AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm being punished for some horrible karmic crime, aren't I? That has to be it.

THE WARNING: This fanfic contains strong language and is (eventually) chock full of gay sex, as well as instances of domination/submission, exhibitionism, small-scale bukkake, sadism, bloodplay, edgeplay, asphyxiation, non-sexualized urination/vomiting, et cetera, nothing you probably wouldn't expect by now; should not be read by those too physically or emotionally immature to legally read such works, nor should it be taken internally; is based on characters and locations from the Matrix series which, last time I checked, is still property of the Wachowskis and Warner Bros. Pictures and is being used without permission; is not being made for the author's profit, monetary or otherwise; this story takes place between the events of iFics “Blue” and “Idle Hands,” so if you haven’t read the previous ones yet, good luck making much sense out of why the hell these characters are doing what they do; French words are translated to English in a list after the fic, blah, blah, yadda, blah; Happy Fun Ball would like to wish the author a pleasant Groundhog Day. Again.

Now, on with the smut! (It's showing no signs of dying, so you might as well enjoy it.)

-----

New Tricks
by Apricot the Gerbil
the sixth installment of the five/seven-part iTrilogy
(don't ask.)


Synapse tossed the heavy roll of his trenchcoat onto the counter. "This. And these," he said, giving the guy manning the coat check a slick smile as he handed over his pistols, one in each palm.

The ratfaced attendant looked at the goods strewn before him, then at Synapse, eyeing the human from head to steel-tipped boots. Shuffling for something under the counter, he gave Synapse a disinterested nod and handed him a numbered plastic chip, worn around the edges from use. "Yeah, 'kay. Go ahead."

As Synapse was clomping towards the stairwell to Club Hel itself, he wondered why there were no metal detectors he'd had to walk through. He heard this club was infamous for being a rough place sometimes... Why would they take that chan--

His thoughts stopped there, frozen; his body felt like it was made of goosepimples all over again. That's right, he remembered, these kind of places were crawling with computer programs. What if the coat-check guy was the metal detector? He looked over the crowd of clubbers in weird costumes... With every step he took down these stairs, he was getting closer to them. What the hell might all of them be?

He tried swallowing his fear, and noisily cleared his throat. The sound was lost to the thrum of the deejay's tunes. It's gonna be all right, Synapse told himself. He might be new to this, but he was going to see Optix here. Optix always knew just what to do-- he'd even been around to see The One when Neo was still alive. Optix made all his worries go away, just by being near him.

And the music was here. Music was his security blanket through it all.

Synapse recognized Optix's pointed, red-rimmed shades before he noticed the man himself. He gave him a wave and walked over to Optix and the girl he was with, over by the bar.

"Hey, it's my own little bro'!" Optix said, holding one arm up for the slap of Synapse's giddy high-five. He tipped his head to the woman, introducing them both with a nod: "Oh-- good friend a'mine. Four-Squared. The newbie. We just got here a little bit ago... You wanna dance?"

"Sure!" Synapse replied. He noticed the silvery barcode tattooed across Four-Squared's forehead just then, and marveled yet again at how many awesome ideas people'd thought up for their new selves. With this company, it already felt easier to feign a sense of cool, no matter how confused he might feel. He followed the pair onto the dance floor without another word.

The music worked over his mind like a drug. He felt his worries... himself... slipping away, melting into its thunder. The beat pounded loud enough to jostle Synapse's fake jaw, shake him down to the pit of his fake stomach-- the music somehow made everything in this whole damned fake world seem real and important again. He felt a strange sense of gratitude at being able to lose himself in what was once his only reality for these few moments. Before he realized what he was doing, he felt his feet skittering up in the air, whisking a trail against a nearby pillar, pushing himself away from it and doing a flip before hitting the ground again-- and through it all, he kept dancing...

---

"There."

From the balcony's edge, the Merovingian pointed to the upstart on the main floor who'd just defied gravity, speaking to the lithe, ashen-skinned exile standing next to him. "That one. Watch him. When he leaves, you are to follow him. If he is not the 'Opticks' fellow the Agents seek, he undoubtedly knows who is."

The exile known as Chameleon nodded, watching his boss from behind the lenses of green-tinged sunshades; the countless colored threads braided into his hair swayed gently as he moved, like a nudged chandelier. Chameleon started off towards the stairway, but stopped still when he heard the Merovingian add: "Oh, and do keep in mind... If you do disappoint me again, it will be your final mistake."

Chameleon stood in place, leery. He turned around to see the Merovingian's close-lipped smile. Few could convey the threat of unbearable, imminent pain with so polite an expression, but his boss managed it just fine, Chameleon thought. He blurted an "understood..." to the Merovingian as he slunk towards the shadows of the balcony floor, where he appeared to vanish, swallowed whole by the crowd. In his place, a flickering mass of what seemed nothing more than air swooped to settle atop the railing, startling a pair of clubgoers with a sudden jostling as it went.

The Merovingian indulged in a smirk, now that Chameleon's attention was elsewhere. As he suspected, Chameleon had never noticed the tiny transmitter slipped into his coat pocket earlier. One could never be too sure where one's pawns truly stood nowadays, the Merovingian mused.

Some might think these countless precautions a bit paranoid of him. After all, even with the machine-human truce seeming to teeter on the brink of collapse since it was formed, something always happened to stave off disaster just in time. However, given the growing list of annoyances some of the 'freed' humans were racking up, he could waste little time checking whether any of his own exiles might be having traitorous thoughts as well. For as many strings of influence he found himself having to pull to turn the machine world's diplomats away from any plans of abandoning the Matrix as of late, the Merovingian hid none of the burning contempt he had for those rebels who treated their unplugged state as if they were merely in some video game, rampaging about the Mainframe until even the truce-bound machines were forced to rise against them.

Not that those enforcers of the machines' status quo, the Agents, stood much of a chance against this new sub-breed of humanity, the Merovingian thought with a frustrated sigh. Why wouldn't Zero One let his own contacts take care of those pests, instead of insisting that his network of exiles be confined to surveillance tasks alone? Rules, in these humans' minds, were things to be broken; the sub-par logic of sending programs bound by the laws of the Matrix after them should be obvious. Given their faltering success rates, Agents had yet to grasp this and adapt accordingly, it seemed.

At least the new waves of freeminds (or "redpills," as many referred to themselves, for some confusing reason or another) shared one easily-expendable flaw: they could never resist an opportunity to show off. Much like the late Anomaly most of them had elevated to a savior figure, he mused. Just as headstrong, but without the preassigned sense of purpose.

For all the glory these freeminds showered their dead Messiah with, the Merovingian thought it a delicious irony that none of them had gone so far as to find Neo's background information, back from when the almighty One was just another nobody, wandering the same Mainframe those redpills had started from. No one but he had taken the trouble to track down photos and possessions of one Thomas A. Anderson-- and yet, what a killing he'd made dangling these trinkets before the more enterprising humans he'd met in his business endeavors: the small stack of Neo's likely-embarrassing college Polaroids; framed and yellowing portraits of Thomas in his toddler years, back when he was still unaware of the concept of "destiny"; an obviously time-loved plush rabbit, swept aside for his dizzying new career of being The One... Neo's legacy was never forgotten in these times, indeed, the Merovingian thought, quietly chuckling to himself.

Speaking of Neo's legacy... The Merovingian glanced across the balcony floor, curious to see what his pet was up to. Yes, there was iSmith... he hadn't moved from the couch he'd been sitting upon the last time his master had checked. Still talking to the same person, even, the Merovingian noted, eyeing the human iSmith was chattering away with. The man was dressed in feathers from plastic-beak-mask to toe, with every piece of his birdlike outfit dyed a sickeningly bright blue that shimmered faintly under the club's lights. The pair at least shared a fondness for tacky feather fashions, the Merovingian thought, recalling the pink boa iSmith chose to wear during his rebellious phase so many years ago. Ah, the follies of youth...

A sudden pained wince from his pet raised the Merovingian's interest. The action struck him as out of place, given what seemed to be an enjoyable conversation going on. He watched the two of them, noting how his pet would occasionally shift his legs about where he sat, before deciding to listen in. Enhanced hearing was a boon for a professional eavesdropper such as himself.

---

"So of course she comes to me with all this, as if I'm the expert on how to keep a guy around for more than a week..." The human calling himself Perr o'Dyce paused at iSmith's lighthearted laugh. "I know! But that's what I mean, see? If they give you that much shit to worry about, I just leave 'em to feel sorry for themselves somewhere else. Life's too short for hopeless cases, you know? Gotta live while you can."

"Free as a bird?" quipped iSmith, grinning.

"Yeah. Cute. Well, it may not always be fun, but at least it never gets boring." Perr narrowed drowsy-lidded eyes at iSmith. "Guess that's what I never got about the whole permanent D-and-S scene..."

iSmith raised an eyebrow. "D and S?"

"You know, dom-sub stuff. The hardcore kind, like you said you're into. Or maybe I don't have the name right, I can never keep track of all the scenes out there... hell, just trying to run a simple drag show's headache enough for me, most days. Being owned by somebody, I mean."

"Hm. Never knew there was a name for it."

The birdman gave iSmith a lopsided smirk, as if he'd been joking. "Wow. You really are out of the loop, aren't you. Anyhoo, like I was saying, it sounds like being somebody's slave might be fun for a little while, but how do you make it... like, a profession, without going nuts?"

"Well..." iSmith began. He scanned the ceiling with wandering eyes as he made sure to pick words Perr could understand; the Merovingian had warned him long ago that language could be as muddling a barrier as it could be a helpful tool. Humans held only the narrowest meanings for words, he was told, and to hint at uses outside those of humankind would frighten or confuse them. Perr seemed too nice to risk troubling like that. "My... parents... They died a long time ago. They'd been fighting. Been at it for years before then, though. My only brother killed himself afterwards..."

"You poor thing!" Perr murmured, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Yeah, well," iSmith said with a shrug. "I was all alone after that. A real mess. Didn't have anywhere to live, didn't have any idea what to do... and then I met him." His own creeping smile made him pause as he replayed the memory in his mind. "I still remember the first time we met. He made me feel so, so warm, all over, and after that-- I don't know, it's... Ever get the feeling you're just meant to be with someone?"

"Think I heard of that, yeah. In 'Cinderella'." Perr smirked.

"I love that movie!" iSmith said, pointing at him distractedly. "But, yeah-- he asked if I wanted to stay with him as his pet, and I've been with him ever since. It's almost weird... the more I was around him, the more natural it felt being his shadow, kinda. His opposite. He likes taking charge, I like taking orders. He's so-- strong, I guess. So sure of himself. All he has to do is give me that 'you WILL do this' stare of his, and I go to pieces. Melt right in his hands."

"So, do you cook or clean for him, then?" Perr asked. "I heard that's usually the deal."

iSmith shook his head, his eyes widening at such an idea. "Oh, no, he has servants for that."

"Servants!" The birdman gave a dry, disbelieving chuckle at first, then leaned in, his interest peaked. "You really are a Cinderella! Is he royalty, or just filthy rich?"

"I'm not sure. He might be a king somewhere, or used to be-- there's all sorts of crests in his place, and he seems to like keeping books about history and stuff. Maybe French royalty," mused iSmith, his brow flattening in thought. "Wonder if his wife started out as a queen or something..."

"He's married, too? What does she think about all this?"

iSmith rolled his eyes. "I know she's not fond of it, but he sees a lot of other people besides me." He grinned, feeling a dawning glow of happiness at the idea that he still held his master's interest at all by now. "Usually it's just for the one time, and he never sees them again, but I lost count a long time ago. He's got a real appetite, that's for sure."

Perr frowned, as if put off by that last statement. "Now that just sounds weird to me. No offense, but wouldn't being kept as a once-in-a-while fling in his stable make you feel... I don't know, less than human?"

"No, not really. I mean, I've always known that I wasn't really hu--" iSmith's eyes bulged, his inner monologue spasming out a NO, YOU IDIOT a split second too late. He sputtered, coughing away the end of the words as he'd seen some people coming out of the club's smoking lounge do earlier. "Sorry-- wasn't really... into what everybody else was."

"Hmm..." Perr crossed his arms. "I guess I still don't get it. But, hell, I'll keep doing my thing if you keep doing yours. Deal?"

Glad that his companion had ended the topic for him, iSmith tipped his near-empty margarita glass to Perr, a sliver of a grin still beaming on his face. "Oh, I'll drink to that."

"Not for long, you won't," the human said, flicking a finger towards the swishing pink at the bottom of iSmith's glass. "You want another one? Strawberry again?" He nodded vaguely to the bar on the floor below.

Several swear words bounced around the insides of iSmith's mind. He was already regretting having so much to drink, but the only resistance he could ever seem to muster to offers of charity was a sudden meekness. "I shouldn't. Really. You've already--"

"Pfft. Payday was yesterday, I'm still feeling charitable. Like I told ya, you find the Bluebird of Paradise, it's your lucky day, ah?" Perr interrupted, motioning to shoo away iSmith's guilt with one hand. "I'm a little jealous, really... never seen a guy who could handle their booze as well as you. Anyone who can still walk after three shots of this place's chocolate schnapps, I'm damn well gonna watch!"

"It's a gift. Kind of like being able to flatter somebody into letting you buy 'em a ton of drinks," iSmith teased. With a shrug, he swigged the rest of his glass-- and immediately felt another wash of recoil from his system. Whether it was called fancy technical names like 'surpassing containment regulations' or simply 'knowing you really, really have to pee right now,' he just knew it didn't feel good. However, as he'd never yet been instructed how to excuse himself from a friendly chat (other than bolting from the table, which seemed impolite in this case), he tried his best to mask the protest as just a passing buzz-- a slow shake of the head and an "ahhh...!", and he was back in the conversation, as alert as could be expected. Or moreso, considering alcohol was like water to standard Agent programming.

"I've gotta be honest, I'm disappointed," his couch-partner said, sighing. "By now, I thought I could figure out just what the hell you really are."

iSmith nearly dropped his glass. "Wh-what'dya mean?"

"I wish I knew. You're a weird one to read, is all. You've got a dirtier mind than I do, but you seem like you're so innocent about people. Nobody acts that innocent unless they're hiding something, but I can't tell if you're really that clueless, or if you've gotten through life on your back for so long that you can't let down your act, being all sweet and unknowing, if you tried anymore."

The pause that followed could hardly be called "silent," given the surroundings, but seemed just as uneasy for the two of them. "Sorry. That was way too harsh, I know. Shoulda kept my big mouth shut," Perr muttered, looking away.

iSmith bit his lip. He'd search for proper phrases, but he knew none to explain the sense of confusion Perr's words had surprised him with-- like a disarming blow to his tongue. "No, I... Don't worry about it," he began. "I'm just not sure I could answer that one, myself."

Perr stared at him, frowning, perhaps in pity. He took iSmith's glass and patted his hand. "Lemme get you that drink, ah? From one confused soul to another. Be back in a few, hon'."

---

The Merovingian watched the mass of feathers walk away, then sighed, seeing iSmith's calm facade switch to a frantic display of leg-tapping and clenched teeth the instant the human's back was turned. Polite to the point of stupidity, that one... Deciding he'd observed long enough, the Merovingian made his way over to the plush couch at the center of the balcony floor. His wife sat there, reclined upon the arm of the furniture. As she stirred an olive-pick through an unspoiled martini, Persephone cast long, bored glances for anyone showing signs of life nearby.

He leaned closer, down behind the crook of her bared shoulder, and made his presence known with his fingertips. Gently tracing along the edge of her cheek, the Merovingian smiled at the pleased-sounding exhale she made, then spoke to her: "I must apologize, my dear, but it would appear my pet is badly in need of being walked. Until I return..."

"As always," Persephone replied. She cupped her martini closer to her bosom, freeing one hand to wave him a quick goodbye.

If she was suspicious, she hid it completely. Like a volatile candle-flame, the Merovingian thought to himself-- cloaking any offense taken behind veil after veil of beauty, only to have it all boil to the surface in unpredictable, scalding flares. Small wonder that he could never quite bring himself to abandon the post of being her chosen moth, all through the years... Ah, but these ideas were for another time. At the moment, he had his sights set upon a different diversion entirely.

iSmith's feathered acquaintance had just returned when the Merovingian approached the small couch. His pet noticed him first, reacting with cheery surprise. "Oh! Hello!" iSmith said, adding to the human with a touch of hesitation, "This is my... my boss!"

"Hi there. Name's Perr. Perr o'Dyce." The birdman smiled and nodded to the Merovingian, as his hands were a margarita too heavy to offer a decent handshake. "I've heard nothing but good things about you!"

"Is that so," the Merovingian remarked with disinterest, expecting nothing less. His attention moved to iSmith. "You seem quite uncomfortable, mon petit. Perhaps I may offer to show you to a restroom, hm?"

"Oh, but-- I..." iSmith looked surprised at having been found out, as if it was any challenge. He wriggled a few hand gestures and head-nods towards the feathered human, none of which held any specific sense.

The Merovingian quickly tired of this game of Charades. Leaning further towards his pet, he rested one hand against iSmith's hip, letting his thumb seek out the area where human shells were coded for bladder sensation. "You suffer only from your own inaction," he told his pet whisper-quietly, and pushed his thumb down. iSmith made an odd, squirming sound, like trying to catch one's breath with already-full lungs; he bid Perr a speedy farewell as soon as the Merovingian lifted his hand away.

Perr o'Dyce sat there on the couch, alone, and stared at the drink he'd just bought. He hated margaritas. "Well, shit," he declared to the room, and let his eyes wander to the other clubgoers once more.

---

The Merovingian led his pet down the twirl of stairway to the main dance floor, walking on past the leatherclad humans until he reached the glass door of Club Hel's smoking lounge. Neither the Merovingian nor his patrons cared much for the Megacity health standards declaring such a room necessary by law; those found lighting up while in the rest of the club were given a stern talking-to, while the smoking lounge itself had become the unofficial haven for pleasure-seekers with stronger guides than nicotine and liquor.

The lounge was dimly lit, and reeked of whatever substances hung in that day's own smoke-haze. The Merovingian scarcely lifted an eyebrow at the young woman draped over one of the chairs, clasping an empty syringe limply in one hand... Whatever was coursing through her tied-off vein was undoubtedly from one of the Merovingian's own traffickers in the first place. The rest of the humans in the room watched mutely as he let go of iSmith's hand and stooped to retrieve an empty metal bucket from underneath one of the lounge's three tables.

"There, now," the Merovingian said quietly to iSmith, placing the bucket on the floor before his pet. He smiled at the sudden blush erupting across iSmith's face, visible even in the room's low light. "Don't worry, little one. Go ahead with your business... we are only among friends here."

As the sparse group around him watched, the suited man swallowed nervously, then unzipped his pants, trying to curl as much of his hands over his dick as he could hide before he began sprinkling a shaky stream of gold into the bucket. One onlooker tapped the shoulder of the joint-smoking lad in garters next to her, muttering, "Hey-- look, look! Told you I wasn't kidding, what you can see in this place, huh?"

The Merovingian smoothed an encouraging hand along iSmith's shoulders all the while, murmuring in a tone too low for the others to hear, "That's it. I'm right here... it's all right, no reason to be afraid."

iSmith was silent, only giving a hushed whimper as the flow slowed, sputtered thin... and stopped, much to iSmith's dismay. He wasn't finished-- he knew he wasn't. His eyes squinted shut, as if he wouldn't really have an erection tugging upwards right now if it was hidden from his view. Upon hearing his master's laugh, his blush became harsher still.

"Ah, mon petit... It seems you are not too embarrassed after all, having an audience, hm?" the Merovingian cooed, sliding his arms down around iSmith's waist to lock him into an embrace. "You like to be watched, I think. Always makes you so very... hard." One hand slinked to dance fingers along the length of iSmith's cock. "Makes you want to be taken, I know it does. Let them all see me fucking you..."

"Please... yes!" his pet panted.

The Merovingian chuckled darkly at him, teasing a thumb under the fold of tender, still-slick skin at the head, achingly slow. "You can't expect me not to fuck you, when you show these people you haven't any shame. No, I need to punish you-- such a naughty, naaaughty pet I have!"

iSmith could feel his master's penis stiffening firm against his backside, feel its warmth through the Merovingian's satin pants... Even as his face clouded with guilt, iSmith began shuffing his rump harder against that needy bulge, urging it on.

The smoking lounge fell quiet, leaving only the dull pulsing of techno music from the next room to throb through the wall. All eyes were fixed upon the man in the fancy coat and his business-suited slave with growing curiosity. When one voice rose to mumble, "Some freaky shit here, man," a rasp of shushes quickly silenced it.

A couple humans were close enough to nearly make out what the older man was saying as he grabbed his slave by the pink collar around his neck and pulled, leading him to the nearest table-- some thick accent. French, sounded like... The onlookers stared in rapt attention while the Merovingian shoved iSmith over the table, lifting back his pet's suit-jacket to expose iSmith's hairless rump to any who cared to see.

Suddenly, iSmith flinched, sharing a gasp with those watching-- surprised at the rough smack the Merovingian had just landed upon iSmith's ass, making his ballsack jump and sway. And another spank-- harder, this time, though there was no pain to be found in iSmith's overjoyed yelp. If anything, his erection pulsed even stronger.

A wide smirk grew along the Merovingian's face. With a nod of approval, he took hold of his pet's arms by the wrists and carefully drew them to cross against iSmith's own back. Unzipping his trousers just enough to let his erection free, he bent forward and spoke, close to iSmith's ear. "Relax. You're only showing them what a wonderful pet you are, making your master proud," he said. He slipped a finger past iSmith's taut little hole, feeling the muscle lazily shift to mold around the welcome intruder. The coding for his pet's inner walls grew moist and slick in anticipation... another trick iSmith had picked up somewhere during his years of service.

The Merovingian added another finger, teasing along iSmith's hidden skin until the whole area carried an invisible slipperiness. With the illusion of a dry entry set in place, he tore into his pet's ass with a faked grunt of effort and began pumping away in slow heaves-- pinning iSmith onto the table with his weight, hearing the piercing gasps and moans start and fall like waves from underneath him. Ah, the musical score for their rutting ballet... "Ahh-- stuff it! Yeah!" iSmith managed, his voice growing louder to match the strength grinding inside him. "Harder-- fuck...! Ohyes!"

"Yeees... Such a good pet... but so dirty," the Merovingian purred as he moved. "Dirty for wanting my cock like this, wanting all these others to see you being fucked like a common whore-- just my own little pricksheath." He gave a strong heft of his hips, making iSmith squall out an "AHH~hh--!" to the room, and leaned back, pulling his pet up by the arms to slam in deeper. Any chance the customers had of hearing the Frenchman's "Cry for me, little one! Let me hear how much you want this!" was drowned out by the noise the collared man made between each of his table-creaking impalements.

The Merovingian's violent thrusts slowed, giving him the space to lower his head and nuzzle the back of iSmith's neck, drinking in the emotions his pet was shivering off with his every move. Giving his pet's arms a tug, he whispered, "You can sense it, your master's so close, yes? Must be aching by now--" His voice was growing strained-- "...waiting for me to flood your arse...!"

iSmith rolled his head back, arching close against the heaviness of his master's body. The Merovingian's exhaling breath burst against the back of his ear, sending the sensation of pinpricks rippling over his skin like a brushfire. He felt a warm tickle of precum start dribbling into him, giving way in small, jerky spurts... yes-- any second now-- YES--!!

The Merovingian reared away at the last moment, just as he let himself go. He strained a quick French curse or two through clenched jaws, loud enough for the whole room to hear, though the volume was more for show than anything else. His pet's body went rigid perfectly in time with his-- simultaneous orgasms seemed to impress most humans as well. They didn't need to know it was the only way iSmith could feel any release...

And impressed they were, indeed. Once iSmith's body finally sagged with the weakness his master's sputum alone could leave him with, a light applause started up from those in the lounge. The Merovingian turned his head, eyes glinting at the awestruck reaction he'd known in advance he would receive.

There was another response the humans were giving him, too. The Merovingian smirked, noticing the change immediately. He regarded the flickering patterns of code where each person stood, watching the bright, greenish-white curls of energy flare up like smoke from their shells. Emotional energy... that force which made humans sweat or shiver heat into their pods, the invisible lightning that jolted their lowly, feeble meat into something able to power their machine overseers better than any animal of Earth's past could come close to achieving.

It was this pure emotion that the Merovingian could learn about, could emulate, but never grasp for himself. Not that he terribly wanted to... It was much more entertaining to puppet those who could be overpowered by such urges (and posed much less harm to himself, at that). It was a delight to sample the sensations given off when this energy was refined by all the restraints of polite high society, yes. There was reason in his decision to lord over both the halls of prim, proper Le Vrai and the chaotic sexual din of Hel. But the appeal of raw, untempered human emotion-- fear, rage, lust, such delicious four-letter words!-- held even more intrigue for him than all the nuanced flavors etiquette's laws could create.

And now, thanks to his pet's display, the Merovingian found himself in a room full of human kindling, practically sopping with the gasoline of arousal, ready to ignite in a firestorm of fuck-power-- if only he could find a suitable spark to set it all off. Having the machines be in his debt was never a bad thing... and it wasn't as if his pet had never been used as a bargaining tool before, he reasoned.

His gaze fell to regard iSmith, still panting into the tabletop. His pet's sphincter kept pinching around his spent cock even now, off and on... Just human enough to be a slave to lust himself, the Merovingian thought. He pulled out slowly, reaching for the handkerchief he always carried for when iSmith was too occupied to lick him clean. "Tell me, little one. How would you like to make your master very, very happy?" the Merovingian asked.

"Mmmn..." iSmith moaned, stretching his arms stiff against the table. His eyes flicked back open, as though he'd just woken up. "Hm...? oh... Oh, of course! I'd do anything for you, you know that!"

"Yeees," replied the Merovingian, drawing out the word like he was tasting it. "Yes, I would trust few others besides you, if they were to make that claim." He paused to wipe off and zip up, smirking at the bright grin iSmith was giving him. Once again, he felt an appreciation for the strange human trait of 'loyalty' his pet had inherited in spades.

With a swish of his silk coat, the Merovingian raised a pointed finger to one of the men in the room. "You, there!" he called to him, "I can tell you've been enjoying the festivities, am I correct?" His words were knowingly smug; the clothes the human wore were shredded floss-thin in most places, making his sizable erection all but impossible to miss.

The man looked to the other three seated at the table, as if unsure he'd been spoken to. He shifted in his chair, saying, "Guess so... why?"

The Merovingian's grin nearly glittered. "How would you like to use my pet as well? Any way you like. No fee, no catch," he added, seeing his patron squint at him in disbelief.

Keeping his suspicious stare on the old guy in the black and red dress, the man said, "Dude. I've had buddies get busted from undercover shit before."

Chuckling merrily at his patron, the Merovingian replied, "I assure you, there is nothing to fear. I happen to be the owner of this club." He patted iSmith on the head, his eyes sweeping the rest of his sparse audience as he gave them all a showman's smile. "You may consider this a randomly selected gift of appreciation to my patrons... and to all in this room, I extend the same offer. So long as you do not mind receiving the very best..." --he paused, searching for the right word-- "...sloppy seconds any man could ever wish for, and perhaps having the eyes of the others here upon you as you do so, you each may have a turn."

He left the man to think it over for a moment, and scruffed through his pet's hair, speaking quietly to iSmith through the pleased hums his headscratches were creating. "This will be an act of devotion-- from you, to me. For each new man you give yourself to, you will show you care even more for your master, hm?" Giving a few stronger parting scruffs, he turned his attention back to the man he'd spoken to first. "Are you sure you wish to turn down my offer, monsieur?"

To further cement the deal, he gave his pet's rump a tap, gesturing that iSmith should get closer to the human he was being offered to. iSmith nodded, scampering from the table he'd been leaning upon. When he crossed the few paces over to the torn-clothed stranger, he bowed down onto his hands and knees, beaming at this chance to prove himself.

The patron looked at the suited man crouched before him, who was quaking in what at first seemed to be helpless terror-- but the man's eyes were hopeful, nearly sparkling, looking to him for an answer. A simple "yes," that's all it would take...

After staring at iSmith for a few short moments, the stranger gave a shrug and reached through the rips to unbuckle his straining leather codpiece. How could he refuse?

Once his penis slipped past iSmith's lips, he went rigid, as though his body itself was trying to gasp. As iSmith was used to catering to the varied tastes of one of the fussiest, most demanding programs in the Matrix, this man had no way to expect-- much less prepare for-- such a devoted pampering. He cried out, bucking further into the moist, pulsing tunnel the suited man's mouth had somehow turned into, and sat there sputtering in wordless abandon. He hardly noticed iSmith tilt his head and take the stranger's whole length down his throat with a fluid ease. The surprised murmur coming from their audience only registered as a fuzz of noise. Right now, all that mattered was the magic this bitch with the collar was casting on his dick.

It had to be magic. Hell, the E he'd dropped earlier never felt this good. The bitch even seemed to know when he was about to come-- pulling away just in time, grinning up at him from between his legs, then starting all over again... kissing and sucking and making quiet little "mm! mmn~mm~!" sounds around his cock, tickling under the tip like a wet feather-- and pulling away again. All he could do was sit there, spread wide, and let the magic man work him like a moaning machine.

Somewhere after he started to spurt, but before he realized the man in the suit had been swallowing down his load like it was so much runny candy, he could hear iSmith choking out a "mnnh--!", sounding overwhelmingly fulfilled-- and he felt that hot rush sweeping through his groin again and-- oh...

He'd shivered two more pearly strands across iSmith's cheek before he was even aware of how tired he suddenly was.

The bystanders to the scene looked to him expectantly. "Well?" someone asked.

"F...fucker gives head like he's got a clit in his throat...!" he managed. He let his neck rest forward like it now so urgently wanted to, and simply stared at iSmith, who was panting-- big, breathy gasps, trailing off into what sounded like orgasms themselves...

The Merovingian watched iSmith's bare, cum-glossy ass twitch upwards, almost wagging, as if begging for some part of his body to be filled again. iSmith could be quite the eager showoff when he allowed himself the opportunity, thought the Frenchman. Far be it for him to stand in the way of his pet's unmasked desires... "Who wants to go next?" he asked.

There was a pause. Instead of acknowledging the near-unanimous show of hands, he allowed a whim of curiosity to narrow his attention, focusing upon the men at one table-- the only men in the lounge who gave no response. They seemed uneasy, their eyes darting around at each other. The Merovingian could overhear the names of... yes, a quick search confirmed it was sexually transmitted diseases being mentioned in their chatter. His smile curdled into a sour line, as though he'd been personally insulted. "Come now! He has no infections of any sort. My methods of selection are far more refined than that."

After the shock of being spoken to by this mysterious benefactor faded, one man in the group called out, his voice muffled by hesitation: "So... what if we do?"

"Ah! I see..." said the Merovingian, giving the men of that table an understanding nod. "Very well, this is no trouble. Out of fair courtesy to the others, you will simply take your turns last. My customers deserve only the best." He raised one hand, beckoning to the rest of the room. "Now then, who's next?"

iSmith glanced about the lounge. His smile disappeared; the place suddenly seemed much more... crowded, than before. Some had left since his master and he had come in, yes, whether from disgust or simple disinterest, but he could see many new faces-- at least a dozen more, by the looks of it. Most were standing, there being no chairs left.

Good news must travel fast, iSmith was about to say, but the joke seemed hollow before all the faces blurred in the dim light. All those men... all those strangers... and he had to-- all of them?

One man, looking discouraged at how many others had raised their hands as well, spoke up, looking to the club owner hopefully. "Hey, so do we have to wait a turn one by one, or can we all just... you know, go at it?"

The Merovingian looked to iSmith, who met his gaze with a happy, trusting smile. "Rare est la mouche qui fait confiance à ceux dans la maison des araignées," he remarked, staring into his pet's eyes.

He returned his pet's grin... and, without looking away, spoke to the room: "You may all do as you wish."

With those words, iSmith felt someone grab hold of his arm; the lounge faded to a whirl of garbled motion, pulling iSmith this way and that. Actions became only parts of a messy sex parade, with his own body as its stage. There was the one who had iSmith deepthroat their dick the whole time, keeping strong hands clamped onto the back of his head as he tried wheezing through his nose for breath, his chin shoved tight against blond-haired balls until the man finally groaned, grabbed even tighter, then lost all grip... the one who remarked that they didn't mind sharing, and spread iSmith's legs to pound themselves dry into his ass when his mouth was already fixed around someone else's swollen cock... the one who had to repeat to themselves that this didn't mean they were gay, all through the act... the one whose face was hidden by the shiny black gas mask they wore, who didn't utter a single sound all the while they mounted him and rhythmically butted the blunt muzzle-edge of the mask against his hair, only hissing when they came... the one whose prick was so huge, iSmith was soon screaming, feeling the code pattern he'd designed for his hole give way from the overload, smearing rivulets of red into the off-white mix oozing down his legs as it tore... and those few wide-eyed spectators who stood nearby, pulling anxiously at their meat, letting the thick strings of their orgasms fall to patter onto iSmith while he served somebody else's whims... and on, and on, and on.

He now remembered why he really, really disliked having sex with humans.

The Merovingian merely surveyed the room, entertaining his own musings. His formal realm of business was that of information, but here, too, he enjoyed the control he held over that other constant human need: the need of desire. Idly, he looked from face to face in the smoking lounge... The heroin junkie still sat by her lonesome at the far table, staring into the water of the blood-tinged paper cup her needle was soaking in. Oblivious to her surroundings, she focused on the reflective film of the liquid as though she could see a separate galaxy within every droplet it contained. The few who stayed in the room under their own small, hovering smoke-clouds were giggling softly at each man who took his turn with iSmith. The Merovingian noted the ever-present base beat's pulse once more, hinting at the energy being cast about outside this room as well. Everybody was here for something he provided them, whether they felt the need for it or simply wanted a few hours of immediate gratification.

And in truth, no one was outside the grasp of needing. These people he watched-- their minds were coded to desire food every few hours, though their pod-cradled physical bodies were being fed intravenously at all times. Each of them would inevitably feel the dull, burning ache of genital meat demanding relief, no matter how many nights were spent obeying its call. Even iSmith was no better than the addicts shivering from shadowed corners all over the Matrix, if the Merovingian felt the whim to deny his pet his seed for more than seven days.

In the end, everyone would come to him, begging for that moment's fix. And the Merovingian would always be there to provide them their needed poisons-- he, their ever-forgiving personal savior. The philosophy of living in the moment was well and good, yes, but he knew that addiction never released the human race from its grasp, not for an instant. Whether his customers were led by the leash of curiosity or withdrawal, it was only a matter of time before he would be needed again.

Here, standing with full awareness of his unbreakable hold upon both the present and the future, the Merovingian watched his pet be sodomized by customers he had no need to recognize. He felt supremely content with the world.

---

Meanwhile, over on the floor nearby, iSmith echoed his sanity-giving mantra over and over, helping to numb the noise and mess and stink and shame closing in on him: It's what Master wants. It's okay because this is for Master. It's what Master wants.

A flash of blue feathers shattered his concentration.

"So. This is what you really want, huh?" Perr o'Dyce was standing before him, contempt glaring down in his eyes. "Guess that act of yours is better than you thought. I actually fell for it... You want to get dragged around in the dirt so bad, then fine." Perr reached down to unzip his feathered shortpants. He took his dick in one hand and wagged it before iSmith's face, his own features flushed behind the plastic beak. "Suck it, bitch!"

iSmith stared back with glassy eyes. How soon had it been...? He'd been sharing a nice bit of conversation with this guy only minutes ago, hadn't he?

"Can't you HEAR?" The birdman scowled. "Whass'a matter, got cum in your ears?"

iSmith felt the sting of his face being slapped, but his thoughts were now far from this smoky room's walls. He knew his master's orders were to serve anyone in the lounge, yet iSmith couldn't shake the feeling that he'd somehow been betrayed. Did he truly seem so hopeless? He wanted to cry out to Perr, No, I don't want this, this isn't me! ...But, no, this was what his master told him to do, so it was technically his choice... Or was this how humans really acted when they didn't have to follow any rules? That must be it, right? Even if they seemed so nice on the outside-- deep down, anyone he might meet would leap at the first chance they could get to take and take and take, until there was nothing left?

"Fucking slut... Hurry up! Do what you're here for!" Perr had grabbed him by the back of his neck... was pushing him down to his crotch. iSmith struggled, but only to try catching his master's gaze.

And there the Merovingian stood, his leer of approval flattening to a frown at iSmith's pause. His shoulders shrugged, hands wagging in a signal for his pet to keep going.

Does he have any idea what I'm going through right now? iSmith wondered.

...Does he even care?

Letting his head be pushed where the feathered stranger wanted it, iSmith distracted himself from those questions by sucking and lapping at Perr's balls just as fervently as if he was servicing the Merovingian himself. His mind, however, withdrew further into its own shelter. It's all okay. Master is always right, he repeated silently. It's what my master wants.

The birdman didn't take much prompting, shooting off into iSmith's hair scarcely before he had started. "Mmm. That's more like it, bitch," Perr mumbled through his beak-mask. He looked quite pleased with himself, though he kept his eyes closed.

iSmith blinked half-liddedly, looking up at his would-be friend, and said nothing.

---

The traffic inside the lounge eventually thinned out once more. Those already done with their turn had either staggered out the door with wobbly legs and a smile, or sat down with the handful of easily-amused people still riding a high to watch-- curious, perhaps, at how long it might take before the 'free sample' would finally tire out.

By this point, the men went hunting through pockets and wallets for condoms to roll on before they even went near iSmith's rear end, ignoring the offended looks the Merovingian would shoot in their direction. To the humans' credit, any claims of iSmith's purity now appeared shaky at best. The hole in question resembled less a sleek, inviting crevice of skin and more an open running sore, bruised and bloodied.

Still, those taking the plunge were eager to vouch that the quality hadn't suffered one bit. "Where'd you find this guy? He still feels tight!" a patron gasped to the Merovingian, finally pulling away from atop his pet with an exhausted, satisfied mnngh.

Before the Merovingian could answer, the door to the lounge swung open, bringing another gust of noise from outside along with the couple walking in. "This where the-- oh. Yeah, guess it is," said the taller one, surveying the room with a widening leer.

The Merovingian held out welcoming hands to greet the newcomer and his lady friend (at least, the shorter one appeared female; gender was a mutable concept within the boundaries of this club). "Have you come to enjoy tonight's special entertainment as well? Wonderful, yes... I am sorry, however, that this particular fellow will not be servicing l'madames," he said, bowing apologetically to the girl.

"Okay, cool," the man said with a nod, ignoring the whine his companion made as she crossed her arms in a pout. He pressed on, leaning closer to the Merovingian. "You really mean we can do anything, right?"

Suppressing the urge to sneer at the human's tone, the Merovingian answered, "I am open to nearly all possibilities, but I request that you at least keep my pet alive when you are finished."

Immediately, the man was pleading to the lady, fidget-bouncing like an oversugared toddler. "You hear that?! Come on, please, lemme go for it, I'll make it up to ya tonight, I promise-- I always wanted to try this!"

"I know, I know. I heard it fine the first hundred times you kept goin' on about it," his girlfriend said, smirking at him playfully. "Yeah, what the hell. You know you're never gonna get me to do that kinda shit anyhow... Just wear a rubber, 'kay? You're not gettin' that anywhere near me," she ordered, pointing to iSmith's ass.

Considering how deep and gravelly the man's voice was, it was hard to tell if his response was meant to sound like a titter or a cackle. "This is gonna be SWEET!" he bubbled, fists shivering in place. One hand crept to the necklace bobbing against the front of his shirt; he smoothed over the carved lumps and beads, stopping to trace along the dull edge of the razorblade hooked in place at the center. He nodded to his girl, then at iSmith. "C-c'mon, get his arms..."

With that, iSmith was swept onto his back and pinned by the girl, who seemed awfully chipper about the situation. It struck iSmith as unnecessary... How could he refuse the guy's offer, anyhow? Nothing he hadn't had shoved in him too many times to count tonight already, he thought bitterly.

The man was busy digging through the mass of zippers and pockets lining his pants. When he finally fished out a short row of condoms, he tore one from its wrapper, holding it aloft like a trophy before wrestling down his pants' waistband and rolling it onto an already twitchy-stiff length of cock. "All right, fucker, it's go time!" he hissed to iSmith, crouching in front of his prey on all fours. A couple grunts and pushes against the carpet, maneuvering legs around, an aroused moan from the girl at the sight... and he was in. "Who's your daddy?!" the man belted out, jerking his hips.

iSmith was already too tired to bother risking the possible backlash, but he felt like chuckling at them. How overdramatic could two humans get over a simple fuck? He ventured back to conscious control of his body to play up his role of the squirming, overwhelmed bottom, curious as to how much of a desperately-needed laugh he could get from the couple. "Oh... oh, wow-- you're such a.. big... boy, aren't you!" he moaned, rocking onto the human's prick in the best porn-actress voice he could muster.

"Fuck yeah. You like 'em big, shithead?" the man huffed back, grinning wider.

In a way, this was kind of fun, iSmith thought. "Yeah! Harder! Fill me up goood!" he mewed, trying to remember some other lines he'd found himself snickering over.

"That's it. I'm goin' for it..." iSmith heard the guy murmur, watching as the two humans bent closer to each other, noisily mashing their lips together from over his head. It was only when the man unhooked the razor from his necklace that iSmith felt a hint of confusion.

The man leaned off to the side, just as iSmith felt the swish of something touching his hand-- no, not a touch. Harder, pressing strong. He was caught in mid-moan when he saw the first red flecks, felt a tongue lapping across his wrist... and when the human's face was over him again and he saw the man's scrawny beard slick with red, running all down his chin, that's when iSmith realized what just happened-- wait, no, he heard himself say-- and he saw the hand with the blade getting closer, hang on just a second what are you-- felt it touch down and slide across his neck and he started to scream and SCREAM--

"Ahh... That's right, cocksucker, fight!" the man groaned, slamming himself in harder. He licked his tongue around in little circles, tasting the blood pooling out from the shallow lines carved into iSmith's neck, and reached to scrape off bits from the other wrist. "Holy christ this one's got me so fuggin' hard...!"

A burst of laughter from a stoned onlooker seemed to chill the room with an uneasy guilt. The others kept watching, but as the suited man's shrieks grew desperate and brittle, eyes began to wander, silently asking the rest if they should be doing something or not. However, when one-- and then immediately, two more-- of them left the lounge to seek aid from the staff, their nervous words fell upon the deaf ears of the Merovingian's own help.

iSmith lashed against the girl's grip, but he wasn't strong enough to break away. His mind blanked into full panic mode, repeating one thought like a drowner's lifeline. It's what my master wants. It's what my master wants. It's okay, it's what Master wants.

And Master isn't like these humans, he wouldn't keep grabbing away at me like this. Maybe letting somebody do it now but it's just 'cause he always keeps promises that's all, I have to be strong for Master 'cause he just made them a promise, 'cause he'd never do this. Not like this never like this, not to me, right?

The human let the blade fall to the carpet. His hands went for iSmith's throat.

Perhaps it was a twitch of ancestral memory in his code that triggered the reaction; perhaps it was iSmith's programming finding any distraction it could to prevent the doubt creeping through those last thoughts, doubt that might break him. Either way, iSmith's senses were suddenly flooded by a single sensation-- one so overwhelming, so overpowering, that if his system had any sort of gag reflex, he would have been violently ill on the spot.

The STENCH. It was everywhere.

---

The Merovingian's brow raised, noting the change in the moving masses of code. A flurry of waves started to flare from where iSmith's body was pinned, strong enough to rival those given off by the humans around him (interesting, that his pet's shell would be coded for energy's display without having a body floating somewhere in the machine cities' pods, thought the Merovingian idly). He could identify the pattern as effortlessly as recognizing a perfume: that of stark, paralyzing fear.

A pang of doubt suddenly crossed his thoughts. He never did find out what the Smith virus looked like when mutating to its deadly final form, now that he considered it... The Merovingian checked the reactions of the clubbers around him, subtly polling the lounge for what might look best to those here.

Judging by the number of concerned faces, rushing in and putting a stop to this display appeared to be the wisest course of action... but try as he might, the Merovingian couldn't bring himself to break up the scene. Popular opinion be damned, he thought, drawn back to focus on the lashing webs of energy snapping about on the floor. He was having a difficult enough time forcing away a glaring hard-on at the sight as it was. The tasting of forbidden fruit was among the finest energies the species could give off for him, in his opinion-- and here lay one who was gorging themselves in a frenzy, in defiance of dignity, morality, or the very world around them. How rare, how magnificent, the bestial nature that soon appeared whenever humanity was given its heart's desire! How could he ever be expected to turn away this jewel dropped at his feet?

---

"Please-- this isn't fun anymore--" iSmith wheezed. His voice sputtered and rasped unevenly, as if the words themselves were no more than slurping putty being crushed in his choker's grip. His hands jerked where they were held in place, fingers curling to weak, wobbly claws. "can't--! pl..please ahgod...hurts--!!"

Am I going to die? Why isn't Master doing anything? Master wouldn't let me die, right?

Frenzied eyes zeroed in on the blurry face above him. iSmith could hear his own thoughts racing, even as he lost track of where they were heading: No, he better not let me die-- not like this! I am not going to let myself get killed just because of some fucking... worthless... HUMAN!!

His only answer came as one hand released its grip, the other one still squelching against the pit of his neck. There was a burst of relief...

---

The man hesitated for a moment before picking up the blade, noting the raging, useless hate boiling from the eyes of the body below him. His hand hovered in the air-- caught, almost, held back by some sudden, buried fear he couldn't explain.

Those eyes. He'd seen eyes like that before. A dream, maybe... they'd killed him.

Idiot, he caught himself, and kept going, burying himself deeper, feeling flesh slapping into flesh, hearing somebody's breath wringing away, all because of HIM. There was a hot plume of power spreading out through his body, from his dick to his brain, through everything. He was so close, felt so goddamned PERFECT for once in his entire life-- absolute control, over this nameless dumbfuck, over the universe-- like he was going to teeter right off the cliff of reality altogether as soon as he'd give in and cum, by now just riding it out like the edge of forever.

Why would he stop to think of a dream when this was right in front of him?

---

...And the hand came back, digging a line across iSmith's cheek. The line swelled into a thick red smear. The blade was still moving.

Impact. Spray on the man's face. Teeth. Still grinning. Red dots on the teeth.

Could feel it. Edge poked through. Tore inside.

A roar erupted from deep in iSmith's throat, loud and clear, even as he could barely see faces above him anymore. His vision blurred white.

All he could feel was a sound.

No... A voice...


don't deserve

They don't deserve to be doing this.

Filth... nothing but filth, every one of them. This is how they really are-- they're a plague!

They don't deserve to live. NONE of them!

Not even my master.


...No. That's not right. Master said I couldn't be filthy, once, didn't he?

He forced the memory file to play before his eyes, fighting to keep the killing urge he heard at bay. Long ago, before he was sick, blacked out for all that time. Before almost everything, back when the Merovingian called to mind the title of "boss" instead of what it had grown to become. His master had only just taken him in; he'd been recoded, given the mark of ownership, upgraded to better serve what Master wanted-- that was it, they were testing how he could reshape parts of his shell, right there...

"--not entirely sure how I shall be using you, or if I will be keeping you to myself, as of yet." Master's touch, running a finger down his back, lingering over his uncovered rear. "I have made sure that your... processes... will accommodate for both my wishes and what will likely be theirs, however. You may eat what you wish, drink as you please. It will all be converted to its liquid equivalent for exchange, so never fear." A fingertip, pressing softly into the skin. A smile, at his own pleasured moan, feeling Master's finger slipping into the hole he was happy to create for him. "There, now, that's it... Nothing filthy shall ever touch you here."

Ignored, the murderous cloud faded to silence. The clip played on.

"C'est magnifique..." Slipping out. A sigh... and his master's voice, quickly chiding him: "Ah-- but be careful, little one. If you do come to lie with humans of mine, know that they are very simple creatures, not as privileged as our kind. If you make it vanish like that, they will only fear you. Never let down your guard with them. You can promise me this, yes?"

...Shit. His shell hadn't reset to its defaults, had it? Is that why he was here, why nothing was responding? It didn't make sense, but iSmith couldn't think of anything else that would cause him to freeze up like this.

The hold on his thoughts fizzled into a void once more. What did his body do when it reset? Would the pattern he'd set for his crotch still be in place? He couldn't remember! iSmith tried to move his-- he wasn't sure what, just something, anything that might work. Still couldn't feel if the signals were going through... his body was being moved somewhere, but not by him, shaking in little jerks-- couldn't see at all.

Oh, god, his mind shuddered, was this what it felt like to die?!

No, he couldn't think of that. No matter what, he had to keep doing what his master had told him to do. He'd promised. Master never went back on his word, never ever, so it was only fair!

...But how was he supposed to tell if he was keeping his dick where it was if he couldn't connect to a single damned thing in the first place? He was sliding into a panic again--

--gonna die--

--fuck DAMMIT gonna die!!

He heard the thought interlace with a noise from Outside: "Gonna come... like a fuckin' bomb!!"

The words sparked some dim, faraway leap of hope, that it meant this would be over soon, and

and then


and then he was coughing and flailing and there was AIR again. The human was crouched on his knees next to iSmith, still moaning, "Aw fuggin' hell you shoulda felt it, his whole ass grabbed me like a fuggin' vice when he passed out, it's better than what I even heard it was like...!"

iSmith felt the cool touch of the girl's lips on his forehead and heard her say "Thank you! There, you happy now?" to him, or her boyfriend, or both-- he couldn't tell, his eyes kept goggling around if he tried focusing on her. He lifted his head, feeling his neck twinge like a rusty metal gate at the movement. He had to make sure, even if it was already too late and they'd noticed...

It was still there. Good.

The girl's voice kept droning in the background like a chipper little mosquito, holding up the hot-pink blur of plastic iSmith was too dazed to recognize as a cell phone. "Well if we're done here, Mello just texted me about this place down on Fifty-Fourth Street that got quarter bags in tonight. You wanna head over? She said she'd split hers."

The two of them left soon after, chattering between themselves all the while; the man's voice sounded like it was floating, joyous enough for a different plane of existence. iSmith closed his eyes to try blocking away their noise, leaving himself unaware of the glares nearly everyone else left in the room was giving his rapist and their accomplice. Regardless of how far their own actions would go while inside its walls, the human regulars to Club Hel did not take kindly to those who would fuck past the boundaries of a safeword.

Quick to save face with the witnesses here in the lounge, the Merovingian swooped to open the door and waved for a guard to come near. "Those two. Them," he ordered loudly, pointing out the offenders. "Make sure they leave. NOW. And get photographs-- I don't want to see either of them inside this club again!"

The bald bouncer gave him a nod, stomping off towards the pair with a gruff frown. As though their boss had spoken to each of them at once, two more of the club's guards silently left their assigned lookout spots to provide backup.

The Merovingian returned to the room, clapping his hands together and clasping them before his chest. "So, then. Now that those unpleasantries have been dealt with... Who is next?"

As if moved by the same muscle, the ugly glares of the room fixed onto him.

Apparently, the humans here had difficulty recognizing that the privileges held by rulers and the ruled simply were not the same, the Merovingian fumed. He watched as those few people still in the lounge stood and left nearly as one, disgusted. Ah, well... No matter how tempting the idea of showing those particular rabble where their proper place was, it wasn't worth the threat of losing customers. Especially after he'd just spent so much effort trying to sway their approval...

"Very well," he said, turning to walk towards the table where the two remaining customers in the room were still sitting. He recognized them as two of the three men he'd discussed terms with earlier. "C'est leur propre perte! I admire your persistence, messieurs. It would appear your turns have finally arrived!"

Their reactions were just as disappointing. One could do no more than stare, shaking his head in a decidedly chimplike manner. He gestured to where iSmith's body lay slumped on the floor, declaring "Man. No way. Seriously. He's had enough!" before scooting his chair back and standing up to leave, defiantly stabbing his joint into the table's ashtray.

And then, the voice of the other, piping up quietly: "I'll do it."

His friend turned to him in disbelief, but after a short, nervous pause, the man shrugged, his eyebrows crumpling guiltily. "I know, I know," he mumbled to them. "It's, just-- aww, it's been YEARS now! Do you have any idea what that's like?!"

He got up from his chair, but stood in place, as if a realization had only then hit him. Tapping softly at his pants pockets, he asked, "Um... either of you happen to have a..."

The man's friend rolled his eyes, ducking a hand into a shirtpocket to retrieve a wrapped condom square. "Here."

"...thanks," the man mumbled, taking it and walking from the table. He overheard his friend muttering, "Nice to see you're at least smart, even when you're being a complete douche," before the door opened and shut, but he ignored it, settling down on one knee before iSmith.

"I know you're gonna want me to wear one of these," he said, holding up the condom square to start carefully tearing the edge of one side free. "Mnn... just hope I can get it up with one on. Never could stand the feel of 'em." He chuckled, in a dry, hangman's-humor sort of way. "Guess that's how I got myself into this mess in the first place."

iSmith kept his eyes on the floor. "Don't put it on, then. You don't have to. I don't care."

"What? No, are you crazy?" The human's eyes went wide. Much more quietly, he continued, "You know what I've got, right?"

"No. But it doesn't matter." iSmith's words were flat and hollow. "It's what I'm here to do."

"It doesn't matter I've got HIV?!"

"...No, why? What's that?"

The man's eyebrows peaked, incredulous. "You're kidding, right? Pff-- the one guy that never heard of it... look, it's this disease that you get, from-- well, from doing what you've been doing, with someone like me who's got it. You'll probably die from it if you pick it up, and there's a pretty good..." He glanced quickly to iSmith's torn rear, then back at the blood staining his face. "...no, damn good chance you'd get it if we have sex, here. And once you get it, you have to take whole fucking handfuls of pills every day just to make sure that your body doesn't rot right in front of your eyes even faster..."

Hearing the bottled pain shaking behind this human's words, iSmith felt his mouth quirk into a smile. "Been through a lot, huh?" he asked softly.

His only answer came in a quick snort. The human averted his eyes... only to feel a ragged-wristed hand turn his chin to face the suited man again. "Then here's your chance. You finally found somebody who doesn't care," iSmith said.

The human didn't seem to know what to think of this. His expression wavered between guilt and sheer, dumbfounded joy. "You're sure about this. Really, totally sure?" he asked, though judging by how carefully iSmith's hand had to move when he reached to unzip the man's pants, it was clear both of their bodies had already made the decision.

"Just enjoy yourself. That's all that matters here," iSmith told him, and bent his head down between the legs he'd just disrobed, ending the discussion with the first warming curls of his tongue. He could hear moans-- words praising him, lauding him with the names of deities-- feel the trembling hands upon his head slide down to his neck as his mouth suckled deeper... and yet the movements seemed unimportant, not worth considering for any longer than the next action that came along. When iSmith felt his head being moved away, he yielded without a second thought, leaning onto his back and beckoning the human to go further.

It was through a sort of haze that he felt the man gently take hold of his legs, bringing them to rest over his shoulders. The fabric of his pants that dangled in the way was batted aside, not worth the effort needed to stop and swear. The human paused off and on when edging inside him, though, interrupting his numbness with one nagging question after another: does it hurt? slower? you still okay?-- until iSmith hissed a curt, lusty-sounding "I can't feel a thing. Just do it," hoping it would shut him up.

And soon he was hugging iSmith from on top, nudging their bodies along in heaving time. He rubbed his stubbled cheek against his receiver's face, smearing blots of blood onto his own. The tears could be heard in his voice, whispered into iSmith's ear. Thank you... thank you...

iSmith kept his gaze off to the side, trying to ignore how much this felt like that special night with his master, right before he'd fallen sick. Being clutched close, being held... the night that seemed ages away, from the pall he saw it through right now.

So much. Oh. oh God...

It struck iSmith all the more roughly, knowing that the human's kindness was only a lie.

I'm sorry...

Anything more than sex and humans couldn't be trusted. He knew this.

Oh god...! Gripping tighter.

iSmith gripped back, bucking along harder. This didn't mean anything. Just a fuck.

Hot breath, huffed along his face.

He knew this. The humans had proved it.

But it all felt so warm...

Feels so fucking good...

Wait!-- dammit-- Did he say that just now, or the other guy? iSmith couldn't tell. Inside that thrashing second of doubt, he realized he'd been coaxing his skin around the man's penis all the stronger with the lunges from on top, and slowed immediately, feeling a flare of anger at himself for giving in to the moment. Slower. Pulling along the cock like a snake's sucking jaw. Hell, it didn't matter if the human might like that better or not... soon he would come and it'd be over anyhow.

The man grunted-- a breathless "aw shit...!!"-- and with a final, frantic wobble of his hips, yet another thick, gummy blossom burst into bloom from the curve of iSmith's ass, drizzling cream-colored tendrils down his legs.

iSmith let his eyes close. Don't cry, don't you dare cry, he tried ordering himself. It's done. Don't give the guy any hopes. It's over.

His programming obeyed his commands just as well as any other time he'd felt he was about to cry, but he insisted to himself once more that he didn't care.

Unluckily for iSmith, even after the human pulled out of him, they stayed next to him there on the floor, hugging arms around his waist like a trapjaw. "My... my name's Chuck..." he heard the man mumble shakily. "What's yours?"

"Why would you care?" iSmith shot back. Just leave already, his mind grumbled. I'm so tired...

"Well... I mean-- it's just, you don't seem like the bug-chaser type. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but... why are you doing this?"

Shut up. Shut up go away shut up shut the hell UP.

"You in trouble? With a fix, or something? 'Cause... I don't know if I could help much, but I feel like I want to help you somehow."

iSmith kept lying there like a dead fish, hoping this Chuck guy would get the hint and fuck off. "It's just what I'm here for. That's all. Now goodbye," he snapped, his voice quiet and cold.

He didn't even move when Chuck pulled away. Couldn't. That would be giving in.

He'd done that too much already.

---

After listening in on the pair's conversation the whole time, the Merovingian watched the customer slowly rise to his feet once more. As the human neared the door, he called to him, "Yes, thank you! Off you go! Enjoy yourself! On with the show, as they say. Just not here."

And the room was finally clear.

The Merovingian stood before his pet, who lay sprawled to the side, huddled upon the lounge's carpeted floor. iSmith had gone silent, covering his face with both hands, but the shivering of his shoulders and the trickles of clear gloss slipping through his bunched, red-stained fingers spoke his emotions like no words could. The Merovingian watched iSmith's slight rocking motions with curiosity-- back and forth, back and forth, in a completely useless expenditure of energy. His pet couldn't be in any pain, so these hysterics served no purpose.

Then again, he considered, from what all his information of the human psyche indicated, his pet had just been through something universally thought of as a scarring experience. Several times in a row, at that. iSmith's programming was not Agent-like alone, he reminded himself... as baffling as the other behaviors could sometimes be.

The Merovingian was about to speak, but his pet stirred before he even opened his mouth. iSmith's haunted stare pierced the Merovingian through the still-oozing scrapes on his face, through the short, cum-runny bangs stuck askew along his forehead. Upon seeing his master, iSmith's frame shook harder, wracked by sobs that refused to come out. Without saying a word, the Merovingian took him by the hand and half-led, half-dragged him over to a sheltered corner of the room, far away from the door, stopping there to draw him into an embrace.

That did it. His pet's voice rasped, gave a wet stutter, and began keening-- miserable, terrified wails-- as iSmith sagged into his arms. The Merovingian paused to flick a stray globby strand from his pet's hair to the floor before drying iSmith's tears with his thumb, speaking softly, "There, there, shh-shhh... It's over."

"I-- I...!" iSmith had to stop and cough before his voice chose to obey him. "I never told any of them to stop. Not one. Even when I knew you and everybody else was there watching!"

"Yes. Yes, shhh. I know. You did very well. I'm proud of you," the Merovingian said, smiling.

"I know that-- that's not it," whispered iSmith. His expression looked hopelessly torn, and it took the Merovingian a moment to realize his pet was trying to complain without breaking the contract he was bound to-- no easy feat, though iSmith hardly ever protested his master's wishes to begin with. "They stunk. SO bad. I was gonna ask you if there's a way I can get all of it out of me again, but I'm scared to see how much there really is, after it all..."

iSmith continued sputtering, burying his head against the Merovingian's chest so mournfully that his master felt it proper to scratch through his hair in hopes of calming him. "They were... I don't know, it still feels hot, but not warm like yours always does. All their... their c--" iSmith mouthed around the word without saying it-- "They're still there, it's sloshing around in this big heavy clump in my gut even now and I can't STAND it, makes me sick, I really am nothing but a slut, I--"

His babbling was cut short; the Merovingian had brought one hand behind his pet's head, guiding his face to his own chest and holding it there until the muffled words became silence. He let his grip fall from iSmith's head as he shook his own, saying, "I would admire anyone who is as honest a slut as you are, my little one." He saw the beads of saltwater wobbling from his pet's eyes fall in fresh trails. "And one who sheds such pure, sweet tears as you do could never truly be filthy, at their core..."

To the Merovingian's confusion, that last part seemed to devastate his pet. iSmith's strength buckled at the words, making him double over weakly, weeping even harder. He bowed his head when the Merovingian yanked him back to his knees, stammering, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry. I really don't want to cry, I don't! You just-- you're so good to me, all the time! But my eyes, they... They just keep..." Looking fearful, as if he'd already said too much, he ended with "My throat really. Really. hurts."

Referring to stress as if it was a physical pain, then, the Merovingian thought. Yes, his pet tended to voice concerns in this manner. "Very well," he said with a decisive nod. "First things should come first. Reset what you can-- I will arrange to have the rest of your body mended before long. And if it is the only way you will feel at ease, there is a method by which you can purge away anything not of your own coding... but be aware, many programs find its sensations undesirable. Once it begins, you cannot stop the process until it is finished."

"Good," said iSmith. "I wouldn't want to."

"As you wish..." the Merovingian replied. He set off to retrieve the metal bucket that sat on the floor nearby, all but forgotten by those who had been in the lounge. "The carpeting will need to be reset tonight. Only common courtesy, not to stain anything further, yes?" he said, setting the pail in front of iSmith. "Here, now-- you must repeat the command after me exactly, or nothing will happen."

iSmith looked into the bucket warily, but he nodded, waiting for his orders.

"Go to audio mode," his master began.

"Goh-doo-adieu-moe-duh," repeated iSmith.

The Merovingian frowned at him. "No, no. Say the words!"

"Zhe-wards," iSmith said. A slight squint of confusion rumpled his brow.

"Aiii-yi-yii..." the Merovingian muttered, bringing one hand to cover his face and hopefully rein in the look of anger he knew was about to show. He knew what he'd have to do next. He just didn't want to know.

He moved his hand away, staring straight ahead into his pet's blue eyes. "Go to audio mode. Call subroutine sweep. Set pause ten seconds," he rattled off. His voice was quiet, precise, and... completely devoid of any French accent.

iSmith felt his eyes widening in surprise at the change, but he recited the sentences without altering a syllable. Much like the Merovingian's de-accenting, iSmith wasn't expecting the twinge he suddenly felt twisting somewhere inside him. Or the small jet of semen that spilled from his mouth as soon as the words left his throat, for that matter... but at least his master was there to tip his head closer to the bucket just in time.

He sat there on his knees, hunched over the bucket and panting for air as soon as he found he could take it in once more. For ten seconds.

And it started again. His body went rigid and spasmed, all he could do was hear his own sandpaperish gagging and watch the wet clots falling out of his mouth-- and it stopped...

For a process that only took a few minutes, being unable to breathe part of the time made it seem much longer. However, iSmith soon felt himself lapsing into a sort of calm. No matter how horrid the sludge of foreign code looked once it was outside of him, he took comfort in knowing it was now just that-- outside.

And Master was there for him. iSmith could feel the Merovingian's strong hand patting and rubbing his back between therapeutic retches. The humans had come and gone, and his master still wanted him... Almost idly, he watched the mix of sperm and urine drift about inside the bucket. The smells of artificial chocolate and strawberry, still-unspent liquor, and natural by-products stung his nose like a swarm, but he found himself hypnotized by the sight of it. All those swirls-- soupy, glistening, curling in on each other... They looked really pretty, iSmith thought, if he didn't stop to think about where it all came from.

The ten seconds were already up; iSmith added to the canvas, grabbing for the Merovingian's other hand and squeezing tight as the surge controlled his insides for him.

"There, now. That's a good pet," said the Merovingian. He let that serve as his penance.

---

The infamy iSmith had gained was already evident when the Merovingian and his pet made their way to the bar. There were stares and whispers from the clubgoers as soon as the collared man in the suit walked through the glass door of the lounge. Twice, the Merovingian heard iSmith yelp, when someone’s hand reached to grope at him from within the anonymous forms of the crowd. Figuring that this was not about to help calm his already frazzled pet's nerves, the Merovingian hooked an arm around iSmith's waist, shooting dangerous glares towards anyone who stepped too close until they reached their destination.

"Water for one. With plenty of ice," the Merovingian ordered. The bartender had a chilled glass ready for him on the countertop before she could say 'yes, sir'.

When the two of them took a seat upon the black-leathered barstools, the Merovingian noted the wince iSmith gave before sitting down. "Is there a problem?" he asked.

His pet fidgeted guiltily and stared at the countertop. "Didn't know if I'd be infecting anything..."

"Ahhh," drawled the Merovingian, his voice trailing off in a chuckle. "Worry not, little one. You are no danger. If it makes you feel more at ease, however, I will schedule you for a virus scan as well, in case you have received any sort of harmful code from someone tonight." Smirking, he added, "Nothing but the best for my pet. And regardless, human diseases are easy enough to debug."

"Debug...?" repeated iSmith, puzzled. "You can just get rid of the virus, even if it's incurable?"

"Of course," the Merovingian said. "It is only code, after all."

"But that one person said he's going to die from it! Why doesn't anyone cure him, if it's that easy?"

His master shook his head, smirking at iSmith's naïveté. "In earlier versions of this place, somebody would have, if there were even any fatal diseases to contract. It was the machines that requested the change be made... It was found that, even if they may have fewer years to produce energy because of it, humans will generate far, far more power if they have something in their lives they believe is worth fighting for. Or against, in such cases." The Merovingian rolled his eyes. "It is nothing more than useless ideas they find to strive after, in the end. But it produces results, and results are what machines respect above all else."

"Oh," said iSmith, suddenly feeling rather ignorant. He sipped from his glass with an awkward silence.

When he set down his drink, his left hand wandered to brush the right's wrist, smoothing his fingertips over the angry bites the razor's edge had taken from it. The cuts were so slim, yet the blood was only now slowing enough to form a crust, darkening the "skin" of his suit several shades where it had seeped into the cloth.

iSmith was left feeling incredibly vulnerable at the sight, and wondered what his suit (or, for that matter, his face!) must look like to the crowd of humans here in the club. Even when drying, the blood and semen on him was more than obviously there. He closed his eyes, feeling the stares everybody around him must be boring into his back right now-- all those silent, accusing faces, those clucking tongues. We know where you've just been. We know what you've been doing. Who's been doing you...

The Merovingian's voice eased through iSmith's paranoia, bringing him back to reality, fabricated as it was. "What?" iSmith asked quickly. "Sorry, I couldn't-- didn't quite catch that."

"You wanted them to stop, didn't you?" said his master, his mouth curling to a small, knowing smile.

"No! No, of course not!" iSmith sputtered. "It's what you wanted, for them to... to..." He gestured emptily with one hand. Any words he felt like speaking seemed to disappear from his tongue.

"A-hah..." The Merovingian grinned. "You lie. See?" He pointed to the tears starting to well up anew from iSmith's eyes, following a single teardrop with his finger as it sank free to fall along his pet's torn cheek. "See, hmm? There. Your lie, there it is." Chuckling, the Merovingian patted iSmith's arm, sweeping up and down the sleeve in strong, reassuring strokes. "You should know better, mon petit. You have too loyal a nature to hide from me... but worry not, worry not. I did not predict that anyone so violent would step forward, but I do admit, it was a lapse of my judgment for me to offer you as freely as I did."

He sat up slightly in his seat, leaned closer to his pet, and continued, speaking as though he was sharing the most secret workings of existence with iSmith. "You see, all of humanity shares a desire to test the extremes of whatever opportunities they are given-- so it has been, even before this place or any of us living within it was created. They have the illusion of choice in their lives, which programs do not, this is true. But though the humans deny it, they truly long for boundaries to be laid before them, lest they wander their lives away without knowing their path nor their limitations until it is too late. It was foolish of me to not place those limits, knowing the species' tendency to push at them... a mistake I shall not make again."

iSmith looked at him blankly, swallowing a bit more from his drink. "Well... thanks!" he managed to say, unsure if it was the proper response.

Smirking at iSmith's confusion, the Merovingian teased, "You must admit... when it is but the two of us, you may cry for me to stop, but you are upset if I do. The humans cannot be blamed for hearing your 'yes' in your 'no'."

"Sorry," iSmith said, hanging his head as though the blame truly rested upon his shoulders. He took another sip of water, clutching the glass between clammy-pale hands and swallowing the clinking ice chips whole. "But if it's okay... I never. EVER. want to be with humans again." He stared into his drink, his eyes suddenly distant. "It scared me. Like I can't even say... and I don't know if this is going past my boundaries or anything like what you said, but please. Just... please. I don't need anything or anyone else but you."

His master's response came after a slight pause. "Very well. So it shall be," the Merovingian said, enjoying a quiet, unnoticed victory grin. How fortunate, he thought to himself. It seemed that yet another benefit had been reaped by the evening's events. He wouldn't have predicted that his pet would gain an even stronger loyalty to him because of this, yet there it was, confessed like a sinner's plea. And here he'd already been considering when to schedule another reset for iSmith's memories...

It occurred to the Merovingian that this second incarnation of his pet had not yet been given a suitably difficult test of character. He made a point of setting up such opportunities to break his closest confidantes from time to time, in order to prove his trust in them was still well-founded. Three strikes with one stone from this, then. Comment chanceux!

All in all, this had been a most productive turn of events. After allowing time for gossip to spread (the part about someone nearly getting killed would have to be weeded out as hearsay, of course), a portion of his human customers were certain to return to the club more often, randomly given as his "gift" was. The machines were likely to be grateful for having that chain of superpowered explosions flare up here and there in the pod towers (he could just picture the sight: a random few pods suddenly swirling with a faint, sperm-discoloured cloudiness, one after another), all of the energy swelling from batteries within his territory. And now, iSmith clearing him of any blame for being used as the live bait for it all...

In fact, it seemed too perfect. What was he forgetting? There must be something, he thought. Always a price to pay for one's actions, this he knew. The Merovingian turned away from the bar and glanced over the dance floor, which still teemed with limbs in motion. His gaze flicked up towards the balcony; he caught a groan before it escaped his mouth.

Ah, yes. Persephone was still waiting.

Always a price.

---

When her husband and his pet returned, Persephone eyed the patchwork of towelled-dry blotches crisscrossing on iSmith's suit with little more than a long-suffering frown. Her eyebrows tilted upwards as she remarked, "I suppose that I don't even have to ask what you two have been doing, do I, my love."

The Merovingian seemed shocked. "You think I would be so despicable? Ah, no, chèrie-- I merely found him being brutalized by a group of ruffians, here in the club. The things they were doing to that poor soul--!" His eyes rolled to the ceiling; he clucked his tongue mournfully. "Oh, I could not bear even to mention it, before une mademoiselle... Scandalous!"

"I see," Persephone replied, her voice still radiating an icy calm. "I was wondering why you were taking so long. There were rumors, here in the balcony, you understand. But now that I know you were just stopping to have a nice wank at the sight of your toy being gangbanged--" the slang words were all but spat from her ruby lips-- "...my mind is completely at peace once more." She reached for the blood-red remains of her third wine of the evening and drained the glass, setting it down upon the table again without once meeting her husband's gaze.

"Do not lie to me, my darling. You would have given a fortune to watch such a sight as well, would you not?" said the Merovingian quietly. Against the dark glow of the balcony lamplighting, the sharklike smile he flashed to her nearly shone.

Persephone was silent. She scowled at the spent emotion trails still hazing off from iSmith as he stared at the floor, wet-eyed and quivering and looking oh so delicious...

Chuckling, the Merovingian said to her, "After all this time, it is nice to know there will always be those things we can still agree on, hm?"


[fin]






-----
mon petit = my little one
Rare est la mouche qui fait confiance à ceux dans la maison des araignées = Rare is the fly which trusts those in the house of the spiders
C'est leur propre perte! = It is their own loss!
messieurs = gentlemen
Comment chanceux! = How lucky!
chèrie = darling
une mademoiselle = a Miss (name prefix)