Entry

08

(Trying to get back on schedule, but before I do, I want to give thanks.

Selena: Thanks a lot for your support. This fan-fic would not have continued had it not been for you. Great art by the way. Mabey start possibly make some more fan art soon? wink wink.

And to everyone else, thanks. You will be mentioned soon enough.....enjoy!)

Smith finally stood up, after ten hours of laying there asleep on the floor. Green was prodding around inside Smith's mind, and he could feel it. It felt like a spoon digging around inside his skull, leaving everything but the juicy bits of info.

Smith stumbled on, feeling incredibly dizzy. "Goddamnit..." Smith said, putting his hand on the side of wall. He then made a yelp as the wall was incredibly hot. He blinked a bit, and then looked behind him.

There was a slight fizzle sound as a doorknob started to melt.

Smith remembered. The 'cleansing system'

For any smart-alleck program or person that thinks that the Maintenance Hallway can be used as a hiding spot is largely wrong. This security system started up every day, and it would incinerate anything within it.

Smith started running down the hallways, his feet burning, as he was only wearing socks. He was glad they went shoes, as the heat would have melted them. He panted and panted as he looked at the doors. He then saw a door and slammed his elbow into it.

No luck, it was locked. He growled and then tried another one. Same results. He had to move faster than the heat. He went as fast as he could. He was regaining his Agent-Like strengths, and he didn't feel exhausted when he ran. He didn't get burn marks. He tried one last door.

And he fell three stories....

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He woke up a bit later. He slowly stood up, and looked around at his surroundings. He then noticed his vision was dark.

He grabbed the sides of his head, and felt cold metal. He pulled on it forward.

Agent Sunglasses.....

He patted himself, and looked at his suit, his suit! The black tie, the black shirt and pants, the white undershirt! Was it all a dream?! He had to check one last thing.

Yes, it was there! His Desert Eagle! His weapon of choice! He spun halfway around until he saw something that made him shiver.

A body lay in front of a building that looked cut in half, a door swinging open into thin air. It was wearing a dirty tank top, torn pants, burnt socks....

It was his own body.

"Interesting, isn't it? I don't know how, but you died....and then came back. I guess someone was standing.....Smith, look in front of you....." Said Green.

There stood two dirty, absolutely shocked looking men wearing bandanas and holding AK-47's, whose barrels suddenly aimed at him. Smith chuckled for a second, looking at the men.

Smith looked around, still holding the Desert Eagle. His head craned around slowly, as he watched the men.

They were 'banditos', Spanish land-pirates. They could be members of a drug cartel, or a rebel faction, or both. Smith saw he was in a very...tropical area. He assumed somewhere in Central or South America.

The banditos were shaking. They were scared senseless, not sure what happened to their comrade. Smith smirked and slowly stepped back.

"Go ahead; take your best shots...." Smith said, looking at them with a smirk. They pulled back the bolts to their weapons, and then commenced fire.

Smith dodged the rifle bullets that came his way with finesse and ease. The weird sounds his body made when doing so could be heard, the coding of the matrix being altered just for him.

They depleted their weapons, and then dropped their guns, slowly backing off.

Smith shook his finger slowly, holding up his hand as he did. Suddenly, he dropped the pistol as he slammed his fists into their stomachs.

"Welcome to the family....." Said Smith, as he watch the wanna-be-soldiers' bodies become overwhelmed with black, spreading out like vines. Smith then stood back, and smiled at the other two Smiths.

"Are you calculating what I am calculating?"

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Eduardo Vandoza leaned against a building face, watching as the people went about their daily lives. He saw Maria, peddling her body to the local CRA customers. Pablo sweeping the front of his bakery.

The CRA, his outfit. The Columbian Revolutionary Army, welcomed with opened arms to the oppressed peoples of the town of Santa Gonzalez. Eduardo was only 17 when he was recruited four years ago. He held his Uzi with a smile, waving to the local children as they ran down the street laughing and giggling.

Eduardo smiled, and then blinked a bit. He heard screaming. He looked down the street and saw his friend, Lopez, screaming and waving his arms around.

"Lopez, what happened?!" He asked his unarmed friend as he ran right up to him.

"Devil! It's a devil!" He screamed at Eduardo as he ran past him. Eduardo looked on confused as his friend ran down the cobblestone road, pushing away an old woman.

Suddenly, he heard it.

A loud 'balm' sound of a large handgun as a man fell from his wounds. Eduardo was not expecting it, and twirled his pistol around.

He then suddenly felt a pain like no other start to surge through his body.

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Smith smirked as he started to turn the young man in front of him. Soon, he felt more of himself, the connections to the other bodies. He smiled as he watched the other Smith's run through-out the town, turning people into Smiths with no mercy or discretion. Though still unsure of where he was exactly, Smith saw the opportunity to not only test out his new power, but to get reinforcements. The insanity of the situation did not waver from his mind, and he did remember that this was a bit out of the ordinary....he wondered who these men were....

No time for such tribulations. Smith grabbed what appeared to be a prostitute and slammed his fist into her stomach.

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"God-damn it..." Said Juan Del-DePerez. He continued to attempt to call in the town of Santa Gonzalez, but was not having any luck.

His own terrorist cell was going into radio silence. It absolutely figured, the damn fools there probably got a little rowdy, and some jackass pheasant called in the army.

Juan put his head down onto the cheap bamboo table, in a bamboo house, if it could be called that, lined with radio equipment, maps and a locker for holding the stuff. The locker was probably the oldest thing in the room, rusted and loosing its paint.

Suddenly, he heard it.

It was a loud growling sound. Juan looked over his shoulder at the window.

A sudden explosion of glass cut into Juan's face, leaving him screaming on the floor in pain. A hand suddenly picked him up and whipped him into a wall.

Juan gasped a bit as he saw his attacker.

One glowing orange eye and one regular one pierced the darkness, his teeth slowly sliding out as he made a low hissing sound.

Two guards opened the door, M1911's up at the ready....

Their leader fell down the wall, his wound gushing with blood. He held it for about four seconds until he fell limp

The two lieutenants of the terrorist faction looked at their leader. Suddenly, one of them, a goatee covering his face, felt blood splash on his face. He blinked and looked to the right of himself.

His friend, his comrade in arms against the corrupt Columbian government, fell forward with a slit throat, spurting blood onto the floor. Before he could scream, two clammy, cold hands gripped the sides of his head, and a voice went to his ear.

It was English, not the poor man's English, but a refined, cultured accent from someone who had a tailored life.

"You should have ran away while it was still possible...."

And with a sickening snap, like that which is heard when someone cracks open a nut, the lieutenant's head went at an extreme right angle, his eyes going blank and his limbs shaking in spasm.

The man let the terrorist fall to the ground. He patted off his white clothing. White pants, white shirt, white trench-coat, cold pale skin, orange eye glasses. He slid a hand through his long, somewhat girlish white hair and pulled something from his pocket.

It was a cell-phone. He flipped out the receiver and put the communications device to his ear.

The Merovingian was feverishly writing several hundred contracts in several dozen languages for Smith's life. Offering pesos, euro, dinero, dollars, rubies and, in one colorful south-eastern African area, four sacks of the finest French Flour. The Merovingian had to consider the possibility that to hide from both him and The System, he would travel anywhere on the planet.

He made an 'ah!' sound as the phone rang, the surprise of which made him jump, which in turn, made him bang his slung arm against the edge of the desk. He made a curse in French from the pain and picked up the phone.

"Who the fuck is it?!" He said with a scream.

"That's no way for a gentleman to speak...."

The Mero blinked in surprise. Suddenly he corrected himself.

"Alexander...."

"Listen, we need to talk..."

"No, you need to find the agent."

"That's exactly it....I sense him, very close by."

"Well, you could have told me that sooner. I have a horrible case of writers block."

There was a small chuckle on the other end.

"You're the only one who ever laughed at my jokes, I find that somewhat...disturbing..."

Alexander smirked some as he adjusted his glasses.

"We may also have another situation..."

"Yes?"

"The army...the U.S Army. I saw some transmissions...they are aware of the situation. It's only a matter of time before they show up...."

"Right, well....you know your objective."

"Killing Smith is not going to be easy...."

"The army is going to complicate matters, the Columbians and the U.S, the fucking terrorists!"

The Merovingian sighed some and looked out at the window, at the mountainous regions of the Himalayas.

"I don't care if the entire Matrix comes down on your ass, finish off Smith...."

"Right..."

They then hung up their phones, and Alexander made his exit...

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General Anderson adjusted his bow-tie and looked at his nice, clean look. He looked at his tux and sighed some.

"Mister Anderson...."

The General turned around and looked at the other man in the room. He was a cut and clean looking man. Secret Service? Wasn't that only for the Commander and Chief?

"Pardon me, but who the hell are you?"

"Mister Anderson, or would you prefer General Anderson?"

"The latter, if you please..."

The man walked to the mirror, looking into it and adjusting his tie. He wore sunglasses, so it was impossible to tell what color the eyes were, but they must have been cold in any color.

"...General Anderson, you are aware of the situation in Columbia...right?"

"I work there for a living mister..."

"Thompson....A. Thompson....."

"A. Thompson? What's the A stand for?"

"Agent...."

"Ah, Agent....Agent of what?"

"That is none of your concern...."

"It better damn well be my concern, im fucking taking a piss here and your telling me, a three star general in this man's army, that you cant tell me who you work for? What bullshit. If your one of those CRA bastards, blow my head off already..."

The general turned around after zipping his fly and looked at the man.

"Agent Thompson, was it? If you don't tell me who the hell you're with..."

Agent Thompson pulled something out of his vest. The general got into a combat stance and looked at Thompson, who pointed a CIA badge at him.

"CIA...Right, what did you want me for?"

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"Smith....Wake up Smith...."

Smith sat up suddenly as he blinked some, wearing only his tank top and trousers.

"What is it?"

There was a loud sigh from inside his own head.

"WE ARE UNDER ATTACK!!!"

"WHAT?!"

As if on cue, the entire room seemed to explode in a mass of dirt, dust and debris. He lay on his stomach and slowly stood up, looking at what had done it.

This would be the second time in a month the U.S Military aimed their high-tech weaponry at his head. But now it seemed that they were carrying bigger guns.

Smith Rushed forward out a shade-covered window and leapt out onto a balcony. He heard the 'fwish' of a rocket and clambered onto the railing, leaping forward and screaming as he grabbed the edge of the next building's shackled roof.

The entire room's roof collapsed into the room. He looked past the dust at what it could have been.

A Foot Solider, that would be been easy.

A Hummer, that would be a hard thing to crack, but it was possible.

But no, it HAD to be a Bradley APC!

The turret slowly swung for him, the Bushmaster chain-gun pointed at him. Smith started to clamber up as there was a loud 'thumpa, thumpa, thumpa, thumpa' sound, of course, add about seventy times.

None of the rounds actually hit Smith, but there was a large hole where he had been.

The Bradley driver yelled up to the gunner, who aimed the second TOW missile at the new building. Smith landed on his hands and knees, shot up into a sprint, and opened a door.

He grabbed onto the doorknob as the door opened up to half of a building, the other half incontinently on the other side. Smith slammed the door shut by swinging for the wall on it.

Suddenly, the door was blown off its hinges and a plume of dust shot out of the door-way, bits of furniture and concrete. They would have hit him had it not been for the fact that the door that landed on him became a shield; the garbage below became a mattress of a repulsive nature.

Smith tossed the door off and readied himself for the run across the street.

He made that run as the Bushmaster's AP ammo pierced the street in front of him. He leapt forward to avoid having his body ending up missing parts, and did a forward roll as he landed in an alley.

Thinking quickly, he pulled the Desert Eagle .50 out of his trousers and ran down the street. He would need more powerful weaponry to take that thing on.

As he did, he could hear the familiar cracking sound of a rifle. He looked around slowly and tried to figure out where it was coming from.

He then 'felt' a presence to his right. He spun around and looked at the face of a young solider, apparently a private from the badge on his shoulder. He held an M16A2, and slid to a stop.

"Another one, over h-"The grunt never had time to finish, a .50 bullet piercing through his skull and falling to the ground after being collected into his helmet. Blood splattered onto the ground, soon joined by its one-time retainer.

Smith coldly held the pistol, barrel smoking. Suddenly he heard the sounds of other foot steps, and of the screams of "oh my god!" at the sight of the dead solider. Smith spun around on his heel and listened to the smacking sound of bare soles on cobblestone.

Time seemed to slow down for Smith, as he could hear the three soldier's M16A2's fire off, popping once every couple of seconds. Had it been an AK, Smith would have had to deal with automatic fire, but it the M16 seemed so much more dangerous now.

Smith should have picked up the soldier's weapon, but he didn't. He just did what he felt, and that was to run away. He would be better retreat than be dead.

He then remembered, he was far from the limitations of a human, he was an ex-agent, he was a super-virus, but he was so much more....

He was Smith.

He stopped in his tracks as he leapt backwards into the air with a smirk, flying over the heads of his three combatants, more young men doomed to die.

He landed behind them, Desert Eagle pointed at them as he targeted the individual weak spots, the kinks in their armor, and what order would be best to take them out in.

Three gunshots rang out as they froze. Blood exploded from their bodies as they fell over, dead.

However, there was still the Bradley.

When life hands you a lemon....

Smith spun around and faced the Bradley that had rolled out to the street, the alley Smith took too narrow for the APC to advance through. The Bushmaster loaded in a shot, and Smith waited for his moment. The Bradley fired a couple of times, but the shots hit only air.

He had leapt up into the air, and a thud could be heard on the top. Smith smirked as he grabbed the hatch and pulled it up in an inhuman fashion, his smirk wild as he looked down at the shocked gunner.

Before the Gunner could even reach for his M9, two feet made his head snap back with a crunching sound. Smith used that momentum to land inside the Bradley, growling loudly as he leapt down to the driver's area.

The Tank Commander blinked some as his engineer swung a fist at Smith. Smith caught it easily with his hand as he tossed the engineer to the other side of the tank, causing a dent to appear in the armor, along with blood on the wall. Smith growled as he looked at the commander, who held the pistol shakily. Smith rushed to him and slammed his hand into his gut as the man fired into the floor.

Smith got to the controls when he was finished, and started to take a good look over it. The other Smith patted his shoulder.

"Please, allow me to try."

The other Smith sat in the cockpit as Smith climbed up into the gunner's area. He smirked as he looked through the periscope.

Twenty soldiers were aiming at the Bradley, various weapons aimed at it.

Smith, the real Smith, looked back and then started to fire, not bothering to wait for them to give their warnings.

They were cut down easily, body-parts flying around like popcorn in a kettle. The other Smith drove forward, the treads becoming stained with blood as the APC rolled over and crushed what was left.

Smith then swiveled the turret to the left side, as the street continued on.

Smith cursed at what he saw.

An M1A1 had its main cannon pointed at them. Smith could almost hear the D-U Shell being loaded into the barrel.

He abandoned his station and leapt straight out through the roof of the Bradley, right into the air.

He saw the machine gunner, who was using the .50 Caliber Browning M2, start to aim for him. Before the gunner could even blink, Smith had landed in front of the tank, and the gunner fell into the tank, a .50 bullet in his forehead.

A bullet casing landed with a ping at Smith's feet.

Smith then watched as small spear-tips, or knives of some sort, started to pepper the tank, all of them shining in the sun.

Or at least, he thought they were shining...

"Smith...those are-"

Before Green could finish, Smith's eyes were blinded and his ears rung. He was blown back onto the road and slid around the ground roughly, seeing a white-blue sky above him, and a beeping sound in his ears. He slowly sat up and looked at a shadowy form in the flames.

"Mister Smith...What an honor it will be to kill such an infamous character...."

Smith got into a combat stance. Green sighed some.

"Great, one of the Merovingian's fools...." He said angrily. Smith clenched his fists.

The man stepped out of the fire.

Long blonde hair, pale skin, white suit, red tie, no glasses of any kind. Smith had already raised his weapon, and aimed it at his head, still slightly woozy from the explosion of the tank.

The man smirked some as he slowly rose up a Shriuken, holding it in-between his fingers.

Smith didn't wait for introductions, he fired.

Faster than Smith could blink the man had brought the Shriuken up to his face in the path of the bullet, two fragments bouncing away from each other.

"Nice shot...but im quicker."

The man then suddenly leapt up into the air, tossing the shriuken right at Smith's feet.

The device beeped loudly, and Smith flipped back.

The shockwave blew him back further, and also off balance. He landed on his stomach as more Shriuken's were tossed at him, going in a line straight for him. The shriuken might not get him, but the explosion would.

Smith rolled to the side and onto his feet quickly in a hop, and dove for the side as another explosion blew him into the air. He screamed some and landed in a market cart.

The pale man leapt twenty feet up straight into the air and landed on a roof, tossing the Shriuken's at the cart with the speed of a machine-gun. A good dozen of the Shriuken's had hit the cart, others circling the wrecked pile of wood and mangos.

The wood exploded in a flash of flame and burning embers.

Alexander started to laugh.

"So much for the legendary Virus Smith!" he said with a laugh, gloating at his own victory.

He then felt Smith's hand in his back.

He growled loudly and pulled away.

Smith was surprised. He pulled out his pistol and pressed it to Alexander's chest.

A shot rang out, and a smoking bullet-casing ejected out of the top of the gun. It landed onto the roof with a ping.

Alexander had a look of shock as he fell back, landing onto the road with a thud. The red blossom on his chest slowly spreading out wider, staining his perfectly white suit.

Smith leapt off the roof, since the shed wasn't particularly tall anyway, and looked around slowly. He could hear the treads of a tank....

Smith's speed in looking around was definitely put up a couple of notches after that, and he saw his salvation.

A chicken transport car, looking like crap in every sense of the word. The chickens inside were still very much alive, flapping their wings and clucking loudly.

"Smith....no." Said Green. Smith didn't pay attention as he started to hot-wire the car.

He had to hurry up; he heard a building coming down...

The M1 Tank busted down the entire front of the now empty building after running right through its lobby, a chandelier had hung up on the Big-Fifty and the tank suddenly aimed its cannon at Smith.

Smith slammed his Italian loafed shoe down on the peddle like he had just seen the worlds biggest cockroach. The chicken car sped forward just as the cannon fired. A shot obliterated the building's face in front of him, moved through the weak foundation, and came out the other side, slamming into another building before blowing them both down like a house of cards.

Smith turned the clucking and 'bwoacking' mass of feathers, metal, and bird defecation down the cobblestone street.

While Smith was regulated to driving the cobblestone roads, the Tank could move through the buildings with the ease of an ice-cutter through an artic sea. But Smith knew it had its limits.

"SMITH, TREE!" Screamed Green inside his head as a large palm-tree fell forward onto the road. Smith veered to the right to avoid the thick trunk of the tree. The car leaned over to one side as it ran over the top of the tree. Smith stuck his head out the window.

The Tank was gone....

Smith sighed, happy that he had gotten rid of the Tank...

He wasn't very happy for long...

The angulated front of the M1 greeted Smith as it blew through the hotel in front of him. Smith ducked as a brick smashed the windshield.

Smith growled loudly and pulled out his DE, then pressed it to the windshield as he took another hard right. He fired the shot needed to smash the windshield as he felt the front of the tank just barely clip of the chicken car, sending it veering to the left, and into a market.

The glass and wood front of the market exploded, and then Smith veered left and right as he clipped carts and sent the car into a fish-tail spin.

"Smith, this car isn't a Ferrari, it has its limits!"

"Green, shut up!"

Smith quickly regained control as he looked behind him.

The tank blew through the rear of the market smith had entered only a few moments ago. He then saw something else.

The exploding shiruken's lined the interior of the chicken coop. Smith looked back with a look of shock.

He had been caring a bomb in the back for awhile....

A tank, a bomb, and a lot more were on his ass....

And up ahead, lay a bridge....and beyond that, train tracks....The signal indicating that he had only a couple of seconds to cross....

"Shit..."

(End of chapter eight, a cliff hanger! Smith in Columbia? Wow, talk about bad-luck. I know it seems fantastic right now, but there is a clear point here. Who was the agent that talked to the general? Is the mystery assassin Alexander really dead? Find out in chapter 09! And sorry for the long delay. And sorry for the &'s, they were the only seperators that seem to work any more....Thank you for your thunderstorm of problems to beleagure my fic....)