Work Text:
Blackjack was running out of time.
The redpill had been a resident of Zion and operative for the free humans for over twenty years now. Two and a half decades of serving the last real human society on Earth. And now he feared that service would be over soon. An agent was closing in on him.
The agent had been chasing him through the Megacity night for what seemed like hours. And even as he dodged and weaved through the occasional small groups of bluepills -- those unfortunate individuals who would never leave the Matrix, those unwitting servants of the Machines who would never know what it was like to be fully human -- his pursuer was drawing ever closer. Unlike him, it never tired. It was relentless and it wouldn’t stop, unless he managed to reach an exit.
He pushed himself harder. The mind makes it real, Blackjack told himself; it didn’t matter that he wasn’t a teenager anymore and wasn’t as spry as he used to be. If he could just hold it in his mind that he could still run as far and fast as he had as a youth, he could do it. He could get away. He could get home, be safe, see his family and loved ones again.
His eyes darted wildly as he moved behind a cluster of abandoned buildings -- a line of old row homes gutted by fire. There was still a faint scent of smoke in the air around them, which grew stronger as he approached. He would go inside, catch his breath, and then make a run for his exit. The agent was tenacious, but even programs couldn’t see in the dark. He flung himself into the shadows, huddling silently against a wall…
There was a creak from one of the charred floorboards. He drew his gun and began firing blindly, praying he would hit his mark. But it was his opponent’s shot that connected, penetrating his abdomen. He let out a brief, gurgling cry, then collapsed to the floor.
The agent emerged from the shadows, holstering its weapon and walking unhurriedly towards him. He clutched at his stomach, but the blood was still coming, seeping through his fingers and staining his clothes a deep red.
“I expected more of a challenge from you,” she said. And it was a she, or at least it had been made in the image of a woman. Female agents were rare, but not unheard of.
“Go to hell,” he spat back, with all the bravado of a man who knew he was about to die.
She just looked at him. “Unlikely,” she replied. “You, however, will probably be arriving there soon.”
Blackjack stared at her in a mixture of pain and confusion, obviously not expecting this response. “What would you know about hell, or heaven, or good or evil?” he retorted. “You’re just a machine. A soulless robot. You may look human, but you’re nothing like us.” He laughed weakly. “You don’t even know what we’re fighting for. You’ll never understand why we’re fighting, why we have to be free.”
“I wouldn’t presume to know how you think.” Her tone was bland, emotionless. “But I do understand that it’s wrong to take an innocent life.” She stepped closer, into a patch of illumination from the streetlight outside the house. “Do you recognize me?”
The man stared up at her. “You all look alike to me.”
“My appearance was different when we first met,” the agent said. “And I do take it personally when someone tries to kill me.” She leaned over him, removing her sunglasses and earpiece to fully reveal her features. “Think back to what you were doing fourteen years ago, the mission you were on for Zion.” She took another step closer. “Do you remember me now?”
The man continued to stare, eyeing her suspiciously until understanding finally dawned. “You’re…you’re what Morpheus thought was a potential,” he said in horror. “But you were one of them, you were one of those things, made up to make us think you were human.”
“If by ‘one of those things’ you mean a Machine program, you’re correct. But I didn’t know that at the time. Then, I was a child.”
“It’s a pity we didn’t kill you while we still could—” he wheezed. He was fading, losing his strength as he continued to bleed, his breathing becoming more and more labored.
“Your blood loss is affecting you; you’re going deeper into shock,” she observed. “Before you die, though, I would like you to tell me something.” The expected request for information about Zion’s defenses never came. “How many of your own kind did you murder, you and the other Zionites, while you were trying to kill me?”
He snorted. “It doesn’t matter, their lives weren’t real.”
The agent’s voice had taken on a grating coldness he couldn’t quite identify. “They were real to the people living them. They had families and people who cared about them. And you took that away without a second thought.”
He shook his head. “They…they’re not even really people, they’re just slaves of the Machines—”
“They were sentient beings with just as much right to live as you had. How many did you kill?”
He raised his head slightly, his voice weak. “You have no soul.”
“Better no soul than a damned one. How many?” she demanded, drawing her gun again and putting it to his forehead. “How many?”
There was no response from the man. The last thing he saw was the face of the agent, up close, and now he could tell that what he’d thought was coldness in her demeanor was actually anger. Burning, overwhelming, surprisingly human anger.
He was shocked. Truly shocked. But he would never be able to tell anyone.
Agent Clark turned away from the body and holstered her weapon, an impassive expression sliding over her features like a mask. She replaced her sunglasses and earpiece, then sent a message to her partners, her voice as flat and without emotion as it had been before she’d learned the identity of the Zionite operative.
“Target eliminated.”