Smith had become dry inside. Those five tears were all he had. No more. Just him and the drifting spirit of the restless other half of the Matrix. It pressed down unto him until he could take it no more.

Yet no one would be able to hear him scream, even if he wanted to….

His polished black shoes suddenly seemed caked with the redness of the soil. His suit seemed to be creased and torn, and covered with wounds. His tie the same. And his sunglasses seemed chipped, cracked, useless.

Branded as he was. He still held them close to his eyes. He could not let go the smallest chance that still might be hovering over yonder….

This place had no yonder. Smith was beginning to face it. For his wrong doings, this was his price to pay.

And he was going to have to face it, whether he wanted to or not.

For maybe one day, the Matrix would welcome him back with open and remorseful arms. Maybe one day, Smith would become an Agent again. And maybe one day, Smith's six wishes would take him back where he belonged. He would flow back into the true system again, ready and willing.

Maybe this would happen, in the distant future.

But for now, Smith had no future. This place had no time pressed upon it. Living was forever, now and never.

For this is the world beyond. This is the exile beneath. This is the punishment.

This is Smith.

:: END ::