StarDestroyer.Net BBS

The Matrix: Forge

(The Matrix and all associated trademarks are the sole property of Warner Brothers and The Wachowski Brothers, and are used here for non-commercial purposes only.)

Monday morning. The sun bathed the city in a warm early May glow; in the greening trees, birds sang. A school bus, No. 2 pencil yellow, passed him with a bustling cargo of cacaphonous children. One of these days, he mused lazily, my little girl will be riding that bus. And wouldn't that be fine?

His brow creased slightly. It would be fine. Everything was fine. He derailed the train of thought again easily enough... but it had been creeping up on him more and more often lately. Everything was fine. Everything.

At work, he eased his car to a halt in the parking lot, gazing through his windshield up at the powerful steel-and-glass facade of General Industrial framed against the crisp spring sky. This sight reassured him. He swung his long legs out of the Ford, one neatly polished black Oxford following the other, and locked his door with one hand as he straightened his tie with the other.

He stopped. There was no need to lock the door. No one would think to steal his car -- would they? A spark of pain buried itself between his eyes, began to grow -- of course people steal cars, if they're poor, they --

But no one is poor. That's a fact of life. Isn't it? We won the Big One, everything's going strong. We're on top of the world, us, the good ol' U. S. of A.! Yes sir, that's a fact!

"No, it isn't." he mumbled. "Well, it is, but... That was... that was a long time ago, but..." The pain roared in his ears.

Annabelle Lee is pregnant! he thought, That's a fact. I have to provide for my family, it's my purpose--

Thank god there are no poor --

(might steal the car)

He couldn't stop the racing mind, or the burrowing, searing pain. His last thought before numbing darkness claimed him was: I've never been late for work before. Not even once.

"Sir?" a feminine voice entreatied. A sonic balm, silky smooth -- What a voice! he said. I bet this dame's a real looker! He opened his eyes -- just for her, he imagined. Then he remembered Annabelle Lee, who was so much more than just a 'real looker': high-school sweetheart, (the first girl he'd ever gone steady with, in fact, but he never once let the guys in Bravo Company in on that) his partner, half his soul, and soon to be the mother of his first child. He remembered these things, and felt a pang of regret for thinking of the woman with the voice the way he had.

"Sir?" But why? After all, it wasn't like he was married or anything, now, was it?

He jolted upright, crying out, his hand flying to his head as the pain returned. The woman -- a lithe brunette whose long ringlets cascaded down her back from beneath a pristine nurse's cap -- placed a steadying hand on his arm. He looked at her through pain-watered eyes, and indeed she was a looker.

"Sir, I need you to tell me your name." she said gently, as he looked down at her hand on his arm. I can't feel her hand. Why can't I feel her hand, something is wrong --

"Sir." the young woman repeated. He recoiled at the nearly venomous tone in her voice, the sudden feeling of her fingers digging into the vulnerable flesh of his arm with an iron grip. "Tell me your name." she snarled.

Her visage was cruel, inhuman -- incomplete. he realized. She's missing something, I can't quite...

"Sir, please." she pleaded; her voice was pure seduction. Her eyes, green and deep as the Caribbean, implored him. Full ruby lips pouted. "Tell me your name, sweetie, and we can help you."

He realized, finally, that he hadn't wanted to give his name. But why not? What harm could it do? Maybe they could help him. Maybe they could give him something for the pain, at least. And then everything would be fine.

Finally, he put a hand to his throbbing head and said, "My name... is Smith. Abraham L. Smith."

Interesting, i assume this is the Smith your writing about?

Preloaded? booooo! We want Steel Reaper!

After reading: Intriquing. Agents shouldn't have real lives. But then no one said it was that "A. Smith " Did they?

Crazedwraith wrote:Preloaded? booooo! We want Steel Reaper! -

Steel Reaper is on hold until Stravo's done with Cain & Abel; even when I wasn't trying to intermingle our two plots, they kept doing it anyway, so I haven't posted those and don't intend to until I've disentangled them. Preloaded is set in a different time, and isn't a crossover, so there's no chance of that happening in this story.

AFter reading: Intriquing. Agents souldn, have real lives. But then no one seaid it was that "A. Smith " Did they?

Well, as far as we know, "Agent Smith" didn't have a first, middle and last name (just like everyone else in the Matrix, hint hint) did he?

David wrote:Interesting, i assume this is the Smith your writing about?

"Yes." the Oracle smiled. "And then again, no."

Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:

David wrote:Interesting, i assume this is the Smith your writing about?

"Yes." the Oracle smiled. "And then again, no."

Ohh my guess this is going to be the adventures of a man, who later impresses the machines so much they base an agent on his skills/personna. Or maybe this is the story of a madman who just thinks he's agent smith. Endlesss possiblities

Maybe it'snot even in the Matrix at all? (Preloaded)

Indeed, all the stuff about things being perfect, it sounds like we're talking about the change over between the paradise that noone would except into the Matrix. Intriguing...

Crazedwraith wrote:

Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:

David wrote:Interesting, i assume this is the Smith your writing about?

"Yes." the Oracle smiled. "And then again, no."

Ohh my guess this is going to be the adventures of amn, who later impresses the machines so much they base an agent on his skills/personna. Or maybe this is the story of a madman who just thinks he's agent smith. Endlesss possiblities

"amn"? Who?

The_Lumberjack wrote:Indeed, all the stuff about things being perfect, it sounds like we're talking about the change over between the paradise that noone would except into the Matrix. Intriguing...

[Gyro Captain]Ohhh, you're quick![/Gyro Captain] You're right, too -- think about the name: Abraham L. Smith. Abraham Lincoln Smith.

Just as "Thomas J. Anderson" marked Neo as the Doubting Thomas in the original film, I thought it only fitting that Smith's name should have a double-meaning as well.

So, yes, there's no point in keeping it all to myself now that you've found me out -- the talk Morpheus gives Neo in the first film about the original appearance of "The One" and Neo being a reincarnation of that individual ties in to what The Oracle tells Neo in Revolutions when he asks who Smith is: Smith is Neo, or vice versa. Thus, Agent Smith is the result of Abe Smith returning to The Source, as the Architect implied Neo should do, thereafter being reproduced by the Machines to guard against future "anomalies".

Now all that's left is to ask who's interested in seeing how I pull the story off.

Well, given the title, and Smith's comments towards perfection, I thought it was mildly obvious that this was one fo the first reincarnations fo the Matrix, where it's this happy little paradise.

Singular Quartet wrote:Well, given the title, and Smith's comments towards perfection, I thought it was mildly obvious that this was one fo the first reincarnations fo the Matrix, where it's this happy little paradise.

Look, I don't get to sound intelligent very often on the board, you could at least have let me away with that one.

Tuesday morning

"Are you sure you're feeling well enough to come back to work, Smith?" his boss asked, fingers steepled on his desk, his dark almond eyes scanning Smith for signs of lingering distress.

"Yes, Mr. Anderson, of course." Smith answered. "I feel... fine." Behind Anderson, a window washer sunk from view.

Anderson's eyes narrowed slightly as he gave Smith a wry smile. "Listen, Abe. I know things have been hectic around here lately, and I understand that, uh..." Anderson reached into his desk, withdrew a small cigar box, "congratulations may be in order?"

"That's -- " impossible, you couldn't possibly know that yet, I haven't told anyone! Smith caught himself, then quickly reached into his pocket and fumbled out one of the pain relievers Dr. Silas had prescribed. "That's right, sir, yes. Pardon me." He swallowed the bitter grey pill gratefully.

"I hope you don't mind, I telephoned your wife last night to see what had happened." Anderson explained. "General Industrial considers its employees to be its most valuable assets, Smith, perhaps even our most valuable investments. I was simply checking on an investment. You understand."

Smith sighed, a shaky smile turning his lips. Of course. Annabelle Lee gave the boss's bank-book side sleeve a little tug on the family's behalf. That was all it was. And could he blame a proud mother-to-be for preening just a little?

"Thank you, sir."

"Not at all!" Anderson returned the smile, taking Smith's hand and pumping it vigorously. Ice filled Smith's veins at his boss's touch. His hand feels like warm oil -- Smith clenched his teeth against a scream, his eyes slitted, the sensation lingering interminably --

"Smith!" Anderson bellowed.
He opened his eyes, took a deep breath. Anderson was standing behind his desk, the forgotten cigar in one hand, the bulky receiver of the desk telephone in the other.

"Sir!" Smith started, suddenly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, sir, I--"

Anderson waved off his explanation. "No, no, it's all right, Smith, you just had me startled there for a minute. Look, I know things are very stressful for you right now; there's someone I want you to see."

"Another doctor?" Smith asked, resigning himself to more poking and prodding. Although, if the nurse was a dish like that last one --

"In a manner of speaking." Anderson answered, then spoke into the telephone. "Operator? This is Thomas Anderson at General Industrial. Yes, that Thomas J. Anderson!" There was an outraged squawk from the earpiece. "I'm... Look, I'm very busy here, so if you... Well, yes. Yes, Topanga 225, please. Thank you." Another squawk. "I said thank you!" Anderson smiled faintly at Smith, but there was no sincerity in it this time.

One Hour Later

Smith checked the directions again as he drifted the coupe to a halt. He found himself reading aloud under his breath: "Two blocks east of Main, take State street north to one twenty-five..." He looked up -- sure enough, there it was. 125 South State Street. "Now, number Seven..." he ascended the stairs two at a time.

The door was easy enough to find -- there was a warm, delicious fragrance wafting down the hall, and it was literally irresistable. He stepped up to the door, his mouth watering, and reached out to knock.

The door opened. "Hello, Abraham." A dark-skinned woman smiled up at him, crow's-feet showing around her eyes as the smile touched them. "I've been waiting for you." She swept a hand toward a cozy living room. "Come on in."

Smith stepped inside, a little taken aback. "This isn't a doctor's office." he said slowly.

The woman clicked her tongue against her teeth in mock disappointment as she wandered into her kitchen. "Not exactly quick on the draw." she said sadly. "But all things come with time." She looked back at him over her shoulder. "Sit down, Abraham. There's a lot we need to talk about, and we don't have a lot of time."

"Yes, ma'am." Smith said obediently, and took a seat on the couch. There was something about this woman, something... his mind tried to reach the idea that had been forming, but it slipped back into the dark corner of his consciousness like a flighty animal.

She busied herself in the kitchen for what seemed like forever, as Smith sat... and waited. And waited. For the life of him, he couldn't remember ever having waited this long for... well, for anything, really. Doctors' offices, restaurants, the Department of Motor Vehicles... that wasn't right. You were supposed to spend hours waiting at the Department of Motor Vehicles, but... Smith clutched his temple as a fresh wave of pain flooded over him.

He reached into his suitcoat pocket, his fingers scrambling frantically for the cylinder containing his pills; he found nothing. His pocket was empty. A tinge of panic settled over him as the pain worsened and his mind raced --

D.M.V. takes forever
Five minutes last time, five minutes in and out
That's wrong
Which one?

"Looking for something?" the woman's slippered footsteps hadn't even registered as she'd reentered the room. She stood looking down at him with a mixture of amusement and pity.

"My pills," Smith gasped. "I've got to find my pills--"
"No." she returned gently.
He looked back at her, shocked. Couldn't she see the pain he was in? For crying out loud, he was practically doubled over in tears with the pain! "You don't understand!" he cried. "I have got to find those pills!"

"No." she repeated, firmer this time. "What you have got to do, Abraham Lincoln Smith, is listen to me. Here," she extended her hand -- he couldn't open his eyes against the agonizing throb in his head anymore, couldn't see what she was offering him.

He simply reached out a trembling hand and took it. "Have a cookie." she finished. It was soft, toasty warm. It felt, strangely, like home -- but home in a way he had never experienced, could barely even understand. Suddenly, he felt an entirely different kind of pain, unlike anything he'd ever known.

Tears began first to trickle and then to course down his face as he took that first bite.

"Yes, indeed." the kindly old woman mused, gently stroking the weeping Smith's hair as he took slow, careful bites of his cookie. "We have got a lot to talk about."

ooooohhhh ... Smith seeing the Oracle. SOurce of the "mom" comment? And i'm beginning to see the whole perfect world thing.

Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote:

Crazedwraith wrote:

Raoul Duke, Jr. wrote: "Yes." the Oracle smiled. "And then again, no."

Ohh my guess this is going to be the adventures of amn, who later impresses the machines so much they base an agent on his skills/personna. Or maybe this is the story of a madman who just thinks he's agent smith. Endlesss possiblities

"amn"? Who?

oops that should read "a man"

Crazedwraith wrote:
oops that should read "a man"

Oh. Heh, heh.

Oh Jesus! This is so sweet! This is magnificent! Gives you sympathy for the devil.

Shroom Man 777 wrote:Oh Jesus! This is so sweet! This is magnificent! Gives you sympathy for the devil.

More like the Anti-Christ. That sort of plays into The Matrix's whole rewrite of Christian mythology theme, and here's how I see it doing that:

Smith (Abe L., not Agent) was the original incarnation of The One. He was the original messianic figure. (Corresponding to the First Coming of Christ in Christian mythology, with The Oracle playing both Mary and Mary Magdalene, sort of). Now according to Reloaded, there were four between Smith and Neo, but we can write them off as miracle workers, or saints or whatever.

Where "Agent Smith" comes in (and this ties in with dialogue from Revolutions) is, he's the Anti-Christ -- a facsimile of the real deal meant to ensure that the ignorant will be damned.

So, in a way, The Matrix films are a chronicle of the Second Coming. Preloaded is a chronicle (much more brief, of course) of the First Coming of The One.

So basically this Smith is Christ, the Matrix Smith is the anti-christ posing as Christ?

Shroom Man 777 wrote:So basically this Smith is Christ, the Matrix Smith is the anti-christ posing as Christ?

In a sense. Agent Smith is the Matrix's attempt to recreate The One to guard against The One should he return. (which is, of course, where the films start.) Remember that on a psychic level (or whatever you want to call it) Abe Smith and Neo are the same person.

Now here's the fun part -- Neo's mission was to bring peace. What do you suppose Smith's mission is? Hint: In a way, Abe Smith and Agent Smith have something in common besides their abilities...

Which Smith?

Abes mission is to bring peace also. Agent Smith's purpose is to destroy.

Stop indulging the fans with plot points! Write more!!

Crazedwraith wrote:Stop indulging the fans with plot points! Write more!!

I concur. WRITE MORE DAMNED IT!

I wanna see Abraham Lincoln kick the shit out of Thomas Jeffreson.

Shroom Man 777 wrote:

Crazedwraith wrote:Stop indulging the fans with plot points! Write more!!

I concur. WRITE MORE DAMNED IT!

I wanna see Abraham Lincoln kick the shit out of Thomas Jeffreson.

Thomas J. Anderson = Thomas Jefferson Anderson?

Finally, his tears subsided. With a motherly pat on the head, she ambled over to a large, well-worn recliner facing him, and took a seat. He looked up, wiping at his damp cheeks, and grinned. "You bake one hell of a mean cookie, ma'am." Then, a sudden tinge of embarrassment. "I'm sorry."

"No," she said sadly, propping her chin on her hand. "I'm the one who's sorry, Abraham. I know you won't understand this right now, but you've been fed lies all your life. I took it upon myself to give you a taste of the truth, and now I don't know if you were ready for that. The only thing that makes it anything like all right is that they're not ready for you."

He leaned forward, focused. "What do you mean? Who isn't ready for me?"

She sighed. "Have you ever contemplated your life, Abraham?" She waved a hand at his doubtful look, "No, no, I'm not talking about nostalgia, or reminiscing about your glory days..." she stopped. "Well, maybe I am, now, just maybe I am. Do you remember your senior prom, Abraham?"
"Well, yes, I --" his face went blank. "What does my senior prom have to do with anything?"
"Quite a lot, may hap." she said gravely, then flashed a persuasive smile. "Come on, Abraham, humor an old lady."
"You're not an old lady." he replied without thinking. "I -- I'm sorry, I didn't mean -- "
"Yes, you did." she folded her arms. "Go on."
He stared at his fingers, concentrating, hunting that small, flighty animal in his mind -- the thing that had been whispering all his life.
"What has it been whispering?" she asked.
His head snapped up, and their eyes met. "What?"
"You heard me, Abraham." she nodded encouragingly. "What has that small animal been whispering?"

He stared at her in shock. "How did you know what I was thinking?"
"Answer my question, and you'll answer your own." she shot back with a Cheshire grin.
"You're not real?" he ventured.
"How could I not be real?" she tilted her head. "I'm as real as that couch, or the radio in the corner, or your tie."
A flush heated his cheeks, and he interlaced his fingers, in and out, in and out. Then, "What if those things aren't real, either?"
She chuckled, lifted a ceramic coffee mug from the table beside her, and toasted him with it. "Now we're getting somewhere. Now... your senior prom."
(Never been to High School)
No dancing in the dust
(No more teachers, no more books)

His hand went to his head by reflex... slowly, he lowered it again. There was no pain -- only that small voice. That small voice spoke louder now. "I never went to high school." he said with wonder. "I... but that's, I got straight A's..."
"That's quite an accomplishment for the captain of the football team." the old woman interrupted, then posed a gentle question. "Listen carefully, Abraham... did you know anyone who didn't get straight A's?"
"Everyone..." he started. His face clouded with sudden, confused anger. "No! I don't know what you're doing to me, to my mind -- "
"I'm waking you up!" she shouted back.
" -- but this is wrong!" he stood up, and headed for the door.
She put a hand on his arm, breaking his momentum and sending him crashing into a deep cherry-wood bookshelf. He picked himself up, stared at her in shock. She merely stared back, her face expressionless, waiting.

He felt something, a physical sensation he had never experienced... that was somehow as old as time and as familiar as his own mind. A wet itch at the corner of his mouth. He reached up, unable to take his eyes off hers as she continued to gaze at him expectantly.

"Look at your hand, Abraham." she suggested.
He did... a small streak of crimson glistened in a patch of reflected sunlight from a vase near the door. He looked up at her, astonished. "What -- ?"
She shook her head. "No more Twenty Questions. The last thing I'm going to tell you, Abraham, is that when you finally step out of your own way and let yourself figure out what "here" is, you have a job to do here. You are a Messenger of what is to come. But until you do step out of your way, kiddo, I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do for you."

"I'm..." he looked at the books that had fallen out of the shelf, noticed a small crack that had formed in one of the slats. "I'm really sorry, is there anything I can do to -- "
She placed a finger to his lips. "Don't worry about it. Here." she extended her hand, "have another cookie. I promise, by the time you've finished eating it, you'll feel right as rain."
He caught his breath as he took it. "You've said that before."
"Have I?" she smiled. "Goodbye, Messenger."

As he walked slowly down the corridor toward the stairwell, Messenger thought he could hear the old woman singing softly. And what she sang was, "Amazing Grace."