With the next appearance of the Anomaly–as the Upgrades called Him–eleven humans were extracted, and a Newsagent, gun shop and home appliance store held up in the space of ten minutes. With his next sighting another three minds were freed, another Newsagents and computer games store burgled. Jones and Brown felt no guilt–worry about security and insurance kept human minds where they should be. Humans were sometimes led to dangerous considerations by experience of death, but nothing like that had been necessary yet.

They read whatever they grabbed from the shelves–pretended they needed awareness of the best makes of hedge clipper, and the favourite foods of Heads of State. Verbally masticating the programming methods of 600yrs ago between themselves, until pages felt mushy beneath the eye. Jones very quickly rigged up a fair defence from flamethrowers and a small bomb, which relied on taking out one Upgrade, and escaping through a burning building.

He was the first one to make for the door; fortunately it came in the night.

“When will you be back?” Brown asked, seated as always, before his computer.

“Ten minutes.”

Jones stood outside, and checked the street. There was somewhere he had to go; even if he didn’t know where. If you were uncertain, the world wasn’t–no, it wasn’t certain if the Anomaly would bleed the Matrix dry, or if Brown was alive this minute. Then he was certain; he would go somewhere.

Jones started walking. Within moments he started running, fast as if Morpheus humself were before him–or an Upgrade behind. His foot-thumps echoed through the darkness, dropping into the pools of light from a source unseen. Humans lying awake neither felt safety round their bed, nor shuffled to the window and looked.

Brown went out an hour later. They varied their route irregularly, always ran for exactly thirty minutes, and never discussed running together. Both former Agents felt the other couldn’t be risked in their own personal vice.

Of course the computer games helped–both ex-Agents became regular X-box junkies. They played every stealth and shooting game in production, down to the bone. Sometimes Brown would deliberately step off a walkway, and smile bitterly as his character reformed on solid ground, nothing lost but a life.

“The humans dream of being us.” Jones remarked. “And now we do.” He looked assailed by sudden misery–if Brown was Jones, he could stick out his arm, and his colleague would be protected. Brown just placed a hand on Jones shoulder, awkwardly, moved it searching over his neck and cheek. Jones turned his head, and they looked through their shades, at each other. The console bleeped out two unattended deaths.

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Jones had known it would happen, which helped. There were moments, running his hardest, around the twenty-five minute mark. When a man in a coat and shades stepped from an alleyway–it was one of his happiest moments since the end, maybe the happiest. Smoking Desert Eagle in hand, he was smiling as he stepped round to ascertain termination.

He caught the jab, grasped the still living man by his neck. Two massive bruises bloomed on his head. Jones snarled, twisted;

“You’re human! I can kill you!”

The pain-crazed eyes remained, the flesh did not relax. Two punches–the neck broke easily. Jones waited for the life to go, and waited. Felt a muzzle against his head, and despair washed over his mind. This, then, was a ‘nightmare’.

“Put Abel down.” Jones did so, “Thought the New Agents never fell for the same trick twice. Don’t bother dropping your weapon, or anything.” Jones was feeling anger, but he could hear it from the donkey-jacketed man with the goatee beard too. Cain–he remembered. A Werewolf Agent, all decommissioned centuries ago for killing and exploiting batteries for their own perverse gratification. Abel just looked in agony at the moment, but you tell from the way Cain never stared, the stiffness of his walk, and the way he held his Heckler Kock, that he was old.

“You should have been deleted.”

“I’d say, same to you. But we never–” The Werewolf trailed off, not bothering to finish, “We come with a proposition for you.”

“How have you survived since the first Reload?” He and Brown hadn’t considered that Exile’s banded together. They weren’t used to requiring aid from other Programs, and a heart had felt their circumstances induplicable. Now, Jones felt satisfaction, although the condition of the Ex-Agents gave him some concern.

“That is the subject of the Merovingian’s proposal. A safe haven, in return for token service. We get by. What d’you say?” Abel got up from the pavement, giving Jones a very lupine look indeed.

“I must consult with Brown on this–”

“Oh yes, we know about Brown. And Smith. Have our spies.” Abel murmured.

“What do you know of Smith?”

“Maybe he’s joined us, maybe not.” Cain drawled, “What d’you say?” Not more emphasis from the last than a stuck record. Every sentence dragging in a stew of clichés, his arm loose enough for Jones to break in half before he could fire. Jones did not want to imagine him and Brown like this in a few centuries. And he knew about the Merovingian. But he had protection, stability…captive and listless centuries had to better than Johnson bursting in through any wall. Brown could be facing death now; Jones didn’t want to keep knowing that….

“Almost forgot. We cater to all tastes, back on the ranch.” Jones shot them an owlish look, “If you know what I mean.” Abel tossed Jones a crumpled leaflet; he caught and scanned it quickly.

“I will consult with Brown.” It didn’t take silver to kill him, but if Jones had developed in one respect it was the glare. The Werewolves shrugged, grinned self-satisfactorily–the years had matured one quality, be it unjustified and arsine–and ambled away.

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Jones looked carefully after them, then back towards the apartment. He’d run quite a way from it. He walked quickly in the opposite direction round the block, saw the Werewolves emerge from an alleyway. He edged along a building, gun holstered. It was a new experience, being this close to an enemy without killing him. But of course he couldn’t kill them–a teasing, fruitionless passion.

A fifteen minute trip through darkened streets and alleys later, Cain and Abel stood in front of a run-down cycle store. Cain sniffed the air, Abel cocked his head as he rattled a weighty ring of keys.

“They smell different. The real ones get every smell except cordite wiped out by that body-swap trick. Our boys have been living with the dogs a bit.”

Laughter, the helpless pavlovian kind that comes from a joke between brothers. Abel stepped through the shop door, into a dark stone passage. After a careful glance back, Abel followed, letting the door swing shut behind him.

The werewolves relaxed, heading back to their quarters and video collection. Their progress was arrest by a whirring noise.

A hand was at the top of the door, holding it open. But doors opening into the Chateau timed how long they did it. A small motor was pressing it back now, with the force of a hydraulic ram.

From the lintel above, his hand on the most ineffective place on the door to push, Jones gritted his teeth. As Cain and Abel observed, the door started opening out by inches. Both drew Machine pistols; without consultation, they opened up at the door and hand. A scream ran through the castle as the door collapsed in sawdust.

To one side of the barrage, gun-arm steadied on his bleeding hand, Jones flew along the wall, firing. The Werewolves raised arms over their chest and heads; Jones dodged his own bullets as they ricocheted back. This was wrong, he meant to hold the portal and drop down after they’d gone…the screams filled the corridor like a throat. Jones smashed Cain and Abel into opposite walls, the bones in his broken hand jarring like a sack of glass. He took off down the corridor, desperately looking round; he could hear running feet all too clearly. Again, everything was going wrong…no, after all that had happen, he feared nothing the Merovingian could do. He’d worked alone before. And how could a man expect to be feared when he slathered his dungeon walls with artificial slime?

A dark shape dived at Jones–he snatched it out of the air, crushing a gibbering bat with a wolf’s-skull face. Three more darted from behind; he blew one to ichor, snapped two necks in mid flight with blinding speed. One gnawed at his hand, hatred blazing over death in its crimson eyes. Something else dropped on Jones’ shoulder–he stuck up his gun, reducing the creature to a bad smell.

Jones turned; someone was down the corridor–and fell on his face. He hadn’t time to feel wrath or despair before shutting down on the moist, stinking floor.