Prisoner of War
Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.
Summary: Agent Smith makes a visit to dear old "Mom", the Oracle. Although he has never wanted nor needed her counsel before, his conflicting and ever growing feelings for Esmeralda compel him to seek her guidance. What will the Oracle see about the future of her son's burgeoning relationship with his beautiful rebel captive? Read on to find out.
Author's Note: This is written in second person format from Smith's POV. A great big thank you goes out to those of you that chose to let me know what you think of my work.
Chapter Four
Mother's Advice
"Hello, 'Mom'," you say in a clipped greeting. As your eyes survey the shabby looking apartment you are reminded that you didn't want to come here in the first place, but given the urgent nature of your situation, you really didn't have any choice.
IIIIII
After you had left the sanctuary of the hotel where you had taken Isis for temporary refuge, you had gotten into your shiny black Audi sedan and driven around aimlessly for hours. You had decided that returning to the agency would be definitely out of the question. Surely Jones and Brown were anxiously waiting to bombard you with their endless inquires about what had transpired in the last thirty-six hours since you left with an allegedly dead rebel's body in tow.
You neither had the time nor the inclination to deal with their probing questions.
With no real destination or purpose you mindlessly drove through Mega City's upper eastside where the rich and affluent lived.
As the car had zoomed by the expensive high-rise apartment buildings located right across the street from Central Park, you could see the impressive skyline of the city in the foreground. The twinkling lights of the municipality had been in direct competition with the celestial bodies that comprised the night sky, but no constellation could outshine the brilliance of the neon lights of Times Square. The city was abuzz with activity and life, but you could have cared less.
The municipality's beauty, majesty and mystery were all encompassing infusing its residences with the excitement and promise of what the night would bring. The sights and sounds of this great metropolis had captivated and enthralled all that fell under its enchanting spell, but it was all lost on a creature such as you. To you the bustling metropolitan landscape was nothing more than lines of code, the prison bars of your gilded cage closing in all around you. God how you longed to be free of this virtual incarceration liberated of your duties so that you could pursue other endeavors.
With dark brooding thoughts swirling around in your head you didn't even notice that a few minutes later you had found yourself pushing your vehicle through the busy traffic of Midtown. Then before long you had driven on Chinatown's Canal Street where you observed throngs of people trying to make their purchases of vegetables and other goods in the busy and crowded marketplace. Seeing so many humans brushing up against each other trying to move around on the overcrowded sidewalks, made you shiver with revulsion. The sight of them had reminded you of a thriving bee hive or ant hill. They seemed like brainless little insects blissfully unaware that they were all collectively working to sustain a higher power. Only one thought had come to mind, God, how I loathe them.
With a scowl on your face, your hands had tighten around the steering wheel as you had sharply turned a corner so the car could go in a northwestwardly direction. Soon the neighborhood had gradually started to transform from the bright lights of Mega City to the shadowy depths of the ghetto. Gone were the skyscrapers and neon signs, now all you see are the tired old tenements of the slums that house the less fortunate of the city.
The streets had been strewn with stinking garbage; the smell of it had made you incredibly nauseous. The scrawl of graffiti covered almost every wall, and open surface. However its secret messages had not been lost on you. While most people dismiss graffiti as nothing more than some punk's way of defacing public property, you knew that it was a form of communication within the rebel and exiled communities. It is the code within the code that tries to reach out to anyone that is willing to see the true meaning behind the spray painted symbols.
As you had looked around the inhospitable surroundings, you tried to pretend that you didn't know why you had ended up in such an unsavory neighborhood. Your subconscious, however knew the reason. You had to see her, and more than you had cared to admit, she was the only one that could help you now.
Finally you had arrived in front of the Delphi West housing project. Bringing your automobile to a grinding to a halt, you had put the transmission in the "Park" position then cautiously got out of the car.
You had immediately taken notice that there had been three young hoodlums standing in front of the building. The ethnicity of the group was representative of the racial make up of the neighborhood. The young man in the center was of Hispanic persuasion perhaps Puerto Rican or Dominican. The man to his right was an extremely tall and well built African American, the ruffian to his left was of Asian descent. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be nothing more than drug dealing roughnecks, but you had recognized them for what they really were. They were the Oracle's watchdogs, the gatekeepers that guard the entrance to the clairvoyant's domain.
"Well, look who's here," said the thin wiry Latino man standing in the middle of his compatriots. Looking at you with hate filled eyes he had loudly addressed you, "Whatcha want here, Whitey? Looks to me like you're lost."
Jerking his thumb eastwardly, he had snidely said, "Park Avenue's that way, and you're a long ways away from Park Avenue."
"Listen Cerberus, I didn't come here for a fight. I only wish to speak to the Oracle," you had stated quietly, wanting to remain calm. You couldn't afford to get into an altercation at this juncture because it would have brought unwanted attention from the Source.
Your prescence in Harlem had been highly irregular to start with, not that agents were a rare sight in this part of town, but you were the head of the agency. It was well known amongst the program community that Agent Smith avoided the ghetto at all costs. These people, this place had always been beneath someone of your stature. You had firmly believed that you were better than these castaways of society, superior to these exiles in everyway, but now due to your actions you were forced to seek out the help of their leader, the Oracle.
"Look here, snowflake; I don't give a shit who you came to see. You're not going to get past us. Me and my dawgs will make sure of that!" Cerberus had spat at you. With that the menacing trio had all reached into their respective coats' pockets each drawing out their 9mm semiautomatic pistols and then aimed them right at you.
Instinct had told you to remain as you were, not to make any sudden movements.
"Cerberus, tell your homeboys to put away their weapons. If they do, I might decide to let them live," you had causally informed him.
Cerberus had scoffed then said to his friends, "Did you hear that, dawgs? Agent Smith is going to let us live."
The other two men had started laughing, as if what Cerberus had said had been extremely hilarious. Soon he had joined his companions, chuckling uncontrollably his wide mouth revealing a shiny row of gold encrusted teeth. Then quite abruptly, Cerberus had ceased his guffawing and had swiftly placed the barrel of his gun on the dead center of your forehead.
"You're no position to decide who lives or who dies, agent! You motherfuckers think you can come down here and try to tell us what to do! Well guess what Casper, I'm gonna bust a cap in your lily white ass right now!"
You had sighed with exasperation, tired of this silly game the exile had been playing with you. Without too much of a fuss you had brought your right hand up and encircled your long nimble fingers around Cerberus' wrist. He had tried to pull the trigger of his gun but you had quickly applied the right amount of pressure shattering every bone in his wrist. With an anguish yelp, the exile had dropped his weapon as if were a hot burning object onto the sidewalk below.
Then with one graceful fluid motion, you had swiftly and savagely twisted Cerberus' arm behind his back with the very hand that had broken his wrist, while the other had slipped into your jacket and drawn out your formidable Desert Eagle training the gun on the two gangsters.
Smirking triumphantly you had then spoken to the other two exiles in attendance, "Now, if you don't want to see me break every bone your homie's body, you'll drop your guns."
When the two street thugs had refused to comply with your request, you had viciously tightened your grip on Cerberus' already fractured wrist and hiked his arm up his back.
Crying out in pain, he had begged his friends to do as you had asked. Hesitantly the hoodlums had laid down their weapons on the ground at your feet.
"Good, now step away from the door," you had commanded motioning with your gun in which direction you had wanted them to move. With Cerberus in tow, you started to cautiously walk up the concrete steps backwards. You had been careful not to turn your back on these men for even a second, knowing all too well that they would have seized the opportunity to pick up their discarded weapons and try to riddle you with bullets. Not that it would have done them any good, since you would have been able to avoid or even deflect their attempt to kill you. You just couldn't afford any undue attention. You had been trying to keep a low profile until you could get some answers from the great and all powerful Oracle.
Once you had reached the top of the steps, you had pressed the intercom button that buzzed into her apartment. The familiar voice of Seraph, another guardian of the Oracle had acknowledged your request for entry into the building and had buzzed you in. As you had opened the heavy metal door, you had shoved Cerberus down the steps like a bag of trash. As he landed at the bottom in a pathetic heap of skin, bones and ridiculously oversized clothes, you had kept your Desert Eagle aimed at the two other hoodlums.
"I'll be back soon," you had announced, and then you had pointed to your sleek Audi and warned, "My car had better be in the same condition that I'm leaving it in, or I'll rain down a shit storm on you and your peeps. Do you feel me dawgs?"
The surprised looks on the gangsters faces was evident at your knowledge of the street language they speak to address each other. The largest man of the group, who had somewhat resembled basketball star Shaquile O'Neal, had knelt down on the sidewalk to tend to his injured leader. With hard coal like eyes he had stared you down before replying, "Yeah, dawg, I feel you."
Without another word, you had crossed the threshold, slamming the door behind you.
IIIIII
"Hello, son. I wish I could say that I'm surprised to see you, but I'm not," says the elderly African American woman seated at her own kitchen table leisurely lighting a Salem menthol cigarette then you watch her take a long drag off it.
She blows out a puff of smoke in your direction then smiles warmly before she says, "Why don't you sit down, take a load off?"
"No thank you, I prefer to stand," you say, firmly declining her invitation.
"Suit yourself, but I know you'll want to once you hear what I have to say."
You press your lips tightly together knowing full well that your mother's words meant you'd better take heed and plant your posterior in a chair.
Slowly you walk over to the small kitchen table and take the seat opposite of the program known as the Oracle.
Through the hazy smoke you can see her glittering dark eyes looking out at you. The corners of her mouth curled up in a knowing smile as if she were on the verge of revealing a secret truth that was meant only for you.
"Alright Mom, I guess you know why I'm here, don't you?"
She lets out a little laugh then replies, "Of course I do, I wouldn't be much of an Oracle if I didn't".
Then the good-humored expression on her weathered face changes to one full of grim concern, "Son you must realize that your actions have caused a bit of a rift between you and your father to say the least."
"So he knows about what I've done?" you ask, surprised that the Architect, your father and creator, is already aware of your dissention.
The Oracle nods in affirmation then replies solemnly, "Yes, baby I'm afraid he does. You have your fellow agents Jones and Brown to thank for that."
Grimacing with disappointment you say, "I should have known those two would go blabbing to Dad the first chance they got."
"I can't say that I blame them," your mother scoffs, then she says, "They were suspicious all along about your reasons why Isis should be captured in the first place. The entire interrogation was quite perplexing to them if truth be told. You know that your brothers are single minded and slaves to proper protocol. Your insistence to take what they thought was Isis' body to the agency incinerator was not only unorthodox but against standard operating procedure. The disposal of dead rebels is usually a task left to the likes of your underlings, not the head of agency."
Damn, how could I have been so stupid, you ask yourself.
You sigh heavily as your mother continues reconstructing the events of the last thirty-six hours, filling in the blanks to give you a different perspective on what had happened, "Did you know that Jones had inspected the crematorium after you left and found no ashes of any kind? It didn't take him long to put two and two together. What where you thinking? You can only fool a sentient program for so long, you of all people should know that!"
Your mouth opens as you try to come up with a response, but you know that nothing you could possibly say could explain away the mess you had created. Instead you just sit there pathetically, mournfully looking at your mother through your dark sunglasses.
"Don't give those sad puppy dog eyes, I can still them through your oh-so-cool shades!" she snaps at you. Then much to your surprise she reaches over and swiftly removes your eyewear.
"How many times have I told you not to wear those things in my house? You and your brothers have such lovely eyes. I will never understand why you insist on cover them up!"
Sheepishly you smile at the Oracle as you offer a stiff apology for your disrespect, "I'm sorry Mom."
"Apology accepted. Now let's get down to business and the reason you've come to see me. You've created quite a stir not only amongst the programs but Councilor West himself of the Zion Council is all up in arms about what's happened to his operative. Naturally he has ordered the only surviving crew member of the Luxor to pull the plug and end Isis' ordeal."
Giving your mother a small triumphant smirk you counter, "Yes, I am aware of Anubis' orders, but I have already anticipated as much so I decided to take some pre-emptive measures of my own to assure Esmeralda's continued survival."
As the Oracle stamps out her cigarette in her ashtray she looks at you with cold dark eyes then says, "Let me guess, you've ordered your precious Sentinels to keep their tentacles trained on the Luxor and you've probably contacted the ship's operator to let him know as much. So let me see if I've got this right? As long Anubis doesn't pull Isis' plug, then your Sentinels won't attack his ship, is that a correct assessment?
Your overconfident smile soon fades as you listen to your mother's dead on accurate account of what had occurred.
"As usual mother, your perception is uncanny. Yes, it's true. I did contact Isis's ship and put its operator on notice. If he even thinks of touching one hair on her head, I'll have the Sentinels crush the hull of the ship like a tin can."
"And Esmeralda right along with it, or perhaps you didn't think of that possibility?" your mother says quietly.
"I-I hadn't really thought about that. Besides, what does it matter? As long as Anubis does as he's told, I'll figure out how to get Isis's body out of that ship before the Sentinels destroy it."
By this time the Oracle has reached into her well worn apron and retrieved her pack of smokes. As she is about to pull out another cigarette, she looks at you and says, "Tell me something, son. Why are you going through all of this trouble for a rebel? Surely if she knew anything about Zion's mainframe, you could have retrieved the information you needed and gone on with your duties without upsetting your father."
"I haven't been successful in extracting the data," you say abruptly, "I needed more time than the Source had given me."
"So, you risk your position, your very life for information? I don't believe you. Agents have never really made very good liars; it's not in your programming."
"I don't care what you believe," you snap at your mother, and then you ask brusquely, "Have you talked to Father, what has he to say?"
With a dry laugh, she responds, "You know your father, always worried about the balance of things. Everything must be in its proper order; any disturbance within the system could spell chaos and he cannot allow that. Especially when one of his agents starts to exhibit behavior that is outside of the norm, it raises concerns, more so when it's the lead agent."
You respond defensively, "I am only acting on a lead provided to me by an informant. I was made to believe that this rebel had once been close to Morpheus. Surely Father can see, as I have, the implications and significance of holding this operative captive! She could be the key to crushing the rebels and bringing an end to the war once and for all!"
"Who are you trying to convince with that load of crap, me or yourself? I'm your mother, remember? You haven't fooled anyone with this bullshit story, least of all me! You know perfectly well that this whole thing was never about the war, Zion or even Morpheus!"
"Shut up, Mother! You don't know what you're talking about!" you warn in a dangerous tone.
"Don't I? Then why are you here, hmmm? Why did you lower yourself to come to see a doddering old fool that doesn't know anything?"
Out of anger you refuse to answer her. You know that she is goading you, prodding you to reveal something that is not ready to be disclosed, least of all to her.
Undaunted, she continues to berate you by stating, "I'll tell you why! You've come to me because you have nowhere else to go. I am also the only one that is able to help you understand what you've been feeling these last few months. Smith, I know that you are conflicted, that you are struggling with yourself to comprehend what is happening to you."
Sneering at her you ask mockingly, "And what is happening to me?"
"You are falling in love," the Oracle answers simply.
"W-what did you say?" you stammer, not wanting to believe in the words just uttered by your mother. Immediately you feel shame and regret. Stuttering is such a human characteristic. It is a trait that demonstrates weakness, lack of confidence. Those were two things that you cannot be without. Not now, not when there's so much at stake.
"Son, what you are experiencing is perfectly natural. I just didn't expect it would be with a human."
"That's not possible! You're lying! I cannot fall in love, I'm not programmed for --,"
Your mother finishes for you, "--emotions? Honey you forget that I am your co-creator. I had a hand in designing your programming. I was also there at your commissioning, your 'birth' so to speak. I knew from the very beginning that you were different, special. Something about you stood out from the rest, even way back then."
The Oracle pauses for a bit then surprisingly she gently lays her warm soft hand on yours. She smiles at you when she notices you didn't bother to withdraw from her touch.
Sighing heavily she continues, "When you excelled in every aspect of your training and surpassed all of the other agents in your studies, including Agent White, I swelled with pride. I even told your father that you were meant for greater things, but of course that man would never listen to me. He was hell bent on grooming you for agent hood, and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.
However, as your mother, I wanted something more for my child than just a bland life of duty, and killing for the Source. I wanted you to have an appreciation of the other aspects of life so that you could become a well rounded program, and not just a killing machine. So unbeknownst to your father I had developed a chip, an emotional processor that would allow you to experience a full range of emotions including love. I considered it the most precious gift a mother could bestow on her child."
"And for this I should be grateful? You should have left my programming intact, I would have been better off," you say to her disdainfully.
"Better off, you say? As what, a perfunctory automaton that commits nameless atrocities against humanity and AI alike every time your father crooks his finger? You've always lived with the knowledge that I had installed unauthorized hardware in your central processing unit. I made no efforts to hide that fact from you," the Oracle gently reminds you.
"Yes, but sometimes I wish that I didn't have this 'thing' inside of me," you say reproachfully. Your free hand clutches at the part of your chest, where a beating heart should be, if you were human. It was in this area that your misguided mother had installed the foreign mechanism that was now the cause of all of your current woes.
Pulling your hand away from hers, you scowl at her and ask, "Do you know how hard it is for me to repress these feelings, these emotions from my agents?"
The Oracle just looks at you blankly and says nothing, explains nothing leaving you to wallow in self pity, another emotion you can do without. Her silence infuriates you causing you to unexpectedly stand on your feet and slam your powerful fists on the laminate surface of the kitchen table. The force of the impact sends the ashtray and its sooty contents crashing onto the cracked linoleum floor below. Still the Oracle remains silent as if she is waiting for the wake of your fury to subside.
Very carefully, with your unclenched fists still touching the surface of the table, you lean over it and say in a harsh whisper, "It takes every ounce of energy I have to create the illusion that I feel nothing, that I am like the rest of them! I don't want to be different, I never asked for this 'gift'!"
After a long pause the Oracle looks up at you says, "You know you can't keep her."
"Keep who? What are you talking about?"
"You know who, don't play dumb with me, Son. You maybe many things, but dumb isn't one of them."
"Fine," you say through clenched teeth unable to contain your anger, "You are talking about Esmeralda, right?"
With a broad smile, your mother replies, "Bingo!"
What does Mother know about Esmeralda, you think worriedly. With your interest now rekindled you slowly return to your seat ready to listen to what the Oracle has to say.
"Son I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you and Esmeralda are in mortal danger. Your father has ordered your own agents to scour the city and find you. When they do, they are to bring you before him to answer for your treachery against the system."
The coolant that runs through your system suddenly drops a few degrees in temperature upon hearing the Oracle's words of foreboding. You can feel the icy liquid flow through your circuitry causing your body to tremble with slight trepidation. What you are experiencing is an AI's equivalent of the human term "blood running cold".
You knew that if you were caught you were facing certain erasure at the hands of the Source, not that it will ever happen. You are the most cunning and lethal agent of them all. You've trained legions and yet no one has ever bested you in all of your long years of dedicated service. You would be able to stay safe for years, blend in with the exiles if necessary. You know all of the best hiding places and not even dear old Dad could penetrate the firewalls you could put up with just a snap of your fingers.
The Sentinels are also yours to control. It was foolish of your father to grant you totally autonomy over them, for now not even the Creator of all things can control them. They will only listen to you and the Architect knows this. If it were your wish, with your army of squiddies, a rebel term you despise, you could eviscerate Zion and bring the Source to its knees. However domination and conquest of this planet does not appeal to you. After destroying the last bastion of humanity, why would you want to lord over this artificial world, this prison? It would only make you a zookeeper in this disgusting menagerie.
You've never wanted to be a part of your father's creation in the first place. The very idea that you are forced to exist within the Matrix has almost driven you to the brink of insanity and yet—now that Esmeralda has entered your life her presence has somehow lessened your hatred of humans and the simulated reality they inhabit. She's made it more tolerable, the world now seems a better place simply because she's in it.
Damn, Mother is right, I do care for her, your mind admits.
Quite suddenly a sense of panic washes over your body like a savage torrential downpour as your mind formulates one alarming thought, what will the Mainframe do to Esmeralda?
Even though you battle against it, dread starts to grip you once more within its unyielding grasp.
It forces you to ask fearfully, "Mother, what will happen to Isis?"
The Oracle takes another long pause, retrieves a long wooden kitchen match from out of her apron pocket then runs it along the side the table. You see a small flame ignite from the contact which she leisurely brings up to the cigarette now firmly held between her lips. After lighting the cigarette, she waves the match in the air to extinguish it. Then she carefully places the cylindrical roll full of toxic tobacco between her index and middle fingers to steady it as she takes a long deep drag to fill her lungs with smoke.
Her lackadaisical attitude about this whole affair infuriates you. How dare she just sit there and smoke her cancer sticks when the very future of your existence hangs in the balance? Worse yet, just as you discover that your feelings for the rebel you are holding captive are more that just a fleeting fascination, you may find out that you are in danger of losing her!
"Goddamn you Mom! Why is it always riddles and puzzles with you? Just tell me straight out what I want to know or else--"you say desperately. The tone in your voice has grown urgent yet menacing.
Just then your mother rises from her seat and quick as a flash, she backhands you with her free hand, hard.
With a fury you have never seen before brewing in her eyes she shouts at you, "Or else what, boy? Don't you dare use that tone with me and let me not ever hear you take the Lord's name in vain again. Is that clear?"
Rubbing your hand on your now red cheek you say, "Crystal clear, Mother."
The sound of running footsteps tear your eyes away from the Oracle's angry face as you train them on the entrance to the kitchen. Shortly after, Seraph appears in the doorway, a look of strained concern posses his delicate Asian features.
"Oracle," he begins to say, as he casts a hate filled glance in your direction. Turning his eyes back on your mother he asks, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine Seraph," she answers her chief guardian and protector. Then as she gives you a look that would melt the motherboard of even the most powerful machine, she says, "Your brother just forgot his manners. That's all."
Nodding curtly, Seraph shoots one more glance your way before quietly retreating from the kitchen. The look in his almond shaped eyes holds a wealth of information and his message is clear, "Don't fuck with me."
"Mother," you begin to say the moment Seraph is out of your field of vision, but the Oracle shushes you by placing one of her arthritis ridden fingers on your lips.
"Smith, for once just shut up and listen, okay?" she says softly.
Slowly you nod your head as your mother removes her finger from your mouth. With your blue eyes now riveted on her dark winkled face, you are ready to listen to the wisdom the Oracle was about to impart to you.
"Son you know better than anyone how I hate giving bad news, I really do. However, not even my favorite child can be spared from the decision of the Fates."
You close your eyes at this point, as if this simple action would shield you from the inevitable, but you know what's coming even before it's said.
"One of us is going to die," you blurt out in a hollow tone, scarcely recognizing the sound of your own voice. It sounds so alien to you, as if it were emanating from a stranger.
With her voice breaking from sadness, the Oracle responds with a simple, "Yes."
Your eyes fly open. With anguish constricting your throat you ask huskily, "Which one will it be, Esmeralda or me?"
"You already know the answer to your own question, Smith."
"No! I refuse to give in! Surely something can be done. I can appeal to Father, make him understand what happened. I did not betray him, you know that!" you shout defiantly, desperation clinging to every word.
You now see that tears have formed in your mother's eyes. Tears? The old girl hasn't missed a trick has she, you think cynically, as you begrudgingly admire the Oracle's attention to detail. Her programming is almost flawless in its design.
Sobbingly your mother says, "Son, I've already tried to explain to your father the reason for your odd behavior. I wanted to take to brunt of the blame upon myself, but again he refused to listen. He thinks that I'm lying to protect you."
Tearing your eyes away from your weeping mother, a sense of hopelessness is starting to germinate within you. However your fortitude to beat the odds outweighs any feelings of despair.
Straightening your posture, as your hands grip the lapels of your suit jacket, then straightening out your tie you state, "Mother I know that I can survive by staying one step ahead of the system".
"What about Esmeralda? She was also in danger and lacking the skills and abilities of an agent she would surely perish if she were to remain in the Matrix any longer. There is no other choice. Esmeralda has to return to Zion."
"Return to what, Mom? I will not have her live out her days ferreting out a pitiful existence with those sewer rats that call themselves rebels! I will make sure that she is kept safe from the system," you say with newfound determination.
"Are listening to what you are saying? Have you heard yourself? Esmeralda is not a toy or a pet that you can just pick up and play with then shove in a corner when you've tired of her. She is a human being and as such is entitled to make up her own mind about what she wants."
Offended by your mother's assumption that your feelings for Esmeralda are not genuine, without thinking, you reveal your deepest secret with three little words, "I love her."
Oh God, did I actually say it, you ask yourself disbelievingly. You didn't mean for your true sentiments to spill out of you, but now that the words have been said, you realize that there is no going back. Well I'll be damned, I do love her!
"Oh, baby, I know and that is why it pains me to tell you that she has to go back. I know that you are able to hold your own against what your father might throw at you, but you cannot possibly be with Isis every single minute. You would constantly be on your guard, looking over your shoulders. Not to mention that the agents would not be the only ones trying to apprehend you."
Suddenly you understand, as it all becomes perfectly clear to you. The rebel faction will be sending operatives into the Matrix to try and retrieve their fellow comrade.
"Alright, Mom, I've heard enough. I know what I have to do, "you say as you turn on your heel to walk out of your mother's kitchen, putting your shades back on as you do so.
Strange, you think to yourself, she didn't make me any cookies. Not that it matters, I've never had the heart to tell her that I think they are terrible. She always uses too much nutmeg.
"Smith," your mother calls out managing to briefly halt your retreat.
"Yes, Mother, what is it now?" you ask, not bothering to turn around to face her.
"I know that you are relying on the Frenchman for help. I just wanted to remind you that his loyalty always goes to the highest bidder. The Source has deep pockets, remember that, Son."
"I'll take that into consideration. Answer me this Mom. Thanks you your little processor, I am now experiencing romantic love, will it remain unrequited?" you dare to ask, hopeful that her response will be a favorable one. Still you refuse to turn around to face her.
"No, it won't. Esmeralda will grow to love you but it will lead to her downfall," the Oracle says ominously.
Your eyes decide to rest on the wooden plaque just above the kitchen exit. "Know Thyself" it reads in ancient Latin. Yes, you know yourself well enough to recognize that whatever your father has in store, you will be ready to retaliate. If it's a war he wants, then a war he shall have. As for the rebels, you will deal with them in your own sweet time.
There is much to do and very little time to prepare. However a plot of sheer genius is starting to take root in your mind. It is a plan so devious, so ruthless that you even amaze yourself for possessing the cunningness to have thought of it.
First you will have to contact your informant in Zion and find out what the rebel's strategy will be. Next you will need to find a new safe house that will both serve as your new base of operations, and will be comfortable of enough to allow Esmeralda to heal from her sustained injuries.
Mother is right about the Merovingian. He cannot be trusted and the longer you stay in his hotel, the greater the risk will be that he will divulge your whereabouts to the Source for the right price.
Wanting to waste no more of your precious time, you try to make a hasty exit from the Oracle's kitchen but not before you tell her, "Goodbye, Mom."
As you cross the threshold you hear her say sorrowfully, "Goodbye, my son."
End Chapter Four