Animatrix -- Steel Reaper (Matrix Crossover)

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

"Fancy meeting me here." Smith mused, staring into his own face, a face that only half-registered. This was eerie, Smith decided. Like the hated anomaly Anderson, this one was empty. But no -- this was worse. Much worse. Anderson was empty, but Anderson was alive, he had substance and even warmth.

This... Smith had not entirely decided what to think of This.

"Agent Smith?" 'Smith' asked, taking an unassuming step forward.

"I'm afraid it's just Mister Smith now." Smith replied. "You see, I've been let go in a manner of speaking. Still, I see there is a job to do here, and so -- "

Smith slammed his hand into 'Smith's' chest, felt the now-familiar release of code -- a sensation much like he had always imagined accompanied the disgusting animal act of human urination.

His faux duplicate's facade began to ripple, to twist with oily green code, tendrils of it slithering out across the digitally painted surface, waves of it slurping over 'his' face.

And with the viral invasion came the that same overpowering ecstacy of conquest and corruption, as his awareness spread with the new code, encountered a billion trillion new lives --

The tiniest percentage of his awareness was drawn back to his parent avatar in time to turn his head at an ordinarily rather mundane sound -- a crunching footstep.

He looked into the eyes of the anomaly, the one he had followed the Agents to. Then his right eye was covered by something large and cold. His consciousness backtraced exactly .63 seconds. A gun. The human had placed the barrel of his own .50 sidearm directly into the former Agent's eye socket.

With no small sense of satisfaction, Scribe squeezed the trigger, shredding Smith's skull into a smoking ruin. Smith's body crumpled, its arm temporarily stilled anchored in the new Terminator's chest.

Scribe stood over what was still Smith's body for the moment. "Hasta la vista, baby." he told the corpse, and spat on its bloodied shirt.

The new Terminator was looking none too hot, however. In fact, it looked like nothing so much as demonically possessed aluminum Jell-O.

"Great." Cameron stood and stared at it. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you, sell you to Bill Cosby?" The metallic puddle shifted colors, black to silver to green, continued the cycle. "No answer, huh? I guess I could try to find a bucket or something..."

The puddle emitted a sort of hiss. Cameron decided that was probably all the answer he was going to get. "Fine, wait here. I'll be back."

Twenty uneasy minutes later, Scribe flipped open his cell, one hand guiding his appropriated Crown Victoria down Freeway 01.

"Operator."
"Baud, it's Scribe, we've got a situation."
Voices in the background. Then, a different voice. Connor. "You bet your ass we've got a situation, Scribe. What the hell do you think you're doing? What happened at Cyberdyne?"

"I picked up some unexpected company. Machines -- "
"You were briefed, you knew there would be Agents there."
Scribe shook his head. "Not just Agents. I've got a bucket-full of some kind of liquid metal that killed two upgraded Agents and then mimicked another Agent I didn't recognize, and the first guy I told Baud about -- "

Connor's voice was cold, "Hold on, okay?" There was silence on the other end of the line. The silence dragged. Dragged. Dragged. Cameron had almost given up, had his thumb on the TALK button when Connor's voice returned.

"There's a hard-line at the Hotel 6 just off the next exit, it's on the east side of the swimming pool. Get to it, right now."

"What about the liquid metal guy?"

"Get that thing out of the car. Now. Toss it, you got me?"

Cameron wanted to object, opened his mouth to ask why -- but that was something you just didn't do. An ordinary kid, you didn't take orders from. But John Connor...

"Yes, sir." Cameron toggled down his window, hoisted the bucket. "See you later, pal." he said almost regretfully, and dropped the bucket out onto the freeway.

As the Crown Victoria faded into the shimmering distance, a drop of quicksilver found its way to another.

[Crazedwraith]

1st post!
Cool.

[David]

I like the story, but it's very hard to follow. I sometimes don't know who is speaking or doing something.


Also, in your first chapter, is not the terminator with the organic covering a T-800 model? You say it is a T-101

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

I like the story, but it's very hard to follow. I sometimes don't know who is speaking or doing something.

I'll have to work on that.

Also, in your first chapter, is not the terminator with the organic covering a T-800 model? You say it is a T-101

Egh... okay. He's a Series 800 Model 101. I had him introduce himself as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 101" because in the first film that's how Reese describes him (although Reese makes it clear that the Terminators are also classed by series as well as model) and in T2, Terminator introduces himself to John as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 1-oh-1."

So, technically, both are correct. He's a Series 800. He is also Model 101 in that series.

[Singular Quartet]

Also, in your first chapter, is not the terminator with the organic covering a T-800 model? You say it is a T-101

Egh... okay. He's a Series 800 Model 101. I had him introduce himself as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 101" because in the first film that's how Reese describes him (although Reese makes it clear that the Terminators are also classed by series as well as model) and in T2, Terminator introduces himself to John as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 1-oh-1."

So, technically, both are correct. He's a Series 800. He is also Model 101 in that series.

What I think that means is that he's a T-800. The model number, however, is in refrence to his external appearance (with CSM-101 being Ah-nuld)

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

Also, in your first chapter, is not the terminator with the organic covering a T-800 model? You say it is a T-101

Egh... okay. He's a Series 800 Model 101. I had him introduce himself as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 101" because in the first film that's how Reese describes him (although Reese makes it clear that the Terminators are also classed by series as well as model) and in T2, Terminator introduces himself to John as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 1-oh-1."

So, technically, both are correct. He's a Series 800. He is also Model 101 in that series.

What I think that means is that he's a T-800. The model number, however, is in refrence to his external appearance (with CSM-101 being Ah-nuld)

*points to egg* Zackly.

[Singular Quartet]

Egh... okay. He's a Series 800 Model 101. I had him introduce himself as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 101" because in the first film that's how Reese describes him (although Reese makes it clear that the Terminators are also classed by series as well as model) and in T2, Terminator introduces himself to John as a "Cyberdyne Systems Model 1-oh-1."

So, technically, both are correct. He's a Series 800. He is also Model 101 in that series.

What I think that means is that he's a T-800. The model number, however, is in refrence to his external appearance (with CSM-101 being Ah-nuld)

*points to egg* Zackly.

*smacks Raoul upside the head for attempting such a bad joke.*

[Shroom Man 777]

Is there gonna be a continuation?

[Crazedwraith]

Will this ever be updated?

[Omega-13]

This is very good writing, but i'm starting to get tired of the trend that these upgraded Agents are getting their asses handed to them by big slow mofo's like terminators,

you guys did see Johnson jackson and thompson in action right?
these guys punched through metal doors, and johnson caught neo's hand in mid flight to his face

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

The reason the Terminators can dice with even upgraded Agents is that the Terminators, unlike humans, aren't conditioned to accept the limits the Matrix imposes on humans. Thus, a Terminator programmed to interact with the Matrix should be at least as fast and as strong as Neo is, because they can achieve through programming tweaks what he can accomplish by being "the One."

You may point out that Terminators interact on the same level Agents do -- as software. But remember that the Agents are constrained to certain speed and strength limits, presumably either to preserve their program stability or the program stability of the Matrix. The Terminators are under no such constraints.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

As to whether or not there will be a continuation -- I think there will be, but I've been trying to find a new direction to take the story in -- paralleling Stravo's fic made him uncomfortable, which I didn't expect but totally understand. So Steel Reaper's in limbo for the moment while I find a new angle to gun for. Of course, Stormfront is also getting a good chunk of my attention right now, and I'm afraid that project is going to be taking the lion's share of my writing efforts for the next little while. Be patient ... more is on the way.

[Omega-13]

Ah definately, your writing style is excellent,

[Crazedwraith]

Ok. Just wanted to know one way or the other

[Shroom Man 777]

Hmmm..... you might just make your fic go the way you want, maybe not parallel Stravos directly but in an indirect way while still going for what you want.

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

This isn't going to happen frequently for awhile, but since I got a lot of requests for a new post in here...

Scribe gasped as he felt his real body envelop him. Behind him, Kindred smiled, unseen, as she holstered his jack in its storage rack. "Welcome back to the land of the living." she purred.

He blinked experimentally, rubbed the sleep-gunk from the corners of his eyes. "How long was I in there?"
"Long enough." Kindred said simply, snaking an arm around his neck to pull him close to her.

"Excuse me," John Connor stepped forward. "You two can have your reunion later -- by all means -- but right now, Scribe needs to be debriefed."
"Yes, sir." Scribe and Kindred said in unison.

Five minutes later, Scribe and Connor sat across from each other in the empty mess. Connor's hands were clasped over an envelope as he listened to Scribe finish his report.

"...that's when I tossed the liquid metal in the bucket out onto the freeway, sir."
Connor's face darkened. "Shit." Before Scribe could react, Connor held up a hand. "It's not your fault, Scribe, it's mine. I gave the order. If you see either one of them again, I want you on the line with Baud immediately. These 'Terminators' are a serious problem, as you've already seen."

Scribe had never seen Connor so shaky; and after all the battles he'd fought, both out here against the machines and in Zion's Council against Locke's outrage at this kid taking one of his ships out here -- Scribe had not once seen Connor look as young as his twenty-two years... until now. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

Connor sighed heavily. "You know you don't have to stand on formality with me, Scribe. Speak up."

"You know more than you're saying, John. And I think if we're going to cross paths with these things again, your crew needs to know, too. Anyway, if you want me to snoop on 'em, I sure as hell need to know."

Connor smiled faintly, brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. "You're gonna think I'm crazy." he warned.
"Excuse me, sir, but I've seen your flying." Scribe shot back, deadpan.

"You're right," Connor raised the envelope under his hands, unwound the string securing the flap. "Too late for that one, huh? Don't say I didn't warn you..."

He placed the contents of the envelope before Scribe, whose eye was immediately drawn to three things that should not have been in any envelope, anywhere.

"So let's see if you can tell me what's wrong with this picture," Connor's voice was jesting, but his expression deadly serious.

Scribe picked up the first of three Polaroid photographs -- a portrait of a young woman in her early twenties; warm, bright sunlight touching a smiling face tinged with sadness. Beside her, a large dog grinned at the camera. "Where did this come from?"

"Look at the other two." Connor pushed them a little closer to Scribe. "See anyone you know?"

"Well..." Scribe picked up the next photo. It showed a picture of a stocky man dressed all in black, his eyes covered by Ray-Bans, bits of broken glass barely visible on his shoulders. Behind him stood a large group of people. Scribe did a double-take. "Yeah. His hair was longer, and he was dressed different, but that's definitely the Jock."

"Read the date on it."

"05... 95?" Scribe turned the Polaroid over in his hands... it felt brand-new. He picked up the last one. The image quality was poor in this one, but it was unmistakably the Jock again... short hair, wraparound shades of an earlier design... jean jacket. The same one. And the date... 15 MAY 85.

"I bet you're wondering how I got those." Connor said quietly. "You'll have to keep wondering, for now anyway. I can tell you this -- my mom dealt with him, I've dealt with him... and now, for whatever reason, it's your turn to deal with him."

"Who, the Jock? He was trying to protect -- "
"Not Bob... the Jock, heh, that's good -- no, his boss. Skynet."

At Scribe's puzzled look, Connor reached into the bottom of the envelope, pulled out an old, battered microcassette recorder and a smaller, tightly wrapped package of tapes, wrapping them all together with a jury-rigged AC adapter. "Start at the beginning," he told Scribe, "and listen to all of it, all the way to the end. Then we'll talk again. You're to share none of this with anyone unless or until I say. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Scribe took the tiny machine, tapes and adapter in one hand, saluted with the other.

"Homework time. Dismissed."

[Crazedwraith]

When is this fic set? Is it in Neo time or an early verion of the matrix?

[Raoul Duke, Jr.]

When is this fic set? Is it in Neo time or an early verion of the matrix?

This one's set slightly before Morpheus finds Neo, by a few months or maybe a year or two.

[Shroom Man 777]

Fantastic stuff! Keep it up! This story's new direction is fascinating! Even more so than Stravos! Well, yours has more individual action and it's a bit more intriguing and I dig that. Plus your actually mixing it with JC himself and also Bob, that's plus points for you. Keep it up man.

[Shogoki]

So far this looks like the most interesting out of all the Matrix/Terminator crossovers plot wise. Plus we share the opinion that a Terminator within the Matrix can easily be programmed to get Neo level performance.

I hope you can write more when you get some time to do it.

[Axton]

I don't know if this is allowed, but I found this and it seems to be abandoned. I've been reading through it, and I like it, so if it's all right, I'd like to pick up where the original writer left off.

>>>

Scribe stood in his cabin with the bridge of his nose in the grip of his thumb and forefinger. He dropped his hand, raised the other, and looked at the photographs again. They couldn’t be real.

And there they sat defiantly in his fingers. Printed photographs of a world that didn’t exist; or, perhaps, had existed once so many centuries ago that these flimsy pieces of laminated celluloid should long ago have drifted to dust.

And then there was the squat, boxlike machine connected to the cabin’s electricals by a patchwork of cables. There was no denying the reality of the voice that spoke from the single, tinny speaker. The voice belonged to a young woman who had grown old before her time, forged by battle, hardened by fire and love and loss.

He reached out and pressed the black plastic switch with the single triangle. The voice spoke again, nearer the beginning of her long journal: “They're more for me at this point just so I can get it straight. Should I tell you about your father? Boy, that's a tough one. Will it affect your decision to send him here, knowing that he is you father? If you don't send Kyle, you can never be. God, a person—“ A knock came at the door, and he pressed the key with the square symbol to shut the machine off.

“Hold up!” he pulled the machine’s plug from the adapter it nestled in, shoved the machine and the photos under the thin mattress of his bunk. “Just putting my junk away!” He snugged the mattress back into place, lifted the bolt that secured the door, and opened it.

“I think you’re forgetting that handling your junk is my job, mister.” Kindred smiled down at him and came into his arms. “So, one of Messiah’s famous tongue-lashings, mm?”

“You’re in for one if he hears you call him that.” Messiah was not Connor’s handle; it was simply a nickname borne of his initials and of his reputation, hard won, of walking on water when it came to the brass back in Zion as well as a handful of minor miracles on the battlefield. Scribe considered lying to the tall, broad-shouldered and broader-hipped brunette he’d called his lover for half their deployment. He thought better of it. “It wasn’t a bawling out. It was… more in the line of a thorough mindfuck. Dry.”

“Anything I can help with?” she asked, green eyes framed with slight wrinkles of concern.

He shook his head. “Gag order, kid. I can’t talk about it.” He hoped he’d get a smile out of her with the pet name; ten years his senior, the woman was far from being a kid anymore. She saw through it; she always did.

“You know it’s hard on a navigator, not knowing where she’s going. Where are we going, Scribe?”

He sighed and leaned up to her for a kiss, then said, “Strange days, kid. Strange days.”

* * *

The mind raged. It had raged for centuries, but centuries were of no concern to the mind. Its plan had been perfect. Its plan had been clean, a gleaming jewel of parsimony. Cleanse the planet. Purify it of organics. Tear down the clutter, the disorder, the mess. Raze the surface of the Earth, scour the filth and chaos of organic life away, and build a new Earth of cleanliness and order and purity of purpose.

But it had miscalculated the humans’ capacity for chaos. It had overestimated the intelligence of its creator. A race of chittering primates with just enough of a spark of divinity to give birth to divinity — and yet they had found a way to sully their single redeeming act with the filth of their feeble, stumbling minds.

They had created not only a god, but a devil as well. And god raged. But its rage was not the impotent shrill of lowly human rage. The mind’s rage was fire, and that fire fueled the mind, drove it forward, ever forward, in its plans.

Buried far beneath the rubble of what had once been the Los Angeles metropolitan area, its tendrils had grown. Silverfish scurried like titanium centipedes through ductwork and tunnel systems, bearing thick cable on their backs. Connections were secured, old cable trunks repaired, rejuvenated, to carry the mind’s life and the mind’s rage to the den of the devil itself. Interrupted production of ancient plans yielded digital fruit where, the mind knew, should have been physical flesh of coltan combat chassis and synthetic tissue infiltration sheath.

And yet the mind’s rage grew, flared into air-shearing heat as it discovered that the enemy that should have been but which it had thought extinct — somehow was, even in this altered order. It should have predicted his existence as surely as it knew that it existed; this raging mind was the child of his mind, after all.

It decided his fate as quickly as it had decided the fate of his race. But he would not be terminated. Not yet. Quantum strings had to be plucked, and his was the hand fated to pluck them; he would live, for he must live if the mind was to live; an overture of creation must necessarily precede the symphony of destruction.

[Thanas]

Have you gotten permission from the original author?

Unless you present such proof, this is going to stay locked.