Connection

Agent Smith sped down the sidewalk toward no particular destination. That
bothered him, when he paused to think about it. Aimless motion, wasted power. It
was illogical.

His jaw clenched as the next thought flicked past his
eyelids: so was he.

That was incorrect, he thought. He hadn't killed her.
Her continued usefulness, both as a way to legitimize his presence here and a
way to finally reach Thomas Anderson, had prevented him from reaching for the
holster.

But, he thought, I wished to kill her. I have never had
illogical desires before.
had not been an illogical desire. He was not programmed to accept impertinence.
He was not programmed to allow Resistants to live.

Nor did his
programming allow him to disobey the Mainframe.

Smith's fists unclenched
minutely. This thought, at least, was easily combated. His programming had been
altered by Thomas Anderson. He had become something more than an Agent,
something the system did not recognize but that was capable of preserving it
nevertheless. He had been altered for a purpose.

That still did not
explain the strength of his reaction. Twice now he'd responded
disproportionately to her queries about his operatives. The previous assumption
that it had been a response to inappropriate information-seeking behavior on
Catherine Thompson's part did not hold in this case. She had apparently wished
to inflict some emotional injury on him by assigning responsibility for his
operatives' deletion.

Of course, she had not been successful. His
reaction was simply irritation with the vagaries of human behavior - a very
familiar, very logical portion of his programming.

Smith's lips went
white as his jaw clenched nearly to popping. Logic would not be evaded in this
way. (I have never before wished to evade logic, he thought. His short
fingernails pierced the flesh of his palms.) His reaction had not the the
familiar, acceptable rage he had experienced long before his break with the
system.

It could not, of course, have been emotion. That was a human
reaction, an expression of their inferior, illogical natures. It must have been
a purely rational regret for the loss of his operatives' efficiency, for their
ludicrous replacement by the inept Miss Thompson.

Smith's motion ground
to a halt as he clenched his fists still tighter. This response had not been the
rational regret he'd experienced in the past.

It must be an overlooked
result of his expanded capabilities. It must be useful in some way, as the rest
of his modifications were. This seeming irrationality must have
purpose.

Smith's fists did not unclench as he resumed his brisk pace
toward nothing in particular.

At the moment, Cat couldn't remember why
she'd ever asked to be unplugged. It was much easier to exist in this place,
where anger could be entirely sublimated to soupy TV shows and the chocolate
mint ice cream that had inexplicably made Smith's shopping list.

She'd
been told that crying did not become her, but she didn't damn well care what
became her. She was beat to hell and wearing the same pajama pants for the third
day running for lack of alternative clothing. She might as well be blotchy
too.

The doorbell rang but she didn't move. She certainly 't 't feel
like playing the suburban hostess right now.

But the bell rang again, and
again, and again... Finally it stopped and she could hear shouting. "Cat? I can
see you through the window."

She sighed and rose from the couch, wincing
as her joints gave the protest they always did if she allowed herself to be
still for more than five minutes.

She threw open the door and frowned at
the profoundly unnatural sight of a non-grinning Drew Collins. "If you can see
me from the window and I don't answer the door, maybe you should take the hint,"
she said.

"Maybe you should take a look in the mirror," Drew said,
ignoring Cat's enraged gasp. "You look like someone's put you through the
wringer."

"And you look like someone I met yesterday."

"Touché."
Drew gave her a disarming grin. "But it was an awfully fun
meeting."

"Which of course prompts you to come knocking down myr thr the
next morning to tell me that I look like shit, which I could have ascertained
without your eager assistance."

Drew sighed. "All right, fair enough. I
was just worried, that's all."

Cat frowned, curious in spite of herself.
"Worried about what?"

"About you, especially after one Alan Smith stomped
past my house without so much as noticing that he smacked into me. He looked
pretty angry."

She tried to shrug and winced a le, ae, and noticed that
Drew frowned a little as she did so. "So take it up with him."

"I'd
rather take it up with you." Drew ran a nervous hand through already-tousled
hair. "Cat, I'm a trained doctor."

"But not a practicing
one?"

"Not since we've had kids, no. thatthat's not the
point."

Cat sighed. "I can see there'll be no distracting
you."

"No, no there won't be." Drew reached out and gently cupped her
face. Catffenffened. Sure, he was a nice guy, but he was married and God only
knew what he wanted...

He was staring at her face, she realized, not
moving at all. She backed away and he let his hand drop without comment. Well,
she sure as hell wasn't subscribing to that policy. "What was that all
about?"

"As I was saying, Cat, I'm a doctor, and I know defensive wounds
when I see them. You didn't get these in any car accident."

All of the
blood drained out of Cat's face. She opened her mouth to reply but nothing would
come out. Shit, she thought. This is it, we're caught, we're going to get kicked
out of here and then what the hell are we going to do...

"When I saw your
husband," he emphasized thrds rds a little, "walking down the street in a
towering rage, I had to wonder..."

"He didn't hit me." Cat shook her
head, eyes on the carpet. "We had a bit of a tiff, sure, but it was nothing more
than a little shouting. I'm sure every couple has some of those."

She
raised her head to look at Drwho who had taken his bottom lip into his mouth. It
was, she though incongruously, kind of endearing. No, no, no, she thought. She
was willing to bet that was the beginning of another bout of hysteria, easy to
provoke in the state she was in. Drew would be sure to take that as conftiontion
of his suspicions.

Her voice was steady and shokedoked him straight in
the eye and said, "He didn't hit me."

Drew released his lip, still
looking at her critically. "Has he ever?"

Her head darted to the side
involuntarily. "Of course... of course not."

"Then where did all of this
come from?"

"What do yoink ink gives you the right to come into my home
and interrogate me? How in the hell do you know that I don't have a damn good
reason for keeping that to myself? How..."

Drew interrupted her. "That
gives me the answers I need, I think."

Cat cursed herself as she started
to cry again, doubly angry that she nestled into Drew's comforting arm so easily
and actually felt a little better for it. After a minute or two she calmed
herself down enough to speak. "Please... You don't understand..."

The arm
around her shoulders stiffened, then tightened a little. "Cat, I..."

"You
can't tell anyone! You don't know what it would do, you can't
know..."

"You wouldn't have to worry about it. They'd keep you safe from
him."

"I don't need to be kept safe from him."

Drew brushed her
shoulder; her hissing gasp was audible. "I beg to differ."

"What would
happen to me? I'de toe to leave this place and God only knows where I'd
go..."

"Even Roger wouldn't throw someone out under these
circumstances."

She sighed. "Drew, trust me on this one. It'd be an
absolute disaster." She turned slightly so she could look him in the eyes.
"Besides, you live here. You can play Sherlock Holmes, MD some more. If he hits
me, you'll know."

Drew's other arm crept up to hug her. "Cat,
I..."

"Drew, please... You don't know the half of this
situation."

He sighed. "All right. Have it your way."

Cat pulled
back with a cheeky smile. "I always do." Drew chuckled. "Right now, my way is
the path of the terrible hostess, wherein I tell you to make free with my
kitchen while I clean up enoug be be fit for human society. I think," she said
with a weak grin, "that we are now required to be friends. It's a prerequisite
for interventions, you know."

Drew snorted. "And that's why I like you.
I'm afraid I have to run, tempting as the serve-yourself method of partygiving
sounds."

"Sure, sure, you have time to make me cry but not to stick
around for the aftermath. You men are all the same."

Drew's smile was a
little strained. "Not quite the same."

Cat's grin faded. "Well, have a
good afternoon, then. And come by sometime to just visit, eh?"

"Scout's
honor," he said, nodding and heading out the door.

Cat watched it close
behind him. What the hell had just happened here? She shook her head, resisting
the urge to collapse back on the couch again. If it were possible to have a more
draining day, she wasn't sure how to do it.

She sighed, toughing her
admittedly matted hair. Hygiene could wait, but not forever. If Smith got home
when she was in the shower... Well, he could damn well wait to bark her
out.
A/N: Let's all clap and scream for Logos, whose assistance as an editor was
again invaluable.