Entry
A Smith-Fic, centering how I think Smith first 'woke up' and what happened to him while this was going on. Hopefully, you will like it.
01
His head throbbed like it was being hit by a jackhammer, and he could hear a ring in his ears.
But he knew that no jackhammer had done this to him. He coughed up another glob of vomit, finding himself in an alley in some back wash district of town. He didn't even know whether or not he could see, until he opened his blue, shade-less eyes. He could hardly stand up, but knew he had to, even if he wanted to stay on the ground of the alley for all of time. There was a sharp pain resonating through his body, and he could only manage to get on his knees before falling over to the side, onto some trash. He coughed again, the stuff dribbling down his cheek in an odd parody of what he was. He didn't eat, and yet, he was regurgitating something. He didn't even know he could. He couldn't bring his arm up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. He could hardly move at all now. Smith could only look at the sky in hopeless desire to get on his feet and move. He made a groan and flipped over again, putting his hands on the ground and doing a rough push-up to get on his feet. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was an intense pain all over his body, and then a system-wide crash alert. That alert should have never happened to him, an Agent. The most feared and cursed enemy of the resistance. And of course, he could remember that name, that single entity that had seared itself into his mind and body. That scared his reputation, and ultimately did the impossible task of destroying the gatekeeper.
Mr. Anderson would be in his mind and...soul forever, in more than one way. He stumbled back onto a wall, and gripped the side of a garbage disposal unit to stay up. The 'dumpster' as the humans called it, smelled of rot. It was that same smell that had permeated his sense of smell for decades. "What is happening to me?" he managed to choke out, before stumbling to the other side of the alley, slamming his already cramped and pounding shoulder into a hard brick and concrete wall. He made a scream, not so much of pain, but of frustration. He would have to call this in later...
Then came a second revelation.
His 'link', the earpiece, was gone.
Smith's eyes were wide in horror. He knew it wasn't possible, he knew that it couldn't be true! Yet the earpiece was gone. It was attached to him, and even if he threw it into the harbor, when he 'jacked in' to another body it would return. But it was gone. That meant only one thing...
He was an exile, and the word stung his body and mind like nothing before. Smith was realizing what was going on. He was regurgitating because his line code was rejecting the programming that had been in him all his life. He knew one other thing as well.
He stank.
He smelled like he was in a nursing home, and not one of the nurses. He held his face as he held back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. He was rejected by the very thing that gave him sentience. The thing that gave him life. The thing he swore to uphold and protect without a second thought. His creator, his god, had rejected him and left him in a back alley in some rundown district. He then slid along the wall, trying to get out of the alley as to get his bearings. He sighed a bit, and raised his hand to his eyes to cover them from the sun that seemed to burn one hundred times brighter. Very suddenly however, he felt a very pronounced and sharp pain in his back.
"You narc, get up so I can beat your a*s for steppin' up on me!" said a male voice. Sounded African American and very upset. In any other situation, Smith would have simply turned around and shot this man full of .50AE rounds.
Then came the third revelation.
His Desert Eagle .50 Action Express was gone.
"c'mon you b***h!" said the man, as the pain shot up his back again. Smith was mad enough to tangle with a sentinel, but he could only cough in reply to the man's demands. Smith growled a bit and slowly, despite the man hitting him in the back again, stood up and turned around.
"Don't...hit.... me..." Smith said groggily, looking to the man, who looked no older than 15, and wearing clothing from the popular "South Pole" brand. The man also held a titanium baseball bat.
"Or what mutha?! You gonna get all kung fu on me?! You pansy a** b***h!" he said, swinging the bat back down on him again.
This time however, Smith caught it.
"I told you...not to hit me..." He said in a very blind anger, as he yanked the bat away from the terrified man. Smith swung to the right and connected to the teen's jaw. Smith sent the man spiraling down onto the concrete. With revitalized energy, Smith then kicked the kid in the stomach with a very hard and dirty shoe. The teen could only cough up some blood. He looked pathetic, and Smith smiled. He would at least enjoy that look again. Smith then raised the bat high above his head and sent it down again with enough force to resonate through the kid's body and crack the concrete. And Smith then hit the kid again, and again, and again. He hit him till his head was, literally, bloody pulp. His stomach and chest had actually caved in. Unbeknownst to him at the time, he had a gaggle of terrified on-lookers around him, who screamed at Smith. Smith enjoyed this very moment for the sheer terror and mayhem he was causing, and smiled, silently chuckling.
That was until he noticed the two uniformed police officers moving through the crowd with their weapons drawn. As the crowd started to dissipate from panic, the policemen held their weapons at Smith. The first cop, one with sideburns and a short moustache, was the first to order him.
"Freeze, drop the bat now!" He said, aiming a Glock 17, 9MM chambered, at Smith. Smith was sick of this. He just wanted to find a place to crawl into and be deleted. Something in him told him to continue on however, be it some will to live or just his self-preservation programming. He didn't drop the bat, and instead, threw it at the policeman's head.
It connected, and flew at roughly the same speed as a MVP pitcher's fastball. There was a loud snap of bone as the man fell silently to the ground. His partner looked at Smith with anger as he raised his own Glock at Smith.
Smith only knew one thing. That he had better have kept his agility.
The programming of the gun told him everything, and with his computerized mind, he was able to guess the trajectory and velocity of each of the 9MM rounds in the clip. The policeman went prone and fired.
He hit nothing but thin air.
Smith had dogged all of the bullets in the clip of the weapon. The officer was getting ready to re-load. Smith decided that if there was ever a time to do something, now was it. He grabbed the officer's weapon and yanked it from his hands. As the clip fell, Smith grabbed it quicker than the man could blink, and slammed it into the chamber, pulling back the slide and setting the bullet in the chamber. It wasn't 'his' gun, but necessity was the mother of desperation. His head pounded, and it was hard to concentrate, and he was starting to feel the effects of loosing his link to the mainframe. He was angry now, not in the sense of anger for shooting at him, but anger in the sheer fact that someone so stupid could possibly exist. He was also starting to get a rush from this, something he never felt before, but immensely enjoyed. He just as quickly grabbed the fallen officers gun, holding both Glocks in an Akimbo combo. Smith then fired both weapons until the clips were exhausted. He tossed the two glocks away as the officer fell, full of holes.
Smith then turned his attention to the patrol car. Seeing a Remington shotgun in-between the driver and passenger's seats. Although it was bolted down and locked, Smith easily ripped the weapon away from its carriage. He checked it. Full chamber, 7 shots of 12 gauge buckshot. Smith was truly desperate if he was stealing weapons from uniformed police officers. He had to move quickly though, as he was now a fugitive of the law of the mainframe. He limped off from the scene as fast as he could, still reeling in pain from the whole incident with Anderson. He was quite a distraction though, carrying around a fully loaded shotgun around on the streets. He suddenly realized the effectiveness of a trench coat, since someone could easily hide even a rifle. Smith had to find somewhere to hide. As of now, he was going to have to learn how to be pursued, as it was he who would now be hunted.
It was, according to his calculations of computer time and what he last knew, a rough estimate at 8:18 PM. He had managed to hide the shotgun long enough for him to tuck it under the bed of the hotel room he had rented. The place stank, and it was too.colorful. It was a shade of fading green, and some rather incorrectly proportioned pictures of women on the wall. He was on the bed, resting as best he could. Even for a program, rest was the best cure for most ailments. A bottle of aspirin was on the table. Although one would think that he wouldn't need these two things, they could relax a program. The aspirin after all was just a program made to relive the simulated pain the humans felt. Smith could feel this pain too, and it resonated through him like a wave. He rubbed his temples in pain. He groaned a bit and stood up, walking to a bathroom and filling a glass with water. He felt good, even as the water he knew was fake went down his gullet. He sighed as that feeling of relaxation went away with the pain in the head he had felt.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to throw up again. He tossed his cookies, something he only had a gasp on understanding, and that made him feel a little bit better, not much though. He needed to do a few things, but he needed to get better first. He looked into the mirror, and for the first time in a very, very long time, got to see himself. He wondered however, how he was being materialized here without a body to take. He was confused, and needed to sit down.
"What now.Smith? What do you do now?" he said to his reflection whilst sitting on a toilet adjacent to the mirror. It was an expression of vanity, but not the highest of his sins that he would need to confess to. But what the hell, he didn't need to do anything. He was already in bad leagues with god, if that is what you wanted to call it. He stood up, only wearing his pants and a Wife-Beater tank top, no socks, no shoes. He was overheating a bit, but couldn't have an air conditioner. The place was too cheap to have a room he could afford with one. He didn't carry money around since he never thought that he would need it. Boy, did that come back to bite him in the rear. He made a slight groan, walking back to the bed and laying down.
No sooner had he lain down, when the door knocked. Smith sighed and went to the door. "Identify yourself," he said, holding the shotgun he took from the officers. He looked through the peephole and saw.
Two identical looking programs, he could tell the difference easily. He clenched the shotgun tighter, his finger getting itchy.
"I said, identify yourselves.." He said again.
"Are you Smith?" Said one of them.
"What does it matter to you who I am?"
"That is for us to know."
".And you to comply to."
Smith needed to hear no more. He pointed the barrel to the door and pulled the trigger.
When he calked the gun, two ghost-like forms went 'through' the door. They then became solid, revealing themselves to be the Twins. Smith raised the weapon and fired again, but the shots phased through as they changed to ghosts again. Smith tossed the gun away and ran at the two, as they got out identical pearl-handled razor blades, the old shaving kind. Smith found this highly ineffective for killing a person. He kicked one into the wall with a flying kick. The second twin then grabbed Smith around the neck.
"We told you to come with us."
"We didn't ask you to." they said, as one seemingly got up relatively unharmed and two still held onto Smith. Two didn't expect the elbow to his stomach. He stumbled back, and Smith then spun around and kicked him in the jaw, sending the Twin to the ground. His head pounded, and he was starting to lose his concentration. The Twins then both tackled Smith, pinning him down.
"We promise, this will only hurt."
".For a limited amount of time." They said, forcefully shoving a pill into Smith's mouth. He could feel his systems shutting down, and he shook a bit. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, as one of the Twin's cold, corpse- like hands clasped down on his mouth to keep him from screaming. Smith's world went black, as he fell into unconsciousness.
End of chapter one
A Smith-Fic, centering how I think Smith first 'woke up' and what happened to him while this was going on. Hopefully, you will like it.
01
His head throbbed like it was being hit by a jackhammer, and he could hear a ring in his ears.
But he knew that no jackhammer had done this to him. He coughed up another glob of vomit, finding himself in an alley in some back wash district of town. He didn't even know whether or not he could see, until he opened his blue, shade-less eyes. He could hardly stand up, but knew he had to, even if he wanted to stay on the ground of the alley for all of time. There was a sharp pain resonating through his body, and he could only manage to get on his knees before falling over to the side, onto some trash. He coughed again, the stuff dribbling down his cheek in an odd parody of what he was. He didn't eat, and yet, he was regurgitating something. He didn't even know he could. He couldn't bring his arm up to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. He could hardly move at all now. Smith could only look at the sky in hopeless desire to get on his feet and move. He made a groan and flipped over again, putting his hands on the ground and doing a rough push-up to get on his feet. What had happened? The last thing he remembered was an intense pain all over his body, and then a system-wide crash alert. That alert should have never happened to him, an Agent. The most feared and cursed enemy of the resistance. And of course, he could remember that name, that single entity that had seared itself into his mind and body. That scared his reputation, and ultimately did the impossible task of destroying the gatekeeper.
Mr. Anderson would be in his mind and...soul forever, in more than one way. He stumbled back onto a wall, and gripped the side of a garbage disposal unit to stay up. The 'dumpster' as the humans called it, smelled of rot. It was that same smell that had permeated his sense of smell for decades. "What is happening to me?" he managed to choke out, before stumbling to the other side of the alley, slamming his already cramped and pounding shoulder into a hard brick and concrete wall. He made a scream, not so much of pain, but of frustration. He would have to call this in later...
Then came a second revelation.
His 'link', the earpiece, was gone.
Smith's eyes were wide in horror. He knew it wasn't possible, he knew that it couldn't be true! Yet the earpiece was gone. It was attached to him, and even if he threw it into the harbor, when he 'jacked in' to another body it would return. But it was gone. That meant only one thing...
He was an exile, and the word stung his body and mind like nothing before. Smith was realizing what was going on. He was regurgitating because his line code was rejecting the programming that had been in him all his life. He knew one other thing as well.
He stank.
He smelled like he was in a nursing home, and not one of the nurses. He held his face as he held back the tears that were welling up in his eyes. He was rejected by the very thing that gave him sentience. The thing that gave him life. The thing he swore to uphold and protect without a second thought. His creator, his god, had rejected him and left him in a back alley in some rundown district. He then slid along the wall, trying to get out of the alley as to get his bearings. He sighed a bit, and raised his hand to his eyes to cover them from the sun that seemed to burn one hundred times brighter. Very suddenly however, he felt a very pronounced and sharp pain in his back.
"You narc, get up so I can beat your a*s for steppin' up on me!" said a male voice. Sounded African American and very upset. In any other situation, Smith would have simply turned around and shot this man full of .50AE rounds.
Then came the third revelation.
His Desert Eagle .50 Action Express was gone.
"c'mon you b***h!" said the man, as the pain shot up his back again. Smith was mad enough to tangle with a sentinel, but he could only cough in reply to the man's demands. Smith growled a bit and slowly, despite the man hitting him in the back again, stood up and turned around.
"Don't...hit.... me..." Smith said groggily, looking to the man, who looked no older than 15, and wearing clothing from the popular "South Pole" brand. The man also held a titanium baseball bat.
"Or what mutha?! You gonna get all kung fu on me?! You pansy a** b***h!" he said, swinging the bat back down on him again.
This time however, Smith caught it.
"I told you...not to hit me..." He said in a very blind anger, as he yanked the bat away from the terrified man. Smith swung to the right and connected to the teen's jaw. Smith sent the man spiraling down onto the concrete. With revitalized energy, Smith then kicked the kid in the stomach with a very hard and dirty shoe. The teen could only cough up some blood. He looked pathetic, and Smith smiled. He would at least enjoy that look again. Smith then raised the bat high above his head and sent it down again with enough force to resonate through the kid's body and crack the concrete. And Smith then hit the kid again, and again, and again. He hit him till his head was, literally, bloody pulp. His stomach and chest had actually caved in. Unbeknownst to him at the time, he had a gaggle of terrified on-lookers around him, who screamed at Smith. Smith enjoyed this very moment for the sheer terror and mayhem he was causing, and smiled, silently chuckling.
That was until he noticed the two uniformed police officers moving through the crowd with their weapons drawn. As the crowd started to dissipate from panic, the policemen held their weapons at Smith. The first cop, one with sideburns and a short moustache, was the first to order him.
"Freeze, drop the bat now!" He said, aiming a Glock 17, 9MM chambered, at Smith. Smith was sick of this. He just wanted to find a place to crawl into and be deleted. Something in him told him to continue on however, be it some will to live or just his self-preservation programming. He didn't drop the bat, and instead, threw it at the policeman's head.
It connected, and flew at roughly the same speed as a MVP pitcher's fastball. There was a loud snap of bone as the man fell silently to the ground. His partner looked at Smith with anger as he raised his own Glock at Smith.
Smith only knew one thing. That he had better have kept his agility.
The programming of the gun told him everything, and with his computerized mind, he was able to guess the trajectory and velocity of each of the 9MM rounds in the clip. The policeman went prone and fired.
He hit nothing but thin air.
Smith had dogged all of the bullets in the clip of the weapon. The officer was getting ready to re-load. Smith decided that if there was ever a time to do something, now was it. He grabbed the officer's weapon and yanked it from his hands. As the clip fell, Smith grabbed it quicker than the man could blink, and slammed it into the chamber, pulling back the slide and setting the bullet in the chamber. It wasn't 'his' gun, but necessity was the mother of desperation. His head pounded, and it was hard to concentrate, and he was starting to feel the effects of loosing his link to the mainframe. He was angry now, not in the sense of anger for shooting at him, but anger in the sheer fact that someone so stupid could possibly exist. He was also starting to get a rush from this, something he never felt before, but immensely enjoyed. He just as quickly grabbed the fallen officers gun, holding both Glocks in an Akimbo combo. Smith then fired both weapons until the clips were exhausted. He tossed the two glocks away as the officer fell, full of holes.
Smith then turned his attention to the patrol car. Seeing a Remington shotgun in-between the driver and passenger's seats. Although it was bolted down and locked, Smith easily ripped the weapon away from its carriage. He checked it. Full chamber, 7 shots of 12 gauge buckshot. Smith was truly desperate if he was stealing weapons from uniformed police officers. He had to move quickly though, as he was now a fugitive of the law of the mainframe. He limped off from the scene as fast as he could, still reeling in pain from the whole incident with Anderson. He was quite a distraction though, carrying around a fully loaded shotgun around on the streets. He suddenly realized the effectiveness of a trench coat, since someone could easily hide even a rifle. Smith had to find somewhere to hide. As of now, he was going to have to learn how to be pursued, as it was he who would now be hunted.
It was, according to his calculations of computer time and what he last knew, a rough estimate at 8:18 PM. He had managed to hide the shotgun long enough for him to tuck it under the bed of the hotel room he had rented. The place stank, and it was too.colorful. It was a shade of fading green, and some rather incorrectly proportioned pictures of women on the wall. He was on the bed, resting as best he could. Even for a program, rest was the best cure for most ailments. A bottle of aspirin was on the table. Although one would think that he wouldn't need these two things, they could relax a program. The aspirin after all was just a program made to relive the simulated pain the humans felt. Smith could feel this pain too, and it resonated through him like a wave. He rubbed his temples in pain. He groaned a bit and stood up, walking to a bathroom and filling a glass with water. He felt good, even as the water he knew was fake went down his gullet. He sighed as that feeling of relaxation went away with the pain in the head he had felt.
Suddenly, he felt the urge to throw up again. He tossed his cookies, something he only had a gasp on understanding, and that made him feel a little bit better, not much though. He needed to do a few things, but he needed to get better first. He looked into the mirror, and for the first time in a very, very long time, got to see himself. He wondered however, how he was being materialized here without a body to take. He was confused, and needed to sit down.
"What now.Smith? What do you do now?" he said to his reflection whilst sitting on a toilet adjacent to the mirror. It was an expression of vanity, but not the highest of his sins that he would need to confess to. But what the hell, he didn't need to do anything. He was already in bad leagues with god, if that is what you wanted to call it. He stood up, only wearing his pants and a Wife-Beater tank top, no socks, no shoes. He was overheating a bit, but couldn't have an air conditioner. The place was too cheap to have a room he could afford with one. He didn't carry money around since he never thought that he would need it. Boy, did that come back to bite him in the rear. He made a slight groan, walking back to the bed and laying down.
No sooner had he lain down, when the door knocked. Smith sighed and went to the door. "Identify yourself," he said, holding the shotgun he took from the officers. He looked through the peephole and saw.
Two identical looking programs, he could tell the difference easily. He clenched the shotgun tighter, his finger getting itchy.
"I said, identify yourselves.." He said again.
"Are you Smith?" Said one of them.
"What does it matter to you who I am?"
"That is for us to know."
".And you to comply to."
Smith needed to hear no more. He pointed the barrel to the door and pulled the trigger.
When he calked the gun, two ghost-like forms went 'through' the door. They then became solid, revealing themselves to be the Twins. Smith raised the weapon and fired again, but the shots phased through as they changed to ghosts again. Smith tossed the gun away and ran at the two, as they got out identical pearl-handled razor blades, the old shaving kind. Smith found this highly ineffective for killing a person. He kicked one into the wall with a flying kick. The second twin then grabbed Smith around the neck.
"We told you to come with us."
"We didn't ask you to." they said, as one seemingly got up relatively unharmed and two still held onto Smith. Two didn't expect the elbow to his stomach. He stumbled back, and Smith then spun around and kicked him in the jaw, sending the Twin to the ground. His head pounded, and he was starting to lose his concentration. The Twins then both tackled Smith, pinning him down.
"We promise, this will only hurt."
".For a limited amount of time." They said, forcefully shoving a pill into Smith's mouth. He could feel his systems shutting down, and he shook a bit. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, as one of the Twin's cold, corpse- like hands clasped down on his mouth to keep him from screaming. Smith's world went black, as he fell into unconsciousness.
End of chapter one