two subordinates. A menacing scowl has just replaced the expression of yearning on his face.

This time it's the agent that is built like a heavyweight prizefighter that responds, "Sir, we're sorry to interrupt but we've just received word from the Main Frame that you are taking too long with this suspect. We've been informed that you only have one more hour to retrieve the data we need, then you are to dispose of her no matter what the outcome." As he uttered that last sentence he casts a sideways glance in your direction.

You take in a deep breath, as that last bit of information quells whatever feelings of attraction you might have been feeling for Agent Smith. Well that's it, now you know. These bastards mean to murder you no matter what you tell them and if Anubis, your operator is still monitoring what's been happening, then you're dead anyway. It will only be a matter of time before he pulls the plug if there's any danger of you spilling the beans about Zion's secrets. Somehow, you feel liberated knowing that no matter what happens it all be over soon.

After a few brief moments of silence you hear Smith say, "Very well, Jones, if that's the way they want it." Wait a minute; was that sadness you detected in his voice just now? Nah, it couldn't be! Impossible! Just your mind playing tricks on you, that's all.

Another pause then the lead agent tells his team with a tired sigh in his voice, "Leave me with her. I'll get them what they need, one way or another."

Immediately Agents Brown and Jones make their exit leaving you alone with Smith once more. He turns to face you removing his earpiece as he does. The look on his face appears ashen and drawn, as if he were experiencing something heart wrenching, but again you know that this all just part of his ruse to lower your defenses.

All right Smith, you tell yourself, I'll play along.

He speaks to you but now there's an almost pleading tone in his voice, "Esmeralda, I don't want to hurt you. If you cooperate, I promise to make your death as quick and painless as possible."

You spit back, "Yeah, just like you made Ramses' death, huh? You can go fuck yourself for all I care! You might as well get it over with and kill me too, because I'm not going to be a snitch!"

Smith appears to wince at the verbal lashing you've just given him, as if your words pained him. You dismiss his reaction, ignore it. It's as false as everything in the Matrix; it has no value or substance, it means nothing to you.

With clenched teeth Smith suddenly pounces on you like a hungry jackal causing you to gasp in horror. As he lies on top of you crushing your body with the full weight of his own, you begin to pant heavily your chest is heaving under the thin material of your tight fitting T-shirt. You can't help but say to yourself, there he is; the true monster that's just been itching to burst out of that calm cool façade. I knew you were there all along it was just a matter of time before you showed up!

"Tell me what you know, Miss Campos or it all ends right here, right now!" he growls with the ferocity of a wild beast. When you don't answer he places his powerful hands on either side of your face compressing it with force. He's moved his face back down to yours again, he's close enough now where you can smell his breath and you think that it smells like a hospital, sterile and clean, like Lysol. You know that smell all too well considering that you practically lived at St. Joseph's Medical Center located in the heart of Mega City caring for your mother as she was dying from breast cancer.

"I know that you were Morpheus' bitch! Surely he shared more than disgusting bodily fluids during your time with him, didn't he Miss Campos?"

The way Smith said "bodily fluids" somehow struck you as funny and you begin to laugh. At first it is a cautious sound but soon you are down right bowled over with boisterous giggles as you begin to see the humor in your dire situation.

Perplexed by your odd behavior Smith releases your face and asks, "What do you find so funny, Miss Campos? I see nothing the least bit humorous about your present dilemma."

Between guffaws, you manage to get out a reply, "I find you funny, Smith. You are such a tight-ass. Tell me what the hell do you know about bodily fluids anyway?"

"I know quite a lot about bodily fluids, Esmeralda," Smith whispers, the proximity of his lips to your ear send goose-bumps down your spine and cause your nipples to become very erect. You blush and hope he does not notice any of this, but he is a sentient program after all; he has been programmed to notice every nuance of human behavior--for not all communication is limited to using verbal exchanges and he knows it better than you do. "Then tell me, Smith. Share with me your vast knowledge about bodily fluids," you hiss in an undertone.

Before you even know what is happening, he lowers his lips to yours and you gasp when your mouths meet. This isn't supposed to happen! Your mind screams. I shouldn't be feeling this! This is wrong, VERY wrong! Your mind knows the truth--that Smith is nothing more than a machine, not a flesh and blood man as his appearance would suggest to the unwary.

His lips are warm and soft...and nothing like you thought they would be.

At first, your own lips are tightly closed, a silent protest against the assault to your mouth, but when he emits little groan of pleasure, you can't help but give in to his deepening kiss. Encouraged by your actions, he continues to kiss you but now you've introduced your tongue running it across his lips, slowly tracing the outline of his mouth with its tip. After a few sensuous swipes, surprisingly he opens his mouth slightly and you seize the opportunity to slide your tongue in and try to engage his. However the second your tongues make contact, Smith pulls away, recoiling from you as if he had just got bitten by a poisonous snake. He gets off of you and tries to put some distance between him and the gurney you are tied down to by standing several feet away.

"See? I know enough to recognize that they are repulsive," he states with a disgusted tone. He then reaches into his breast pocket of his jacket to retrieve a perfectly pressed handkerchief. Bringing it up to his mouth, he proceeds to wipe it roughly.

This simple gesture is offensive and it enrages you to no end. Smug prick! You weren't that great of kisser you know? Besides you tasted like Listerine and I ain't talking about that new fangled stuff either, your mind shouts at him.

"Repulsive? Just a few seconds ago you were on top of me swapping spit and you didn't seem to mind that exchange of fluids in the least!" you say aloud heatedly, as anger and confusion take a hold of your senses.

You are not quite through with Smith though, you want to injure him somehow, humiliate him in the same fashion he has done to you. He's beaten you, tied down like an animal, tries to sexually molest you and to top everything off, he is willing to torture you to get what he wants. Once he's done, what will you get for your trouble? A bullet between the eyes and then you'll be tossed out like yesterday's newspaper.

Well you're not going to go out like that, no way! You want to prove to him that you are not some wilting flower that is helpless and willing to succumb to his wiles. So you decide to use the only weapon you've got left, your big fat mouth.

"What do you machines know about sex anyway?" you say goading him, baiting him into a verbal battle. When he fails to respond you decide to kick it up a notch, "Your knowledge of the birds and the bees probably comes from some training module on human biology. You have no practical experience on the subject so you are no position discern between the pros and cons of making love."

"Making love?" Smith retorts incredulously, and then he adds, "Love had nothing to do with what you and Morpheus were doing! It sickens me the way you would lie under him, writhing and moaning like a common whore! Now you will tell me what you know about the codes to Zion's main frame or you will die."

Your eyes open wide with shock and surprise. Something about that last statement bothers you and despite the increasing danger you are placing yourself in there is something that needs clarification right the hell now!

"What in the fuck do mean by how you were 'sickened'?" you inquire with a shakily angry tone. Then you when he refuses to answer, you ask more forcefully, "You were you watching us Smith, weren't you? Just like a deviant voyeur that gets his rocks off by looking into women's bedroom windows, huh Smith? Is that what you meant when you said that you 'monitored' us?"

Still Smith refuses to respond; instead he averts his eyes away from yours, as if he were embarrassed by the discovery his dirty little secret, releasing you from the intense scrutiny for now.

Anger starts to build up in you again, as the thought of this agent; this sentient being peeping in on your most private moments infuriates you. How dare he? How could he? There is no way he could have observed you and what you did in the Real World, unless…of course, why hadn't it occurred to you before? The truth was painfully obvious, and it was the only logical explanation to this entire nauseating scenario. There's a spy in Zion, a stool pigeon that has been feeding the machines with information about Morpheus, but in exchange for what? What could the machines possibly offer a freed human that would make him or her commit the ultimate betrayal?

That would explain how the agents knew exactly where to find you and your crew. It all makes perfect sense; it was you the agents were after all along because of your past affiliation with the captain of the Nebuchadnezzar. Surely they couldn't possibly think that Morpheus was passing along vital tactical secrets while you and he were engaged in pillow talk. Even if you did know the bloody codes, which you most certainly don't, you would never divulge them to a dick head like Smith.

You notice now that he is breathless and so are you. You search his blue depths for a hint of emotion, and sure enough you find it. It is rage.

"Smith?" you ask tentatively.

He says nothing, still too pissed off at what you said to him to articulate a response. Instead he reaches in the jacket of his black Armani suit and slowly draws out his weapon, which he swiftly aims at the dead center of your forehead.

"Miss Campos, what is this? Are you resorting to insults as a new rebel tactic to avoid interrogation?" Smith snaps at you as he moves closer to the gurney with the gun still trained on you. He is seething; enraged by your lack of cooperation and with each deliberate step he takes you see his anger grow.

He has reached the gurney and now looms above you like Zeus from on high, ready to dispense his wrath upon you in one fell swoop. Placing the cold metallic barrel of his intimidating weapon on the slope of your smooth forehead, the contact of steel on your skin makes you shiver. You close your eyes; the feeling of powerlessness overwhelms you as death is ready to take you in its icy embrace. Suddenly, a lyric from your favorite Blue Oyster Cult song comes to mind and you smile. You can't help but think that it's so fucking appropriate for this occasion.

Come on baby don't fear the reaper.

End Chapter One