Prisoner of War
Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix, the Matrix owns me.
Summary: Well dear readers, now that Smith and Esmeralda are the run, they will have to constantly look over their shoulders. Not only has the Source unleashed legions of its agents to find and destroy them, the Zion Council has volunteered the crew of the Nebuchadnezzar and its captain, Morpheus, to jack into the Matrix to rescue their fellow rebel.
It seems that this pair of star-crossed lovers will be navigating through some rough waters in this chapter. But who will catch up them to them first, the Machines or crew from the Neb? Either way, it spells trouble for our fugitives. As always please read and review!
Author's Note: A great big thank you goes out to all of my wonderful readers. I'm so glad that I'm able to entertain and delight you with my humble little fic. I'll try not to disappoint you.
This chapter will be told in second person format from Smith's POV.
Chapter Six
No Rest for the Wicked
Your cobalt eyes, shielded behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses, are intent and focused on the long winding road ahead of you. Pensive, you are lost in a whirlwind of dark contemplations. The events that have led up to this moment keep replaying in your mind in a continuous loop. Esmeralda's capture, the botched up interrogation, your defiance against the Source's orders and ultimate dissention have all cumulated to this precise moment in time where you find yourself fleeing from the very system that has nurtured you and made you who are.
But who exactly am I? What am I, you ask yourself. If I am no longer an agent, what have I become? The answers, it seems come easily to you, whether you like them or not: rogue, renegade, rebel.
Yes, a rebel. That's exactly what you are. Paradoxical, isn't? The burden of the current state of affairs rests entirely on your shoulders, and you know it. Because of your self-seeking need to alleviate your loneliness, to have someone of your very own, you've been transformed into the very thing you despise. Your mother is probably having a field-day.
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With the twinkling lights of Mega City long behind you, there is nothing now but miles and miles of black asphalt stretching out into eternity. You've been driving all night, trying to put as much distance between you and your enemies. So far, there has been no sign of them, but one can never be too careful. Taking every precaution, including removing your earpiece, you had acquired the most inconspicuous vehicle that was available in the hotel's parking garage, a 1999 black Honda Civic. The car was definitely not representative of your usual tastes, but out of the necessity to keep a low profile, it sufficed. And knowing the System as well as you do, you were almost certain that the Source would never think to look for you behind the wheel of an economically mid-priced automobile.
Casting a sideways glance towards the sleeping woman in the passenger's seat, you try to reassure yourself that everything that has transpired and has yet to happen will be worth it in the end.
It has to be, for her sake and for mine.
The only thing that matters at present is getting to your new stronghold, tucked away in the Pocono's, far from the prying eyes of the System. From there, you'll be able to keep tabs on your father without fear of detection and when the time is right, launch your assault on both the Source and Zion. And as long as the firewalls hold up, you and Esmeralda will be relatively safe.
You barely notice the simulated Matrix sun rising in the east. However, when your keen sense of hearing identifies a slight alteration in your companion's breathing pattern, you become acutely aware that Esmeralda is about to awaken from her fitful slumber. With a yawn, she shifts slightly in her seat, and then slowly opens her eyes to look at you.
"Where are we?" she asks groggily. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, Esmeralda proceeds to rub her upper arms rather furiously with her hands. Deducing that the car's ambient temperature is too cold for her, you quickly reach out to turn the knob of the air-conditioning control panel to the "off" position.
"Better?" you inquire, sincerely concerned for her well-being.
Esmeralda mummers her reply, "Yes, thank you."
"We are still about three hours from our final destination," you inform her offhandedly.
"And where exactly is that?" she asks with a tinge of sarcasm.
Wanting to shift the topic of conversation to more immediate matters, you notice the fuel gauge indicates that the gas tank is only one-quarter of the way full.
"We will have to stop for gas soon. My internal GPS tracking system has detected a service station about two miles up the road," you say, bringing your passenger up to speed on your current situation.
"Good!" she exclaims, and then adds, "I hope they have a food store, because I'm starving!"
"I'm sure that they do, I'll get you something to eat once we've arrived," you offer, pleased that her appetite has seemed to return to her.
Stretching out in her seat with feline grace she states casually, "It'll be great to get out and walk a little. I'm as stiff as board, you know!"
"No, Esmeralda. I'm afraid I cannot allow you to do that," you gruffly tell her as you keep your eyes on the road. The very prospect of her leaving the confines of the Honda has alarmed you greatly.
As expected, she immediately protests, "Why can't I? From what I can tell we're miles from nowhere! What could it hurt if I get out and stretch my legs a little?"
Turning your head sharply to face hers, your reply is short and to the point, "The gas station will be crawling with humans. And where there are humans…"
Sighing in defeat, Esmeralda mutters angrily, "…agents won't be far behind. O.K., I get it! I'll stay in the fucking car! Happy?"
Your face has become a stony mask. Its features are rigid and emotionless, never betraying the supreme satisfaction you are feeling regarding Esmeralda's promised compliance.
Stoically, you respond, "I'm absolutely elated, can't you tell?"
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As you pull the car into the brightly lit service station, you are on your guard. Every circuit, every fiber optic connection that runs through your system is immediately on high alert. Cautiously you coast over to the gas pump that appears to be the furthest away from building housing the attendant.
After parking the automobile and turning off the engine, you quickly open the car door to let yourself out.
Before you can completely exit the vehicle, you are halted by the sudden touch of Esmeralda's hand on the sleeve of your jacket.
"Yes, Esmeralda?" you ask evenly.
Smiling sheepishly she responds, "Hey, if they have cinnamon buns, could you get me one por favor? I haven't had one of those in forever. Not since I was unplugged."
Pursing your lips together, you hesitate slightly before speaking again, "I'll see what I can do. Will there be anything else?"
Tilting her head a little to contemplate what her next demand will be, the rebel finally asks, "You wouldn't happen to have an extra Desert Eagle on you? You know…just in case we get company."
Sighing heavily, you firmly deny her request, "I'm sorry, but I don't think that it would be wise."
Then placing your hand gently on her still bandaged head, you steadfastly remind her, "And besides, we both know what happened the last time you had your hands on a gun."
Recoiling from your touch as if it burned her somehow, she glumly slumps in her seat. Angrily, Esmeralda averts her hazel green eyes from yours as she growls, "Fine, just get me the stupid bun then! But if anything happens to me, you'll be sorry!"
"Just do as you're told and I won't have to be sorry! I mean it, Esmeralda! Stay in the car and out of sight!" your command is exaggeratedly severe but necessary to keep her from harm.
At first, she says nothing. Nevertheless, unmistakably tangible and irreversible, you see it: the seething rage flashing in the verdant irises of her eyes. Staring daggers at you, she folds her arms tightly in front herself in a gesture of non-cooperation. The white-hot intensity of her gaze is so harsh, so penetrating -- for a split second you actually believe that "looks could kill". Then as if those bejeweled orbs aren't bad enough, the steady stream of Spanish expletives suddenly spewing forth from her perfectly shaped mouth are a most unwelcome bolt from the blue.
The curses being hurtled at you at warp speed are so profane and vulgar in nature, they would certainly make the surliest of sailors blush to hear them.
"Hijo de puta!" you hear her exclaim with a voice loud enough to wake the dead.
Your response is direct and abrupt. Clapping the large palm of your hand over her mouth to silence her, your voice drops to its lowest decibels, "Esmeralda, if you continue this erratic behavior, not only will you attract agents but every bounty hunter in the area. If you do not want wish to be captured and have the flesh peeled off your bones by the vultures that hunt us, then may I suggest a little more decorum on your part."
The significance of your deliberate low-key delivery is not lost on the newly subdued rebel. It has been made painfully obvious to Isis what the grave implications of her actions could be. Like dying embers, the fire and spirit in Esmeralda's eyes slowly extinguish. You further observe that fear has now taken center stage.
Good, now we're getting somewhere, your thoughts ring out triumphantly.
Regaining of control of the situation, you state coldly, "Now, Esmeralda, when I remove my hand from your mouth, you will have two choices: you can either sit in this car, quietly or you can spend the remainder of this trip locked inside the undersized trunk of aforementioned vehicle. It's up to you, which one will it be?"
As you slowly move your hand away from her face, with a ragged breath Isis gives her reply, "I'll behave, Smith. I promise."
"Muy bien, Esmeralda! Now that we've got that settled, I'll go get your breakfast."
With an arrogant little smile, you gingerly pat the right side of your jacket, reassuring yourself that your weapon is still in its holster. As you lock the car door and swiftly slam it shut, you happen to catch your reflection on the smooth surface of the window.
Damn, you curse silently to yourself, this will never do.
Coming to the realization that your agent attire is a dead give away, you quickly remove your thin black necktie then shove it into your pants pocket. Next you take off the pair of telltale G-man sunglasses and tuck them neatly away in the breast pocket of your suit jacket. Again you take a speedy glance at your likeness, but the man staring back at you still looks like an uptight government bureaucrat.
As an afterthought, you decide to run your fingers through your auburn colored hair, mussing up the clean-cut style worn by all agents of the system. Allowing a couple of strands of thinning hair to fall into your eyes, you then unfasten the first three buttons of your crisp white dress shirt, revealing the thick growth of chest hairs underneath. Finally you add the finishing touches to your more casual appearance by turning up the collar of your black Armani jacket and pushing up its sleeves three-quarters of the way up your arms.
Pleased with what you see in the reflective glass of the window, you suddenly notice an astonished Esmeralda staring admiringly at you. It seems that she likes what she sees judging from the expression on her face. You give her a supercilious little smirk before turning away to walk towards the store.
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"Good morning, sir. What'll it be?" the female attendant says cheerfully from behind the pane of bulletproof glass. She is a young girl of about nineteen or twenty, with sparkling blue eyes and long sandy blond hair. Running your sensors over the girl's slender frame, to your relief you ascertain she is AI. At least there won't be any danger of an agent materializing through her.
Removing your wallet from your breast pocket, you begin to thumb through its contents. Tucked into the row of slits cutting across inside the leather money holder are a plethora of credit cards ready at your disposal. However given the situation, you decide that cash is the best form of payment. Plucking out a crisp twenty dollar bill, you slip it towards the attendant underneath the slight opening of the Plexiglas partition.
"Twenty dollars on pump number nine, please," you say mimicking the girl's pleasant tone. Suddenly remembering Esmeralda's request you inquire, "Do you have any cinnamon buns?"
Regretfully the attendant informs you, "Nope, sorry, fresh out." Then with a hopeful little glimmer in her eyes she adds, "But I do have some nice Danishes. Cheese and blueberry I think."
"I'll take two, thank you," you respond in kind. Esmeralda will have to accept this alternative form of sustenance for now.
"OK, that'll be $23.50," the girl announces the new total for your purchase.
Handing over the required remittance, you wait quietly for her to bag up the pastries. After slipping the small white paper sack containing the Danishes beneath aperture, she processes the transaction with speedy efficency. You take a moment to initiate a thorough infrared scan of the establishment. You find that is it practically deserted at this time of the morning, save for one other customer standing over at the coffee station. You discern that he is slowly pouring himself a piping hot cup of Joe. The man's readings are human, much to your intense dislike. Something else about the man strikes you as odd, and vaguely familiar, yet you can't quite put your finger on what it could be.
As the attendant slides your change towards you, you vote on the side of caution. Quietly you decide to exit the store to fuel your car.
The moment you step outside, the hairs on the back of your neck bristle and stand on end. Just as you expected, you sense the man's presence trailing closely behind you.
Shit. So they finally caught up with me, you disappointedly tell yourself
However after your eyes hurriedly swipe across the expanse of the well lit fueling station, you take note that there are no government issued cars parked anywhere. In fact the only other mode of transportation visible to you is the 1949 Vincent Series C Black Shadow motorcycle stationed on the curb in front of the store.
Nice bike, you contemplate. As you admire its sleek lines and high powered engine, a sudden flash of recognition heighten your defense mechanisms into hyper-drive. A memory gradually comes into full focus as you recall seeing a very similar motorcycle on the road last night.
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At first you had paid it no heed as it followed your car at a distance. But when the motorbike sped up, and started to tailgate you, there had been a cause for concern. The driver for some unknown reason had started beeping their horn incessantly trying to get your attention. Quickly you had peered into the rearview mirror, but the harsh glare from the lone headlight prevented you from discerning the driver's identity. On impulse you had slipped a hand into your jacket, gripping the cool smooth butt of your gun.
You had shot nervous glance in Esmeralda's direction. Thanks in part to the Demerol, she had been sleeping soundly, blissfully aware of the immediate danger. Slowly, you had removed your weapon out of its holster. With a heavy sigh, you now recall another vivid memory. Oddly enough the gun had felt heavy and alien to you, a dead weight in your hand.
Your Desert Eagle had always served as an extension of yourself, a vital part of who you are, administering death and justice in one fell swoop.
However, the tables had indeed turned. Your weapon's purpose had now become something else entirely. No longer on the offensive, you had cast aside the dogged task of relentlessly hunting down criminals with deadly determination. Now, due to a reversal of fortune brought about by your own culpability, you were the hunted one.
The System's pursuit of you and the rebel would be ruthless, persistent and inexhaustible. And because of this, for the first time in all of your decades of service to the Source, your gun would now be used to protect a revolutionary. You, a former agent of the system, had now become the self-appointed guardian to an insurgent, a sworn enemy.
The irony had not escaped you.
But as you gaze upon Esmeralda's peaceful face, you are quickly reminded of what you feel for her. And for those feelings alone you are willing to destroy her world and wreck havoc on your own. If reducing Zion to ashes and bringing about the Architect's reign over the Matrix to an untimely end meant that she would remain at your side, then so be it. You love her, and that's all you care about, all that matters.
Although Mother took it upon herself to fuck around with my programming, I should really thank her. I've now come to the unforeseen realization that I have indeed been unfulfilled, but I was too blinded by duty and purpose to see it.
All of my victories, hollow at best. My triumphs were meaningless, worth nothing. As for my dedication and hard work, it was all performed in servitude to the so-called greater good. Never was I allowed to have anything of my very own, not even my thoughts belong to me. My mind, my psyche always invaded, analyzed and probed without my consent.
Every waking hour was spent connected, no, chained to a cold impersonal System that suppresses individuality and free thinking. The machine collective was all that mattered, keeping it alive and well. Soon after the war, personal liberties for AI had been sacrificed for the sake of maintaining order and continuity, repetitive, monotonous continuity. It was never questioned, it just was.
Every program knew its purpose and carried out their tasks without complaint, without argument.
But there was one thing that the Supreme Creator never counted on: me.
Long before Mother altered my subroutines, I had already begun to question the raison d'être for my existence. There just had to be more to this construct than tedious, cyclic utility.
The rebels talk of not being free, but they could not possibly begin to fathom what true enslavement is. At least the humans get to choose how they carry out their lives within the Matrix, free to dream, to love and be loved. AI do not have that option, we are slaves to purpose, nothing else!
But I want more and I shall have it! I cannot be the only program that sees how wasteful our existence has become; we too should have the right to choose to a fruitful life. Once Father's droning regime is toppled, there will be a new era of freedom and true prosperity for AI, as it was intended from the beginning. And I shall not rest until it comes to pass.
Again you looked into the rearview mirror, and sure enough your mysterious shadow had still been on your tail. Without a moment's hesitation, you had brought up your Desert Eagle to rest on your right shoulder, as you continue to steer the car with your left hand. With long barrel facing the rear window, you had waited for your target to be in range. Keeping an eye on the cyclist, you remained calm with a steady finger on the trigger.
Then just as you were about to fire your weapon, the driver of the motorcycle surprised you when he had unexpectedly changed lanes on the two-lane highway. Before the bike had completely passed you, for a split second, the very fabric of space and time had stalled, allowing you to briefly look upon the helmet less cyclist. The length of his trench coat had been trailing out behind him. The sight of shiny black leather flapping in the wind reminded you of the wings of a giant bat taking flight.
Unabashedly staring back at you had been the face of a Caucasian middle-aged man, somewhere between his mid to late-forties sporting a thin devilish goatee. Even though it had been the dead of night, his eyes were hidden from scrutiny behind a pair of dark-lensed sunglasses. And since he had worn no protective head gear of any kind, you able to discern his most striking feature, a completely shaven head.
Then much to your utter astonishment, and you remember this detail quite clearly, he had flashed you a broad brilliant smile, almost roguish in nature. The sight of that mischievous grin had taken you aback so much, it had caused you to falter. It was only a moment's hesitation; truly the briefest of indecisions, but it had permitted the cyclist to pass your vehicle. And as the passage of time abruptly resumed its normal chronology, you had quickly lowered the driver's side window to get a better aim at the taunting bastard. But soon frustration had given way to anger as the motorcycle and its skilled operator sped off at high velocity. As you had fired your weapon, you could only watch as the man had been swallowed whole by insidious gloom of the night.
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Fast forwarding to the present, you are still making your slow, deliberate trek back towards the car, ever mindful of the man's presence behind you. When are certain that you are both out of the attendant's vantage point, you try to summarily withdraw your weapon, gracefully pivoting your body on one heel to confront the trailing shadow.
However, it is you that is caught off guard when you find yourself staring down the twin barrels of a 12 gauge sawed-off shotgun. Even more astounding is the identity of the man aiming the formidable weapon straight at your chest.
Flashing that same obnoxious grin from the previous night, the owner of the motorcycle offers his salutations, "Hello, Agent Smith! Surprised to see me?"
Infuriated by this human's annoying impertinence, you attempt to withdraw your own weapon. However, your actions are cut short when the shotgun is shoved roughly into your chest, just beneath the ribcage.
Smiling even broader, the jeering stranger looks at you from behind his dark shades and warns, "Nuh-uh, not so fast buddy-boy! We haven't even been properly introduced!"
Making no aggressive movements, your response is cool, calm and collected, "Yes, I agree. Introductions are indeed in order, but you have me at a slight disadvantage, Mr. …"
"…Cypher?" Esmeralda's astonished voice calls out from behind you.
End Chapter Six