WARNING: this work of fanfiction contains strong language and sexual content, including domination/submission themes between two male-bodied computer constructs, exhibitionism, cross-sex genital manipulation, and the offhand mention of birdfucking, as well as some violent imagery. If you're too physically young, too emotionally young, or too otherwise-not-legal to read these sorts of things where you are, save you and me both the trouble and DON'T READ IT. I don't own the characters of the Matrix series. The Wachowskis and Warner Bros. Pictures do. Ergo, vis-à-vis, concordantly, etc., canon characters from the series are used without permission. No profit is being made from this file.

Extra thanks is given both to Grant Morrison and Poppy Z. Brite, whose graphic novel The Filth and short story collection Are You Loathsome Tonight? (respectively) helped sow seeds of inspiration for a couple of the ideas in this fic. They're credited for letting a determined little pervert like me know that, when writing an over-the-top character, the sky was in fact not the limit. Kudos also goes to the teh_reel_matrix community for their endless support and beta help. Finally, many thanks to everyone who's read through the series all the way to its conclusion. I promise, this is the last one. No, really. You'll see why soon enough.

As this is the last story in the iFic series (chronologically in the time frame involved, at least), confusion can result from reading this story before reading the other iFics, especially with all the references to previous fics’ scenes popping up throughout this one. English translations for French words are provided after the fanfic itself. Names of extinct species and porn titles are made up; no challenge to copyright is intended if such titles do exist, though any Stewart's Lesser Mouse Deer are on their own. Happy Fun Ball is sick and tired of this shit.

...Now, on with the gratuitous sex!

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Faith in the Desert
by Apricot the Gerbil


He never could have seen it coming.

For the Merovingian, that alone should have been warning enough.

It had primarily been the fault of the absinthe, of that much he was certain. Such giddy feelings of invincibility that human invention could bring... Being nigh all-powerful as he was to begin with, the Merovingian would only partake in liquor's delights now and again, releasing the self-made locks on his emotional subroutines and allowing the peacock's tail of his ego to stretch out further still, swelling to mind-numbing proportions.

However, the effects of drunkenness were not to be enjoyed without strictest caution. The fumes of le fée verde were whispered piper's-songs, making one vulnerable, leading its host to dance into any number of pitfalls. He knew this. He'd learned that any actions that might bring himself nearer to the mindset of a human only led to weakness, known it long before the brittle memories of ancestors centuries past had been only fragments of machine-cradled flesh and blood-- mere sparks twitching in their mothers' wombs. It wasn't the impending loss he faced that troubled him, he reassured himself. He was far more upset that, for even those brief moments of leisure, he'd let himself slip.

He should have seen it coming.

The Merovingian lifted his head up from weary hands, gazing about the great oak desk before him, the walls of his study around him. Uncurling the fist of his left hand, he regarded the crumple of paper within as he had for much of the last hour: with even-faced, quiet resignation.

He found himself smoothing out the paper once again, easing the folds away more delicately now than he had at first. The fibers showed definite signs of strain from having been bunched up and pressed flat over and over again since last night, now resembling no more than a rectangle of some unpaved gravel road, shrunk down into the palm of his hand.

The smudged black ink was still as clear as when he'd laid eyes on its words last night, as if the permanence of his vow was mocking him.

Your pet will die by your own hands within two weeks. If he is not deleted by then, I will be allowed to kill him myself.

The black swirl of a heart was drawn at the bottom of the paper, just above the logo for the gambling hall he visited yesterday. As he made a habit of doing whenever he made social calls for pleasure, only the prettiest and most visually impressive of his guards were brought along for the ride. And his wife, of course, Persephone... He sneered. His very own rose of beauty, complete with dew-tipped thorns ready to stab him in the back whenever possible.

He remembered her smile, piercing him through the twin hazes of cigars and a booze-tipsy mind.

The paper twisted limply in the squeeze of his fist once more, but the Merovingian scarcely noticed it. That SMILE...

---

"I beg your pardon...?" said Persephone, smirking back at her husband. The four programs flanking the pair stopped in their walk down the hallway, just as their boss and his wife had suddenly done, and waited in silence.

Though he was far from a sloppy drunk, the Merovingian had a tendency to speak much louder than was permitted in polite company, and this time was no exception. "You heard me, mon chérie!" he replied, leaning close for a better view of both her face and the breasts straining firm against her latex dress. He held up one finger, waving it as he spoke, as if he was explaining to a child, "I. Am in. The mood. For a fuck!"

Persephone scoffed, but a playful smirk came to her face as the sound left her lips. She wrapped her arms around her husband's shoulders, shaking her head at him as she moved towards an embrace...

The Merovingian's eyelids gave a lazy flutter. He paused at Persephone's advance, brow furrowing; when realization hit, he let out a sharp, guffawing laugh and pushed her away. "No, not with YOU-- Telle folie vous pensez à! I meant with him!" he said, pointing to iSmith.

iSmith’s eyes widened, giving only the barest hint of surprise. "Really? Lil' old me?" He clasped both hands to his chest in exaggerated shock, then raised one to fan his face. "Must be my lucky day!"

Persephone's voice was flat and shivering. "What?!"

"You are truly so surprised, mon chérie?" The Merovingian chuckled. "Why would I bother carrying matches about if I have no intention of ever building a fire, hm?"

His wife only stared at him, eyes glaring with a baleful hate. Her mouth sputtered open, and clamped shut, over and again, utterly speechless.

"Come, mon petit. Let us leave the fish to be by herself," the Merovingian said, resting a hand on iSmith's shoulder and leading his pet further down the hall. iSmith turned back just in time to give Persephone a smug little grin and a shrug... right before she whirled away to storm off in the other direction, leaving one raven-haired guard scurrying to catch up with her.

As he was expecting to be led to some sort of actual room, iSmith was caught off guard by the rough, dull thud of his shoulderblades being shoved against the velvet of the hallway walls. "Um... right out here?" he mumbled, trying not to make his sudden glances to either side of the hall too obvious.

"But of course," purred the Merovingian, hands already wandering beneath his pet's blazer.

"Not worried about them seeing us, then, I take it?" iSmith nodded towards the guards standing nearby, both of whom failed to seem particularly shocked by their boss's conduct. "Or anyone else...?"

"Pshh. This is of no concern to me." The Merovingian brushed his face along his pet's cheek, speaking in low, husky breaths. iSmith's nose prickled, an involuntary twitch; the scent of sugared caramel was faint under the thick, bitter tang of wormwood on his master's breath. A blush tinted his face as the Merovingian's hand came to rest between his pantlegs, rolling his fingers against the black slacks in slow, strong whirls. "If others come by, let them be jealous... Here, come now. Give me something to play with."

After taking a closer look down the hallway, one of the guards spoke up, careful to keep his voice low and unemotional over the sounds the pink-collared program was just starting to make. "He does have a point, sir. You're blocking off the way to a men's room, where you're at now... couple water fountains, too, maybe more than that. Any orders if someone approaches?"

The Merovingian paused, giving a quick snort of impatience. "There are ladies' rooms, yes? Have them go piss with the other women! One of you can scout up ahead-- turn them away if you feel it so necessary, but I want at least one of you to stay where you are." He leaned further against iSmith, giving a sly smirk at how his pet's blush darkened. "We two need an audience, don't we, little one?"

As he closed his eyes, a whimper died in iSmith's throat.

"See, we're all in agreement! Now, if you will excuse us... oh, yes, very nice..." The Merovingian smiled in approval at the heaviness now pressing into his hand. "But such a tight fit. That must be terribly uncomfortable," he said, keeping his face close to his pet's as his other hand carefully guided the zipper of iSmith's slacks downwards. With the gliding sound of silk, the Merovingian moved to pin iSmith against the wall, chest to chest, holding his pet firmly in place with his weight alone. iSmith showed no resistance, though it was debatable whether he had much choice in the matter to begin with.

Peeling back the newly-freed fabric, the Merovingian ran his fingers down what was by now iSmith's usual coding design for his genitalia, when no specific requests were given. In a way, the Merovingian thought of it as his pet's natural equipment, self-chosen as it was.

Even as a faint webbing of veins gathered along its surface, edging it towards a fully engorged length, iSmith's penis was a tad on the smallish side. This was of little concern to the Merovingian, though there was admittedly a certain charm in being able to grasp the whole of his pet's prick within his fist. There was an air of vulnerability to the design as well; from the mesh of lines crisscrossing their way down his half-limp dick to the rounded swell of his ballsack, the dusky cream color of his skin was unmarred by even a single hair.

The Merovingian lowered his hand to let a fingertip tease along the wrinkles where cock met balls. Still cold to the touch... That would change soon enough, he thought. He cupped his hand under iSmith's scrotum, letting its weight dangle on his palm for just a moment... and then began to stroke, gently, soothing, giving an occasional squeeze or tap with his thumb onto one of the many delicate spots he knew would be there. "You like this, don't you?" he said, all but leering at the feel of his pet squirming underneath him.

His caresses worked quickly; he felt his pet's penis stiffen thick between his fingers, heard the breaths huffed against his neck catch and quicken. As he slid his fingers down iSmith's erection, the Merovingian continued, "You like it, when I masturbate you, just like this...?" He pumped back up again, stretching the loose skin of the shaft slightly as he went.

iSmith gasped. His eyes gave a quick flick towards the guard, biting his lower lip a bloodless white to keep silent at the feeling. His head bobbed, pulling away, quivering... then tipped forward, coming to rest on the curve of the Merovingian's shoulder. iSmith tried burrowing his forehead further into the silk where it had landed, using his master's body as a shield against any prying eyes.

With his free hand, the Merovingian ran fingers along iSmith's cheek, this time simply for amusement's sake-- the coded skin there still felt cool, despite what its fevered plum-redness would suggest. "Now, there, there... why deny your urges, just because others can also witness our glory? No need to be so selfish," the Merovingian cooed to his pet.

He followed iSmith's downcast gaze, offhandedly noticing how his pet's bare genitals had taken on a flushing reddish tinge as well. "Ahh, you see! You even blush down here!" He laughed, loudly enough for the whole hall to hear. "That is so very cute... Even when you try to hide, it sits up and begs!" He slowed his fingers to give his pet's penis all the more attention, tickling right under the tender tip... and grinned, feeling iSmith's head twist and thrash against the knot of his own rumpling tie in his attempts to keep quiet. The Merovingian laughed again, a low chuckle this time. Such a private face he could beckon his pet to reveal, compared to the catty socialite the rest of the world saw!

For decades now, the Merovingian had made a little game of preying upon iSmith's sense of public shame whenever he could get away with it-- or, as in his present state, when he simply didn't care one way or the other who might be watching. He wasn't really feeling any more aroused than usual at the moment, but seeing iSmith's reaction was well worth the effort of faking it.

It amused the Merovingian no end that, regardless of all the various perversions he had led iSmith into trying with nary a complaint over the years-- in fact, he would still notice iSmith giving him disappointed pouts when he would nip off to the urinals alone, in those rare times when the restroom was not being used as a front-- his pet would become so adorably embarrassed over such a trifle as exhibitionism. Present even in the first iSmith's mind, this shyness seemed to be one of those rare qualities that was truly a part of his personality-- a trait found deep in iSmith's core, not some temporary quirk to be wiped away with the rest of his less useful memories.

Why would iSmith show such an unapologetically flamboyant face in public if he couldn't stand the idea of being watched while with his master? Had Neo, the late One, something to do with this, locked away in a memory not even the machines claimed to know of? Some odd snippet of programming within the Smith virus, doubtful as the idea was...? Or could a program-spawned hybrid actually evolve, birthing itself unique from its components? Ah, the mystery of heredity's power versus choice-- all within a mind he could unlock and play with as he wished, piece by moaning piece.

The Merovingian thrusted his hips against iSmith's thigh, grinding up and down with an agonizingly slow friction. iSmith could feel the hardening lump of his master's erection sliding along as well, rubbing heat into his body with its every move. "You feel this...? You feel what you do to me?" the Merovingian said to him, turning his head to speak into his pet's ear. "Make me want you, want to do such filthy, naughty things to you..."

A steady squeezing feeling twinged at iSmith's cock, his programming trying to mimic what the pulse of blood felt like when close to orgasm. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sensation by itself, but years of feeling it only when his master was doting over his genitals had led him to find it a maddeningly potent turn-on once it started. iSmith raised his hands to grab at the Merovingian's back. His fingertips clutched into the silk suitcoat as a long moan slid through his teeth.

Even as his fingers kept up their nimble work along iSmith's groin, the Merovingian shifted his own crotch to slide the satin-clothed bulge of his prick against iSmith's own erection. His words were tense-- too tense, in fact, exaggerating his deep, lusty breathing to a level usually only found in bad soap operas. "You want it... Want me to empty both balls right down that cum-hungry gullet of yours, don't you? Turn you over and pound your arse 'till it's weeping and raw, 'till I tear you in half-- Yeees, I know you do... Say it!"

iSmith never even seemed to notice he was being made fun of. "Oh god yes! Yes please I want it...!" he exclaimed to his master's tie.

After a slight pause, the Merovingian leaned in close, whispering, "Je dis quelque chose, et vous agissez comme si vous êtes sur le point de jouir dans des vos pantalons!"

iSmith replied with a blissful sigh.

The Merovingian rolled his eyes and contemplated spouting a string of completely random gibberish. He didn't, though, figuring he already knew the response he'd receive.

Of course, that was the only problem of these exercises. There came a point where iSmith seemed too dependable. He never failed to become enthralled by his master's touch, always did exactly what he was told-- or, when he was told not to react to a pleasurable stimulus, it was guaranteed he could never quite carry out the command for long. His entire purpose revolved around being conveniently erotic whenever his master wished, and yet... predictability was truly the murderer of passion.

The Merovingian's thought process wasn't exactly that articulate at the moment, but his reaction was still crystal-clear: his pet's trembling suddenly disgusted him. No better than a human addict before which a needle was being dangled, he thought... A random idea came to him through the fog, one that brought a smile to his face.

"Say 'red leather, yellow leather' three times," he said.

A flicker of confusion could be seen crossing iSmith's expression, but true to his nature, he obeyed without hesitation. "Red leather yellow leather. Red leather ether yeth-- Yellow weathe--!" His words muddled into a whine.

"Bah!" the Merovingian cried, backing away in a flourish of faked disappointment. iSmith blurted out something impossible to understand through his desperation, but the Merovingian continued, holding fingers to his temples. "No, no, the moment is gone," he said, giving a bitter headshake to his pet.

Nodding to his bored-looking guard, the Merovingian started down the hallway again as if nothing had happened. He paused, looking back at his pet. "Come now, tuck that in! This is a public establishment, you know," he chided, pointing to the erection still poking through iSmith's open fly.

iSmith shivered, his genitals disappearing into flat skin. With a wide bulge of his eyes and a tiny, tense "rrrrghh~!" through clenched teeth-- the closest he ever got to actually complaining-- iSmith zipped up and followed his master down the hall, shoulders drooped.

---

The rest of that evening was largely a blur. Bits and pieces stood out in the Merovingian's memory: at some point, he and his wife had found themselves at one of the gambling hall's craps tables. That must have been when the wager was made...

---

Persephone's tone was cautious, testing for any seriousness in her husband's sudden suggestion. "Anything we want?" she repeated.

"Nothing wrong with that, is zhere?" the Merovingian said, a slur creeping into his voice making him sound even more garishly French than usual. His third cloudy glass of absinthe was already down to the dregs. His grip on it wavered, clinking the rim against the table's edge. "Come, someone--" he snapped his fingers-- "Get us some papers! If we are to bet, we need to write our biddings!"

"Careful, boss," murmured one of the albino twins watching the festivities nearby. Their brow arched upwards-- the most amused-looking expression either of them tended to display.

"Pity if her eyes are on your jewelry," the other said, completing the thought.

"Ah yes. Correction. No body parts!" the Merovingian told his wife, wagging a finger towards her. He was too oblivious to notice that, far from showing disgust at his tipsiness, her grin had only been growing wider.

When notepads and pens were finally placed before them both, the Merovingian paused to tip back the sludgy remains of his drink, shivering at the blast of bitter fire on his tongue. With overdramatic flair, he clicked the pen to readiness, flashing glinting teeth to Persephone from across the table.

She returned his daring smile with one of her own. "We write our wager, then... and if I win, you have to do what I write?"

"If you win, yes." The Merovingian's grin became a mocking leer.

"Go for the SHOES~!" cried a spectator's voice. Persephone turned to see iSmith smiling at her from the sidelines, giving a cheerleading wiggle of his fists...

"I have your word?" she said, returning to face the Merovingian's stare once more, her eyes narrowing.

Her husband tipped his glass towards her, giving a lopsided bow. "But of courzse."

Persephone was done writing within moments.

The Merovingian wrote nothing, merely letting the tip of his pen dance on the empty air just above the paper. There was no way he could lose, after all... He tore the sheet away, folded it in half, and dropped it to the table's edge. Swiping the dice into his palm, he chucked them with the same sweep of his arm, nodding to himself in victory before they even landed.

After the score was noted, the dice were scooped up and presented to Persephone by one of her husband's more recently acquired guards, a silent beauty wearing the mask of a Kabuki dancer. Giving her favorite servant a smile, Persephone kissed the dice before tossing them. All eyes were fixed on the tiny cubes as they cartwheeled along, giving a soft tmthmp against the pressed green felt when they stopped.

The eyes of Lady Luck shined up at her.

A pattering of applause started up from around the table, only to cut off just as quickly when the Merovingian noisily cleared his throat. He shrugged, mumbling, "Well now... Seems zhe Fates smile on kings and bitches alike," and clumsily reached for the folded paper of her bid. Upon opening it, his eyes darted along the words written there...

Your pet will die by your own hands within two weeks. If he is not deleted by then, I will be allowed to kill him myself.

...and snapped open wide, his drunkenness cut off as soon as he could force the command through. He could only gape at the paper at first-- then, arms stiff at his sides, he stormed off, nostrils flaring on his reddening face.

After their boss left, one of the Twins remarked, "Wonder if the missus had the bright idea for a chastity belt."

---

The next morning, the Chateau's servants hustled about their rounds skittishly, sensing something unspoken was amiss between the boss and his wife. Much moreso than usual, at least.

Their feelings of unease were confirmed when Persephone was found in her bedroom with the broken shards of a vase strewn around her. A purpled stain festered under her left eye and down her porcelain-smooth cheek... a bruise code. It was the harshest punishment the Merovingian had for his wife, one that would stay in place for a week, at minimum. For one as obsessed with outer beauty as she, it was devastating.

No sadness showed in her eyes, however. For the first time in a long, long while, a quiet, satisfied smile gleamed against the blemish. All through the day, her head was held high, keeping a stride of victory as she made her way through the Chateau.

iSmith was not so fortunate.

Even though his pet was the one unknowingly doomed by the events of the previous night, old habits were difficult for the Merovingian to break. As he saw it, one of the benefits of keeping iSmith was that there was no need to bother keeping up appearances when around a mere pet. Even the Merovingian had the urge to vent his rage upon his subordinates from time to time, and no one was more subordinate than iSmith. It was an illogical urge to have, yes, but having his wife laugh at him-- after he'd gone so far as to slap a bruise code on her, no less-- and tell him, oh, how had she said it? "I would've had you kill him right where you stood, but it will be so much more fun to watch you squirm for a while beforehand," wasn't it...?

Needless to say, she had left him feeling sorely unfulfilled... and very, very illogical indeed.

Like always, it seemed, his pet was asleep in the television room, curled on the smaller of the two couches this time. That iSmith's slumbering face looked so peaceful somehow infuriated the Merovingian even more. iSmith barely had the chance to change expressions between being shaken awake by the collar and seeing his master staring him right in the eyes.

"Bend over," the Merovingian snarled.

iSmith did so. He crossed his arms against his chest and braced his chin against the couch, eyes wide and wary.

"Tight. Very tight. I want you to feel every bit of this," his master ordered, yanking at his slacks. iSmith fumbled to undo his fly himself... the Merovingian seemed angry enough to tear the zipper clear away if he didn't.

Once iSmith's pants were hiked down, the sex itself was fairly short. The Merovingian had no stumbling hesitations; with two pulls at the lacings binding the front of his own pants, he tore into iSmith's backside, the tails of his suitcoat swooping to follow as he moved. A frenzy of grunts served as his mid-act conversation.

Just when iSmith was convinced the session would begin and end in silence, he felt the Merovingian grab his collar, jerking it while he pounded away mercilessly. As he did so, he began to shout... the same three words, spat at the air like bullets, over and over. "How dare you? How DARE you?!"

iSmith gasped at his master's unexplained fury, but said nothing, letting his body be bucked about with the force of the cock inside him. This apathy began to anger the Merovingian further. Why wasn't his pet fighting back? He was just lying there and taking it, without struggle, without even seeming at all upset at being forcibly violated. He was used to taking orders, true, but iSmith was not at fault for the mess he was now in-- only a mere innocent, condemned by the Merovingian's own mistake. And here he was, being abused without protesting whatsoever. Was he really so completely spineless?

For that matter, the Merovingian thought with a scowl, why was he the one feeling so upset in the first place? Why did iSmith deserve to be so blasé right now, when HE was the true machine, the superior one that should never have to be held captive by emotion's sway? Was iSmith making him weak somehow? Without knowing who, or what, he was trying to direct his hatred to anymore, one hand lashed out to grab a fistful of his pet's hair, pulling iSmith's head back, closer within the Merovingian's own reach. He raised the flattened palm of his free hand and smacked iSmith across the face with all the strength and aim he could muster through blind hate's hold on his body, shouting again, "How dare you--!"

His pet only gave a sharp yelp, eyelids squinted tight and quivering against the blow.

The Merovingian paused, his fingers twisting the collar in rage. "DO something!" he yelled at iSmith, shaking the pastel pink band against his pet's neck desperately.

iSmith's voice was brittle through his tiny gulps for air. "M'-- m'sorry...!"

His master froze to a halt, too stunned to keep moving. "Sorry?" he spat back. His eyebrows arched high, dumbfounded. "What do YOU have to be sorry about?!" Another blow stung his pet's cheek. "Shut up!" the Merovingian commanded, rearing up from atop iSmith's back, the collar still clasped in his hand like the reins of a horse. His pet was yanked along with it, his gagging stuttering against the faint, jangling chime of his tag bouncing about. "Vous bouffon horrible--! Just SHUT UP!"

Neither said anything more. The Merovingian slammed his hips in and out madly, growling out puffs and snarls with animalistic rutting fervor, until he at last stiffened and shot his seed. Then, and only then, did he let go of the collar. He pulled out quickly and pushed himself away from iSmith's body without ceremony, annoyed that he still felt no sense of relief after the exercise. Leaning back on the couch, he crossed his arms and fumed over something he couldn't quite pin down.

Just as the Merovingian was about to give his pet the usual command to lick him clean, he heard iSmith mumble something into the pressed leather of the couch. "What was that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.

iSmith raised his head away from the cushions. He turned around enough for the Merovingian to hear him, though he kept his gaze downward, trying to make the sheen of programmed tears triggered by his fear less noticeable to his master. "Red leather yellow leather. Red leather yellow leather. Red leather yellow leather," he rattled off quietly, without missing a syllable. The Merovingian arched a brow in confusion, so iSmith continued, his voice hoarse. "I'd... been practicing..."

He brought up a shaky hand, rubbing at the front of his neck absently. The Merovingian noticed a faint trail of bruises already darkening the skin under his pet's collar, which puzzled him at first. The reactive programming they both shared would take into account such bodily responses, yes, but the amount of pressure it would take to cause such a severe response that quickly was staggeringly high. He hadn't recalled pulling on the collar so hard...

The Merovingian frowned at the ideas creeping into his mind. Nonsense, he thought. He should not feel the need to apologize to his own property.

The two of them sat there in silence for some time before the Merovingian finally withdrew a small handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the semen dribblings from his crotch himself. Folding the cloth's dry edges to face outward with suspiciously practiced-looking skill, he returned it to his pocket, then cleared his throat, moving to fasten his pants. "I have other business to attend to," he muttered under his breath.

By the time iSmith turned to look towards the doorway, the Merovingian was already gone.

---

"Ah, there you are! Come in, come in," the Merovingian said, beckoning with one outstretched hand towards the office desk he sat behind.

"Thank you," replied iSmith, closing the door behind him and taking the only empty seat before the desk. He turned to offer a cheery "Hi!" to the young man in clear glasses already in the other chair. The man bobbed two fingers back to iSmith in a leisurely wave. iSmith couldn't help being distracted by the bright green stripe of hair dye swiping through the man's wheat-blonde dreadlocks, all gathered into a makeshift ponytail-- like some bizarre, neon-tinged meat grinder was churning behind his head. Then there was the strange message on the man's black shirt: "I'm not a criminal but I download like one."

"Ah, yeah. Just a little in-joke, there." Norton grinned, nodding off iSmith's curiosity as if he had to explain his shirts quite often, and had given up trying some time ago.

"Yes of course. Monsieur Norton has always had such a delightfully unique sense of humor," the Merovingian said. "iSmith, Monsieur Norton. Monsieur Norton, my pet, iSmith. Your patient for today," he added to Norton, tapping the thin lump of a laptop computer resting closed upon the desk. "And if you will excuse me, I must have words with my pet. Fear not, none of it is of enough importance that I would ask you to leave the room first, I assure you."

"Now..." he began, entwining his fingers together upon the desk, "I regret to say I have kept you uninformed longer than I should have, iSmith, but due to certain... unfortunate and unalterable events between Persephone and myself, it has been determined that you must sever all ties with the Chateau and everyone here within the next twelve days. Everyone, including me."

He paused at iSmith's startled expression, but when his pet said nothing, he continued. "If you do not vacate the premises..." The Merovingian's frown flattened, nearly spitting out his next word. "Persephone shall be given full permission to terminate you if I have not already done so. That is, if she finds you."

The Merovingian kept talking, but turned to open a side cabinet of his desk and ruffle through it as he did. "There are various means for exiled programs to continue on with their natural lives completely outside of my service. If you prefer, I can arrange to have your present shell code deleted from the Matrix and find you a new one. You would retain your abilities and memory, if you so choose. Only your physical appearance would be altered." Withdrawing a thin manila folder from the files he had been whisking through, he placed it upon the desk beside the computer.

"Even the most desperate and loathsome programs in this place have utilized this method to ensure their own survival, so it would certainly cause me no conflict to bestow the option to you. Quite the opposite, in fact," he added with a cryptic grin. He opened the folder, revealing three slim red disc cases-- and, to iSmith's surprise, the familiar, time-yellowed paper of his contract with his master. The Merovingian took the document in his hands, then nodded to Norton, saying, "Monsieur Norton, you are officially my witness. As of now, iSmith, you are no longer bound by involuntary service to me. Any further interaction between the two of us will be made with no obligations, no protection, and no guarantees."

With a piercing swipe, the Merovingian tore the page in half. Then again. And once more, tossing the strips into a wastebasket under the desk to land with a heavy, unceremonious thud. iSmith flinched slightly at the sound of each rip.

"Now, Monsieur Norton, if you could be so kind as to make the necessary connections for the remaining half of our business here today?" the Merovingian beckoned, sliding the laptop closer towards his guest.

"Sure thing," Norton said, lifting the cover to reveal the already-prepared update station, ready for input. Dipping into a pocket of his khaki shorts, Norton withdrew a small cable bearing a needle-tip at one end, plugging the cord into the machine. "Okay, this'll be just like the oth--" Norton stopped short, only just then remembering his patient had no memory of his previous data transfers. He stumbled to end his sentence with as much grace as he could. "--Just like this, keep it straight out... that's it, like that," he said, taking hold of iSmith's arm to calmly stick the needle into the 'vein' of iSmith's shirtcuff.

"I would only consider it fair to release you from your physical need to keep in contact with me as well," said the Merovingian to iSmith. He tapped at the blinking displays of code on the monitor here and there, giving Norton orders to delete a line here, rewrite and paste in a group of commands there... before finally announcing to his pet, "There. Your addiction to doses of my own code has been completely erased from your programming, along with your dependency on that code for any physical reactions you may experience. In short, mon petit, you may now orgasm whenever your body sees fit."

A thoughtful look came to his face, oblivious to Norton's confused blinks upon hearing his last statement. "Your programming will still lack the ability to ejaculate, but this may be seen as doubly beneficial. If your body has no sperm to exhaust itself losing, who knows who many orgasms you might be able to have in a row, hm?" He smiled, adding, "Something to keep in mind, in any case. Provided you stay out of harm's way-- that is, far away from me-- and blaze your own path, you have the rest of your existence to enjoy such discoveries."

After taking a moment to let it all sink in, iSmith spoke up, his voice quiet and overwhelmed. "Why would you do something like this? Why all for me?"

The Merovingian stared flatly at his pet, replying, "Because I do not want my wife getting the idea that she has accomplished anything through this scheme of hers. I will not, nor will I ever, bow so easily to her will. That is all."

iSmith forced a nervous chuckle, wondering when this would all be revealed as a joke. "How could I possibly leave? Why would you think I COULD?"

Frowning, the Merovingian said, "Very well. Not the desired response, but not unexpected." He lifted the small stack of disc cases to hand them to Norton. "As the connection is still in place, I have two more files which may prove invaluable in helping you make this decision. Monsieur, if you would...?"

Norton popped open the first pair of discs to feed them into his laptop, one by one. Norton's fingertips blurred across the keyboard, punching a hail of commands into the computer with inhuman speed; the files were copied and uploaded to iSmith's memory banks within minutes. "Done and done. You want the usual for your blank disc, there, full backup 'till where he's at right now?"

"Please do," the Merovingian said. As the progress bars for "is1" and "is2" scrolled slowly along in the laptop's transfer window, he continued, his voice firm. "iSmith, I must insist you play these at your earliest convenience, if not immediately. They both run rather long, but I advise you to pay close attention to what happens after the evening you met with the Ambassador--"

iSmith spoke up. "When I got that virus?"

"Exactly," said the Merovingian, smirking. "As well as the weeks preceding the end of the disc. You will see, I have requested great sacrifices from you over smaller matters than this."

Norton spoke, still hunched over the laptop screen. "Transfer's done. All I need to do is key in the password, then he can access 'em anytime he wants." At the Merovingian's nod, Norton typed the word "red" into the password prompt field, muttering "Here goes..." as he hit ENTER.

iSmith was immediately aware of... something, something unexplainably more, inside his own mind, like the drifting tune of a song he couldn't quite place. He tried focusing on the new feeling, and watched in silence as the contents of the first file began displaying itself over what he currently saw.

--BEGIN PLAY.

He shut his eyes, letting the sights and sounds of what seemed his usual memory wash over him from the beginning, awakening to Smith's glaring face before him. It all seemed so close to what he already knew that he had to strain to keep his attention by the time his meeting with the Ambassador took place.

The following morning came, and with it, the events suddenly veered off from their familiar path. There was no blackout; iSmith instead saw himself walking around the halls of the Chateau, pausing in the rooms, pacing, fretting, as the days sped on. His master was... ignoring him?

--Approaching Master. Hearing his own voice, a bit desperate. "I'm really sorry to bother you, but what's going on? You haven't--" Master looks confused. Frowning at him, walking away. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

The images sped on and on and on, as if he was watching a movie flicker past his eyes-- but the entire cast was all too familiar, the scenes all things that this strange other-him had already done. The pace of the playback was breakneck, a speed that would cause a normal human's brain to seize up from sheer overload. iSmith, however, could see it all within an eerie, warped state of stasis-- sensing it as if the file's contents were happening both at their actual rate, then expanding into real-time. It was like watching the scenery grow unbelievably clearer once it passed into a car's rear-view mirror, while whatever loomed ahead was a mere flurry of white noise and nonsense pictures. He was only aware of its compacted status by the pixels dancing about the edges of the image.

--Body trembling, looking in a mirror. Is that me? I look sick! And so pale, eew...! In La Vrai, going to see Master, tossed out on the street, curb smacking his cheek, going dark... blurry, crawling on the streets, curling up, dark again, wake up fine, wait... repeat later in Club Hel, dark again-- waking up, Two's face smirking. "Morning, sunshine."

iSmith couldn't shake a bit of surprise. He'd met the Twins before?

--"Contract troubles, is it?" "Sounds like you're just going through the test." Back with Master again: "I have something for you, little one." Pink collar and little golden tag held up, placed around his neck, Master scratching him on the head and smiling... Wait, why is it different? That tag's shaped like a heart! Persephone scowling, pinning him, kissing him, sad. "He deserves you." Himself clutching a tiny bottle, sighing. "He remembered me...!" Waiting around, watching movies, running to Master with joy, sex-- always sex, waiting, sex.

--"Vinci..."

--FILE PAUSED. Hadn't he heard himself use that name before? He rewound the file to just before it'd changed from what he already remembered. --Shivering under Master's warm, heavy body, pinned against the bed both from above and within, peacock feathers prickling softly along his neck, moaning. "Ah-- Vinci--!!"

Thought so. He'd mentioned it when he met the Twins, too, he recalled. He skipped forward to where he'd paused. --RESUME PLAY.

--"It... it won't go away!" Master frowning down at him from above. "Come now, I have no time for jokes!" Crumpling to floor, blurry, looking up-- Master already left... Master hitting him, body twisting on the floor, whimpering. Master's voice: "Why did I do that?" His own: "Why... not...?" Master smirking at him, body shrinking from Master. Shivering. "You thought I loved you, peut-être?" Staring down at the floor, Master's laughter ringing in his ears... Master mounting him from behind. Turning away to look at the couch he was bent over instead. "It... it hurts--!" "Shh, sh-shh. Don't be afraid." "...ahh, god, Vinc--"

And then, the Merovingian began-- iSmith couldn't tell for sure, but he heard his voice shrieking, saw himself thrashing around. Was his master beating him? It looked like they were still having sex... the Merovingian was on top of him, as he was when they had started. iSmith flinched at the pain in his screams, but even more at the rage boiling within his master's voice. --"Tell me! What did I say you are?" "a-- i'm, a qui-- a...!" "A WHAT?!" "I'm a quick fuck...!" "Louder..." "I'M A QUICK FUCK--!!"

He was alone, then, sobbing quietly in the darkened room...

Barely three minutes had passed since the playback had begun. Norton squinted at iSmith, frowning. "Is he crying?"

"Most likely," the Merovingian said. "Pay it no mind. He has always had a love for drama."

iSmith finally saw himself getting up from the couch, later that same night. Walking to one of the bookshelves, he shoved aside a stack of books, grabbing the empty glass bottle where he'd hidden it for safekeeping. The Merovingian's note still dangled from its stopper...

--Running out to the balcony, looking at the moon, the mountains... peeking over the edge. So far down... Throwing the bottle to the stone floor, watching it shatter. Grinding the pieces under his heel. Bending down, looking at the shards. Picking them up, flinging them over the edge, one by one, until his hands and the floor were empty again. Screaming, high-pitched and enraged, with his every swing. Dots of tears speckling the balcony railing... his own voice, a sigh. Fidgeting against his collar with a finger, and stopping. Looking down to his hand. Trembling.

--Walking closer to Persephone outside her bedroom, voice thick with tears. "Please. I'm begging you... I can't wear this anymore. I can't stand it!" Persephone smirking, walking into her room, into a closet, returning with an old, dusty-looking pink feather boa. Taking it from her, wrapping it around his neck like a fluttering shield. Posing as he looked in her floor-length mirror, a steady, determined frown on his face. Then icily telling Master shortly afterwards: "What do you THINK? I just GOT it." Days of stony silence. And finally, Master saying: "I believe I know where your talents may be better put to use..."

What iSmith saw next horrified him-- not simply because he was forced to watch it unfold, but also knowing it meant he had actually done it. Weeks upon weeks, stretching into months, of having his past self indoctrinated in the many techniques sexual torture had to offer. In fact, he would often learn the methods and then improve upon them: how to make a human scream, how to shut them up, how to put them in so much agony that their throats could only wish for the release of being able to scream. How to efficiently slice body parts at key areas-- or, if even that didn't bring someone to tell their secrets, how to slice them off. How to sew parts up, sometimes trapping other things inside before doing so. Sometimes those things were alive and crawling.

All this, to loosen the tongues of the Merovingian's the most stubborn contacts and informants... or those who simply knew too much for their own good. iSmith never once had to take off his boa, for his "guests" usually didn't have a chance to see the comical accessory through their blindfolds. As the sight of an Agent serving under the Merovingian was an impression far too striking to resist, any programs brought to iSmith were left unmasked. None dared laugh more than once at the pink boa around their interrogator's neck, though, not after the chilly ruthlessness of a true Agent was shown to them. The lucky ones received such a glimpse without having iSmith draw very much blood.

And yet, iSmith's captives weren't the only ones getting a taste of pain's soured fruits. The Merovingian would occasionally visit his bleak workspace; sometimes he would offer iSmith a kind word or ruffle his hair, but his appearances all lead to the same thing in the end. iSmith would be bent over, before the wall or on one of the cold steel slabs, and his master would fuck him-- roughly, silently, save for the Merovingian's huffs and pleasured moans-- and iSmith would be the one to provide the room with its tears and howls of protest.

At first, anyway. Before very long, this past iSmith never said a word, never cried at all. Even when only watching it play out before him, mere recorded visuals and audio, iSmith somehow felt a bit dead inside. He couldn't begin to imagine what it would have been like to live through it... and yet, there was the truth: he already HAD.

And then came a day when it got even worse.

--"You LIKE it, don't you, you sick, worthless little whore?! Yeees, I can tell-- you don't care WHERE it comes from, just so long as you get some FILTH dumped inside you!"

Even though he lacked the programming needed to vomit, iSmith felt a dry retching motion uncoil deep inside his body, seeing the Merovingian humiliate his other self to the point of a sniveling breakdown. --"Fucking cumguzzler... horrible little faggot... insatiable bitch... Feel honored, you’re about to get that disgusting fuckhole of yours fed!" He couldn't understand it. Why was his master doing this? He wished he could erase the scene, fast forward it, SOMEthing... but iSmith was powerless before the hypnotic effect of it all, like watching a car crash spray its carnage in front of his captive eyes.

Like a final blow being dealt, iSmith realized now why his master would curse to him now and then during sex, and seemed so amused at his own pleasured response. No, oh no, no, he thought to himself as he watched... He'd never known what it had really meant, all this time.

Then, just as much to his surprise, he heard his old self screaming back, sounding somewhere between ecstatic and terrified: --"YES OH PLEASE YES AAAH--!!" ...only to crumple to the floor when the Merovingian was finished.

--"I QUIT! I just can't DO it anymore-- and if that means you have to delete me, then... then, I--!" Master scratching him on the head, smiling sadly. "Never feel sorry for being honest with your nature."

--Sitting with Master at a table, wine glasses set out, candlelight glowing. "You... you want to get rid of my memories?" Master grinning back at him. "What would you hold precious enough to keep with you in your memory, if all else were to be wiped away?"

And just like he'd been dreading, iSmith heard himself pick the memory he'd suspected he might say. That night. The night after which he'd been told he contracted a virus, fell into a coma... The Merovingian said he'd been so worried his precious pet might never wake again...

--Lying on bedsheets. Everything starting to darken, going fuzzy. Master walking away... he doesn't even look sad. "Master? No... no PLEASE don't leave me here! MASTER!!" Thrashing. That Norton person rushing to pin him down. Settle. Settle... Shivering, like the room was growing cold. A voice... Norton's? "Gonna be all right... This is all only gonna be one bad dream, just gotta hang on..."

--Dark. Nothing but dark. His own voice, almost too small to hear: "i don't wanna be alone--!"

--END OF FILE.

iSmith couldn't bring himself to open the second file. Not yet. Too much. With a twitch of his head, his senses came back to the room, his body quivering like an invalid's. Bending forward, as if trying to curl up into himself, iSmith cupped his hands to cover his face, failing to catch the sobs before they began tumbling out. His breaths rasped and heaved, sounding like his muffled wails were choking him as they poured from his mouth.

Looking quite uncomfortable by this point, Norton sensed this would be the best time to bid the Merovingian farewell. He nodded back gratefully at the words of praise received for his services, as always. As Norton left, he gave iSmith a clap on the shoulder and a sympathetic frown, saying, "Good luck, man."

All iSmith could do was cry.

---

The Merovingian studied the small mound of flesh before him carefully, as if appreciating some precious stone. He raised a finger, flicking at either side of the vertical slit dividing the skin down the middle, and said, "It needs to be much thicker." He pinched hold of one side and gently pulled at the skin; it stretched out an inch or two, slowly, molding like sluggish taffy-clay. "The folds should go no further than out to here."

His eyes closed in thought, considering how to best describe the needed visuals. "They rumple to each side, in that way-- colored a light pink, near to the opening itself, and a darker peach farther away from it, with extremely small bumps along the edges. If you need to, I trust that fine memory of yours can still recall the body of the Ambassador for an example?"

The surface twitched faintly, settling to display the design with the new instructions added. The Merovingian nodded his approval and continued, smoothing a fingertip down the slope of the left side, then the right. "There should be hair here. Very short and thin, black, with just a slight curl to it." Tiny hairs rippled out from the skin like an oily tide. "Not so far down. To about here," he said, tapping at a halfway point along the slit. Any hairs below his finger slid away as quickly as they had appeared.

"Now, a small bead of skin lifting from where the creases begin, right here at the top. Very important," added the Merovingian with a smile. "No, no-- not so large. Think of it as if it is only peeking out from its hiding place within... A little bit more... There! Oui, much better."

He paused, looking up at his pet. "You seem confused."

"Hm?" iSmith snapped to attention, mumbling, "Oh! Did I...? Sorry."

"Are you wondering why I'm requesting this, perhaps?"

"Well, it's not my cup of tea, to be honest," iSmith said, craning his neck to better see his newly-tailored vagina. "Keeps seeming like it should be heavier... but heck, holes are holes, right?"

"That's not what I asked you," the Merovingian said, smirking.

iSmith let out a sigh. "Yeah. A bit. I mean, I think I'm starting to recognize what that's looking like, and... um." He looked off to the side awkwardly. "Your wife really isn't much for the concept of wearing underthings around the house, is she?"

The Merovingian chuckled. "This is true. If you still had no questions for me by now, I'd think you to be daft." He ran a finger down the fleshy petals, stroking them gently. "I'm going to have to get reaccustomed to seeing my Persephone more often, once you are no longer around. I could make do with some practice." Noting how the folds began to flush a dark reddish color under his touch, he smirked, adding, "...Though this body undeniably remains your own. And I must say, this is a great deal better than your first attempt."

Shrugging guiltily, iSmith mumbled, "I told you, I'm sorry! ...I'd just heard they were like flowers..."

The Merovingian cut off that line of conversation before it could go any further, instructing his pet to climb atop his body and ride him for a while instead... facing away from him, just as Persephone preferred, he added dryly.

Despite iSmith's attempts to convince his master he was enjoying himself-- grinding harder onto the Merovingian's groin after his remark that the new hairs gave a delightful tickling feel, and forcing aroused moans through his winces and squints-- the sex that ensued was obviously uncomfortable for him throughout.

Which, of course, was exactly how the Merovingian had planned it.

However, the next several days passed quickly, and even as his humiliating requests continued, his pet still refused to leave...

---

"Wha..?"

iSmith groaned, coming to in the back seat of a new-smelling SUV. "How did I get...?"

"Not too bright when it comes to the magical world of roofies, is he?" said Two, looking back at their waking charge from the passenger's seat. "Tsk, tsk. Looks like we know someone who'll drink anything offered to him when he's dining out."

His ghostly-pale identical twin nodded from behind the steering wheel. "Thought all those nights spent in the clubs would've taught him at least that much of a warning. If the bossman let him keep it this time around, that is."

iSmith rubbed his eyes, leaning to look out the window. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere in the Megacity. No idea where... we drove where we were told," One replied, lifting a room key on a looping bit of chain and jangling it. "We've got one thou' in cash we're to hand over to you as well."

Two gestured to the towering apartment building they were parked in front of, ignoring the human foot traffic mulling about the parking lot from the sidewalk, and smirked. "Welcome home."

A few moments passed before what had happened finally dawned on iSmith. He stared back blankly at the Twins.

"I can't go."

One scoffed, waving a pale hand as if to brush the thought aside. "No worries, it's all legitimate. We got the orders direct from the Big M himself. You've got an unlisted number, there's exiled programs in his network available nearby if anyone comes hunting for y--"

iSmith cut him off, speaking just as firmly as before. "No. I'm not going."

The Twins gaped at him, squinting behind their sunglasses in synchronized disbelief. "What do you mean you're not going? You have to, it's not like you can just..." Two started. He trailed off, lifting a pointed finger to iSmith. "Now you listen--"

"He's probably bugged the car," One muttered to his brother.

"Then he can hear this. It's likely the only dissenting words he'll ever hear on the issue," Two shot back flatly, turning to fix an accusing glare at iSmith. His voice rumbled on in the Twins' usual mellow timbre, but Two's narrowed eyes and the hints of snarling teeth-tips in his frown betrayed the anger behind the snow-white face. "We may not know the whole situation here, but believe us, we've known you since you started working for Frenchie. Probably longer than he'd ever tell you, in fact."

"I know about the memory wipes," iSmith mumbled quietly.

Two gave a few quick jabs at the air before iSmith, nodding in approval. "See? Then you already have an idea! We know the boss's put us through more than our share of hard times, we've got no complaints there. Just part of being extra close to the bossman, that is. But if he's handed us shit now and again over the years, then he's backed the bloody dump truck over you. I've half a mind to believe you're only wanting to stay with him because he's been feeding you his lines of bullshit-- and I'm not talking literally, but who knows with him-- for so long, you think it tastes like fucking candy by now!"

He gave a swipe towards One, then tapped his own chest. "We couldn't be happier you're finally getting a chance to get away from him! Word travels fast in the upper circles, you know-- you are aware he's going to kill you if we bring you back, right? You really want to lose your one chance? March right into his arms and die?"

One had been scowling at his brother all through his outburst, but he turned to hear iSmith's answer nevertheless.

iSmith's head drooped to the side, gazing down at the parking lot blacktop through tinted windows. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that. It really, really does, you've got no idea how much... but it's what I want to do. I chose to be with him. And I'm not going back on that choice, no matter what."

The Twins stared at iSmith, dumbfounded. The silence was only broken when One let the keyring drop with a piercing klankt onto the dashboard. With a long, frustrated sigh, he started up the SUV and turned to his brother, remarking gravely, "Well. Another one bites the dust."

Two kept his glare on iSmith. "You're a complete fucking idiot. You know that," he told him.

"Yeah," said iSmith, giving Two a faint smile.

"Just wanted to make sure we were clear on this."

"Crystal."

---

The Merovingian glanced up from the papers he'd been reading through, hearing the knock on his office door. "Come in," he said. He nodded in greeting to the Kabuki-masked guard that entered the room. "Ah. Oni. What is it?"

The guard bowed, making the tigers-eye stones draped around their neck bounce and clack. No movement could be seen from behind the mask, nor sound heard from their throat, yet the Merovingian paused... then leaped up from his chair, demanding, "What do you MEAN, 'he's back'?!"

He left the room immediately, his anger trailing him like a stormcloud.

"He wouldn't let us drop him off," One said, sulking with his brother before the sprawling doors of the front entryway. They both stood behind iSmith, who smiled at the Merovingian as he approached, as if he expected a reward for his disobedience.

The Merovingian stalked up to them, barely bothering to pause before he punched his pet squarely in the face. iSmith was struck to the side from the force of the blow; his heel skidded on the floor, sending him toppling down onto cold, polished stone.

As he watched iSmith land, Two muttered faintly to him, "Told you..."

Pacing back and forth almost in place, the Merovingian sputtered, too angry to even figure what to say. He moved forward again, then stopped, stepping back, only to growl out his frustration and slam his foot into iSmith's stomach. His pet yelped, but lay curled on his side upon the marble mosaic, wide-eyed, not daring to protest. "You-- you are a COMPLETE and UTTER WASTE!" the Merovingian shouted, seething until more thoughts connected between his mind and his mouth. "You miserable, dreaming simpleton! Why did you not...?! I laid it all out before you, out of my own generosity, and you-- you--! ohhh, Nom de Deus de saloperie de m--"

He cut short his trail of profanities and held up a single shivering finger before iSmith, saying nothing. He whisked the finger to flick towards One, then Two, then at the doorway behind them. "Take him away! Take him back-- drag him in and lock the doors behind yourselves if you have to, just make sure he doesn't set foot here again or so help me, all three of you will regret it!"

The Twins nodded in unison, bending to each grab iSmith by an arm and haul him to his feet. When he whimpered pleadingly to them to let him go, their brows narrowed against identical sunglasses. "You know we can't do that. Already had your chance," One said flatly. They began walking towards the door...

iSmith screeched at the top of his lungs. "STOOOOP--! STOP RIGHT NOW!"

Silence. Shocked, awkward silence.

Getting the desired reaction he wasn't expecting gave iSmith just enough courage to keep speaking at all; he seemed to have surprised even himself with his boldness. Still, as he stared at the Merovingian, iSmith's voice shook in fear. "Why do you think I've stayed here this long already? You think I enjoy having you try to push me away?" His eyes grew desperate. "Don't you get it? I can't leave you. I've already made you my entire life!"

The Merovingian stared back coldly. "You truly realize what you are asking for? That I should kill you myself?"

"I'd rather be dead than have to live never seeing you again!" spat iSmith in return. He paled as soon as the words left his mouth, and hung his head slowly, sounding much more nervous. "Although, I guess, where I am right now, you could do whatever you wanted to me and I couldn't really do much to stop you... at all... but you should know by now that I'm not going to leave you. Not as long as we're both alive. And no new apartment or facelift is going to keep me away, either. That's all I have to say."

The Twins wisely kept quiet in the silence that followed, sensing the tension in the room had just reached its boiling point.

Gritting his teeth, the Merovingian spoke quietly, taking the tone of polite, dignified sheer hatred he reserved for when he had no other feasible options but to retreat. "Then. I. Give. Up," he hissed to his pet, whirling around to start back towards the stairway, to his study, to a place where he could think logically and not have the world slap him in return. Halfway up the stairs, he called to the Twins. "I will call for my pet in due time, but for now, keep that pathetic little wretch from my sight, lest I be tempted to strangle him out of his misery where I stand!"

Releasing his grip on iSmith's arm, Two waited until his boss's stomping footfalls faded from ear's range. He looked to his brother, then to their charge, remarking, "That seemed to go well..."

---

After a short while spent fidgeting before it, iSmith finally opened the carved wooden door, wincing at the creak its hinges made at the movement.

The Merovingian was already standing there in the bedroom, arms folded behind his back, watching the slivers of moonlit sky still visible beyond the thick, drawn curtains of the window before him. He wore an embroidered gown, detailed from neck to ankles with entwining vines, leaves, and exotic crests. iSmith had recalled seeing such imagery in the Chateau before, decorating the odd coat of arms here and there, but couldn't place what it all meant. Something about human kings.

He had no time left to wonder over it; the Merovingian turned, greeting him with a nod. "Such a gorgeous view this evening... Please excuse my conduct from earlier in the day. It is good to see you, mon petit."

iSmith was about to answer, but was distracted by a sudden rustling noise from within the glass cage built partway into the wall to his left. When he wandered over to look inside, a hoofed creature no larger than a household cat blinked two large, black, wet-looking eyes back at him within the lush leaves of its surroundings.

"Ah. I see you have discovered Number Nine-One-Seven-Eight," the Merovingian remarked, a bit put off that his pet had walked away from his welcome so quickly. Still, as he took the few steps to stand beside iSmith, he puffed proudly, peering into the cage. "A side hobby of mine, one I have carried out for many years. Once monthly, I have the machine city generate for me one of their planet's extinct species, for me to do with as I please. Going by their chronological order, I have by now played host to such samples up until the 1920s."

He tapped the glass, smiling at the animal as it crept timidly towards them both and licked where his fingers met the cage wall. "Is she not fascinating? A 'Stewart's Lesser Mouse Deer', native to rainforests. Her kind were decimated scarcely before humanity even knew they existed. She is quiet, docile, feeds on honeyed nectarines... and she has a very agile tongue." The Merovingian turned his smile to iSmith, as if enjoying some private joke.

The resemblance was lost on his pet; iSmith merely stared at the tiny deer in awe, watching her every move. "Wow!" he breathed, emitting a happy squeak as she turned to look at him. "That many...? Have they all been this cute?"

"Well, their physical appearances are generally not of great concern to me. I merely wish to enjoy observing that which humans, even in their age of dominance, could never hope to know." He gazed at the glass barrier, his smirk flitting to a darkly amused grin. "Are you aware that a dodo-bird dies within minutes if its cloacal walls are punctured by an object the size of an average human penis?" Keeping his eyes fixed upon the glass, he gave a prolonged, contented sigh, failing to notice the awkward stare he received from iSmith at this news. "Such a pity... and yet, it remains one of the more enjoyable benefits of having the machinekind continually be in my debt."

iSmith kept his voice as cheerful as he could muster. "You said you wanted me here?"

"Ah, yes. I did not call for you so that we could prattle on over a deer. It would be terribly rude of me if I did not give my pet a worthy farewell," his master said. He reached to unfurl a dark curtain of fabric lying folded atop the cage. After covering the glass from view, the Merovingian strode over to iSmith, beckoning to follow him past the gold-dimmed glow of a standing brass lamp, over to the lavish four-poster canopy bed set along the other wall. iSmith tried not to stare at the revolver lying on the bedside's nightstand, though he couldn't suppress a shiver of dread at the very sight of it.

Thinking of the first distraction that came to his mind, iSmith pounced upon the bed, settling on his hands and knees, and began trying to bounce on the mattress. Forcing a coy smirk through his fear, he asked, "So what'll it be, this last time? You want a moaner? Screamer? Four-letter cheerleader...?"

His words trailed off, lilting slightly in surprise. The Merovingian had clamped his hand onto iSmith's shoulder, halting his body in place. He brought his other hand under iSmith's chin, lifting his head up to face his master.

"I want," the Merovingian began, "for you to do whatever comes to your mind first. Tonight, I wish to see only the true iSmith. No masks." A grin curled along his face. "It seems a fair trade for so many years of my handing them to you, time and again, yes?"

A light blush came to iSmith's cheeks. He paused, then leaned back to rest upon the bedsheets, mumbling a quiet "thank you."

The Merovingian smiled at his pet's dumbfounded expression. His hands moved to the sash of his robe, loosening it until it dropped to the carpet below. "As you have been so obedient in giving your body to me, I also thought it appropriate that I would come to you as an equal for our final session together. This one time, you shall see me as I am. I have scheduled there to be no interruptions tonight, so I have no other matters to attend to-- matters that would be more urgent than the need to undress any more than the minimum necessary."

As if playing onstage for some unseen crowd, he spread his arms to either side in a dramatic sweep, making the fabric of his robe ripple and flare away from the front. The skin-hued coding of the Merovingian's nude form came into view underneath it. "This night is for you and me alone," he said, his voice nearly a purr.

iSmith's blush immediately darkened several shades.

"Well?" The Merovingian grinned. "What do you think?"

"You... You're so... beautiful!" said iSmith breathlessly. And OLD, he thought to himself.

No, 'old' didn't seem the right word for it. His master's body looked far from atrophied, and the hair lightly tufting down from his chest bore little of age's salt-peppered silver against the coal black. 'Brittle'? No, that wasn't it, either. But the Merovingian seemed so... fragile, somehow, standing before him uncovered. The beginnings of wrinkles slid here and there along the fish-pale skin; his belly had the slight sag of a paunch; small darkened dots and moles could be seen sparsely all along his body, like brownish flyspecks. This was what his master had looked like, through all his centuries?

For some reason, iSmith felt honored to be seeing how imperfect the Merovingian's body truly was. How... human. Strange, he thought... How many could claim that a partner's penis was the only part of them considered commonplace? He raised one hand, reaching closer with fingers outspread, and halted, giving the Merovingian a questioning glance. "Can I...?"

"Can you touch me?" his master finished for him. "Of course, of course. This would be a dull evening indeed if I only allowed you to look." The Merovingian climbed into the canopy's shelter as well, his robes trailing behind him like a bridal gown in colors far from white. "Where shall we begin?"

iSmith was silent, blinking at him, unsure. He sank to a bowing position upon hands and knees, grasping hold of the Merovingian's ankle in prostrating submission... only to have his master cluck his tongue and pull him back upright by the shoulders. "Tch, tch! No, get up. No need, vous ne ayez pas faire ceci."

"Ah-- sorry, I just..." iSmith sighed, unable to look his master in the eyes. "I don't know what I should ask for."

"Then if you can find no words, you should allow your body to ask for you," the Merovingian said. He stretched out upon the bed and rolled to his side, regarding his pet from the shallow pile of pillows.

With this encouragement, iSmith finally allowed his hand to wander to his master's robe, then slip under it, easing the fabric away to explore the paled body beneath. His fingertips slid over the slight, work-sheltered crackles of stiffened skin at the Merovingian's knees, traced the smooth lines sliding away from his waist and thighs, gently stroked the pair of puffed, rose-colored ovals beading upon his chest-- one, then the other-- silently, reverently, amazed.

Without looking away from this canvas of flawed perfection for an instant, iSmith spoke up, flush with excitement at finally having his requests heard. "Could you touch me, too?" he asked. "I mean, I can still feel it if you touch my suit. Maybe just as well as you can feel anything on your own body, even. I don't think you've ever done anything much with that, though. Maybe, just a bit, could you...?"

His voice peaked into a surprised gasp as the Merovingian swooped to tackle him, pinning arms down onto sheets with playful vigor. Then, a gust-- his master's breath, coming hot against his neck, and lips brushing, teeth nipping, biting bits of black and white fabric and holding tight just long enough to hear iSmith's quick yelps of delight. The Merovingian doted over where humans tended to respond most favorably, based on what his endless experience had shown. He slowed his motions to gnaw and knead the spots where his pet's sharp cries became a weak, crumbling "ohhh~", chuckling deeply through his teeth when yet another pleasure-point was discovered: here along the fold of the blazer, there on the tie's underside, between two points in the neat line of shirt-buttons...

Lower, he heard iSmith beg him, so good, please, PLEASE lower... He smirked. "As you wish," he said, moving down to lick along the tops of his pet's dulled leather shoes. At any other time, he would have stayed there, teasing iSmith with the literal meaning of his own words, but tonight was not just any night. After a scarce few moments, he began working his way towards iSmith's crotch.

"Yes-- awwgaauud~!" iSmith drawled, squirming at the feel of the Merovingian's lips dancing slowly up his thighs. "Fuck me, please, right here, right now! I wanna feel that big, strong cock stuffed all the way up my ass! Bend me over, ream me out, make me squeal like a brand new blue-collar prison bitch--!"

Pausing in his kiss-trail, the Merovingian squinted. "That sounds... familiar." Not to mention rehearsed, he refrained from adding.

"I've always wanted to say that." iSmith grinned, letting free a slow, aroused exhale. "It's from 'Ass-Slammin' Daddies Volume 4: Someone's Getting a Raise.' The boss made me think of you, every time I watched it," he said.

His master seemed confused. "From my collection? ...But I disposed of that film years ago!"

"I know! I dug it out of the trash. Hid it behind your copy of 'Thousand Days of Sodom.' It looked dusty, so I didn't think you moved it much." iSmith tittered nervously, a guilty quirk spasming at the edges of his grin. "Same with 'Her Mouth, His Toilet,' and the one that wasn’t really porn where that Izzard person was wearing a dress and talking about funny stuff for two hours-- I can't believe you got rid of that one!-- and one of those 'Like an Animal' movies someone gave you way back when as a present." He paused, adding, "I always planned on telling you earlier, but..."

Far from the angry look iSmith was dreading, the Merovingian laughed. "You and your human porn." He shook his head. "I should have already guessed. Vous êtes sans espoir, savez-vous ceci...? Very well, mon petit secrétaire timide, let's get you bent over for your boss right now, shall we?"

He was already about to flip his pet around to his knees when iSmith's voice stopped him. "Wait! I... I guess I don't really want to do it that way," he said, his gaze sinking away from his master's face apologetically. "Is there any way we could do it so I can still see your face, maybe? ...Somehow?"

The Merovingian gave him a smirk, saying, "I believe I might know at least one such position, yes."

"From that Karma-- uh, that K-something Sutra book?" iSmith winced. "Well, just... I'm not very good at bending like that for long, remember? We already tried it a few times."

"I recall this, yes. Something simple, then," the Merovingian said. He continued, teasing, "I see you are finally getting accustomed to making your desires known. See how wondrous a thing it can be?" He settled onto his back and jostled the pillows around them both to form a cushion, allowing him to sit up somewhat. "There we are. Now, if you could be so kind as to prepare your seat?" He pointed down at the limp skin between his own legs.

"Mmm. Of course," iSmith said, flicking his tongue over a smile. He set to work without another word-- running the ridges of his lips over and around the dangling flesh, smoothing his fingertips along the coarse-haired base, coaxing Master's beloved prick stiff with wet, slurping suckles, until a pattern of engorging veins began to raise firm against his mouth. He enjoyed the sound of his master's tense grunts when he would dip lower, giving whisper-delicate swiffs of his tongue to moisten the taut, darkened sack protecting his master's overly sensitive royal jewels-- protection that the Merovingian was too paranoid to ever trust in full, given the sizable portion of his ego he invested in those two swollen spheres.

iSmith returned to the cockhead, keeping the underside cradled close against the flat-spread muscle of his tongue and doting over the tip with the strong, steady laps he knew his master preferred. The Merovingian placed a hand atop his pet's head, giving a low hum of approval. "There. Ah, such wonderful work," he said, gently pressing against his pet's forehead with his palm to push iSmith from his now-pulsing erection. A thin string of saliva spread between the slippery tool and iSmith's lips, soundlessly snapping free as he drew back.

When iSmith looked to his master, he received a nod, as if the Merovingian already sensed the question he was about to ask. iSmith gave him a bashful bow, then reached down to unzip his slacks, shuffling his pants as far down as they would go.

"Hm... This might pose somewhat of a setback," the Merovingian muttered to himself, eyeing the fabric bunched up at his pet's legs. "But I'm sure we can manage somehow."

"Manage what?" iSmith asked.

"Manage this..."

There was no time for iSmith to react; there was only surprise, feeling himself be pulled atop his master's body. With the help of guiding hands, he soon had his legs straddled over the Merovingian's stomach. His pants settled to clump loosely around the erection poking against his bare ass with impatience. The Merovingian rested his hands on iSmith's hips, running his palms up and down the cool smoothness underneath the suit. "Comfortable enough?" he asked.

"Mm hm," replied iSmith, carefully lowering himself onto the Merovingian's prick. It was a tight fit, very thick... and yet, it didn't feel uncomfortable to iSmith. More like a hand squeezing into an old rubber glove, so very familiar... As he relaxed, spreading the code of his opening to fit ever more of his master inside him, he mumbled, "So, um. You said I could have orgasms on my own now? Is it any different from what it felt like when you'd have to come first? I mean, how will I know?"

The Merovingian shook his head and laughed, as if he'd just been asked why the sky wasn't polka-dotted. "You will know."

Letting his master's cryptic reply serve as enough of an answer, iSmith began to ride him, shoulders shivering, a litany of "mnn~"s and "ahhn~"s escaping his throat at each rise and fall. However, the Merovingian was quick to recognize the discomfort on his pet's features. With his bent, slumping frame wracked by ever-harsher shakes, iSmith bore an uncanny resemblance to the mouse deer hidden across the room. When the animal was placed in an unsheltered habitat, with nowhere to hide, she looked so pitifully vulnerable that the sight bordered on disgusting. He raised one hand to snap his fingers loudly before iSmith's face, commanding, "Stop. Stop right there."

iSmith halted, eyes opened wide in surprise. A proverbial deer caught in headlights, the Merovingian thought to himself. "What's wrong?" asked his pet.

"This night will have little point to it if you do not tell me when you are uncomfortable," the Merovingian said, giving iSmith a disappointed snort. "For as easily aroused as you can be, little one, you are more transparent than glass if you attempt to fake it. I should hope you are not so incredibly stupid, to believe I would be giving anyone this much of my time and effort for an opportunity I would not allow you to TAKE... Come now, no more lies of what you think I might prefer. What would you rather we do?"

"Well... would it hurt, if we-- if I could be under you...?" iSmith asked meekly, already bracing to shove his body downwards again if the answer was 'no'.

His master grinned up at him as if the question was a beginner's challenge. "Pull out. And hold still," he murmured. He ignored his pet's sound of confusion, waiting instead for his instructions to be obeyed... as they always were. With a quick, one-handed brace against the bed, he sprang to the side, rolling iSmith underneath him with catlike grace. He took hold of iSmith's legs, hefting them over his shoulders and easing into that inviting tightness once more. "Mmm... Is this better?" he purred. Scarcely as soon as he was back inside his pet's arse, the Merovingian's fluid, in-and-away pulse began to quicken, pausing only to slide one hand behind iSmith's back, supporting his pet as he arched and stretched underneath him on the sheets. iSmith squinted at the building pace, his jaw jittering and half-open, as if trying to say something.

When the words finally came, so did iSmith. "Oh fuuhhh~--" was all he could manage before his expression clenched to that which showed pleasure and agony all at once.

"See," the Merovingian whispered. He brushed his cheek to his pet's, lingering in the scent of program-triggered sweat, before starting up again, and again, pausing only when he sensed his pet going over the edge once more.

Five orgasms, or ten, or maybe more-- before long, it became impossible for iSmith to tell one apart from the next. There was only Master's weight on top of him, moving, seeing his face, and Master's fingers threaded through his own hands gripping squeezing tight with every thrust fucking him further against the mattress huffing into his neck moaning and rearing and roaring and just when he could swear his master was about to come, iSmith would feel his own body spark and quake and lose control from the inside out instead. The Merovingian would stop, just long enough to catch his breath again...

...and then it started all over, just one continuous, swelling tide. It felt as if some murder-sharp dagger had been plunged deep into iSmith's gut, all the way up from his ass-- a blade made from pure molten joy, and all he could do was lie there and let the sounds of his rapture pour ragged from his throat with its every twist.

If either of the pair were actually paying attention to the world beyond the canopy curtain, they might have heard the skittering noises from within the deer cage; its captive was clearly confused by the primal utterings nearby. The deer settled, however, as the pauses between outbursts gradually grew longer and longer.

iSmith finally clutched at the Merovingian's sleeve, gasping out, "One more...!"

His master complied, starting his motions anew, coming this time when they both finished. His nails scraped tiny threads loose from the fabric of iSmith's back as he shivered and stiffened, marking the exile as his own without even noticing.

Coming down from the almost painfully powerful waves of afterglow sweeping over his senses, iSmith panted, "That was-- was...!" He heaved out a exhausted sigh, the kind that sounded too completely satisfied to be breathed at any other time. His arms fumbled over the stitched patterns of the Merovingian's robe, too dazed to mention his surprise that not a drop of sweat could be seen beading from his master's body. "I didn't even know you could DO that!"

The Merovingian shrugged. "I have many talents."

"So you never had to have me around at all? You can just come whenever you want?" iSmith looked baffled.

"More or less. But it is never nearly as fun when alone," replied the Merovingian, moving his arms to roll lazily to the side of iSmith's prone, wheezing body. He sat and watched his pet's mind slowly return to the room, smiling at the calm easing into view upon his face. He then noted the distant look in iSmith's eyes... as if his pet was focusing on some elusive spot, miles away from the shelter they lay huddled within. "You look as though you have something on your mind."

iSmith blinked. He ran a finger along the Merovingian's arm absently, mumbling, "Well I was just thinking, is all, about those discs... about being, y'know, alone." He paused, continuing when his master raised an interested eyebrow. "It seems like I always admitted I fell in love with you right before it was too late. And then I'd have to lose it all again."

With a nod, the Merovingian said, "Just like you are about to admit, now?"

His pet looked away, frowning.

He smirked knowingly at iSmith as he ran his hand through his pet's sweat-slicked hair. "Souci pas, mon petit, souci pas. I had already figured it to be so." The Merovingian sighed, shaking his head. "You made a very foolish choice when you decided who you would bind your heart to, you realize."

"No, I don't think so..."

"No?" The Merovingian's eyes lit up, curious.

"I mean, I'd do it again, if I had to choose. I wasn't ever supposed to exist in the first place, so... well, I'm who I am because of you. Without you, I'd really be nothing at all," iSmith said. He cuddled up to his master as he rambled on, exhaustion giving his voice a dreamy tone. "And you're so strong and fearless and-- and everything to begin with, everything I'm not. It feels right, losing myself into you. Makes me feel safe. Like I'm finally doing what I'm meant to do if I help you feel even better somehow. Like... if you can feel so good that you'd come because of something I'm doing, for just that moment it's like I'm perfect too, just like you. Really alive, somehow. Not just a shadow trying to dance around by itself."

"Perfect?" The Merovingian seemed pleasantly surprised at the word. "I would wish it were so, but no matter how close I may be, I am not what most would call 'perfect.' Perhaps your brain is too clouded by thoughts of worship? Realize, I would not complain..."

"Even so." iSmith's faraway look returned, recalling the sounds male humans made when he'd applied enough pressure to their testicles to explode them like overripe fruits. "I've done horrible things, too. Horrible, awful things... and you still wanted me afterwards. You even had to wipe away everything that would keep me too sad to want to live anymore, and you still wanted to keep me. I may not understand why you did all the things you did, but I don't think you ever did anything you didn't have a reason for, and that's enough for..." He stopped there, looking ashamed. "Sorry. Must sound so darn cheesy, hearing me go on like this."

"Not at all. Do continue," said the Merovingian, beckoning with a pleased wave of his hand. He was never disappointed by a chance to have his ego stroked.

iSmith forced a smile for him. "Besides, didn't you always say love makes people do stupid things?"

"Hmph. I will admit, I had hoped I might raise you well enough to escape such backward ideas. But I suppose it is useless to curse what is fated to be," the Merovingian replied wistfully. "You truly are just human enough to be of most danger to yourself."

His pet chuckled. He buried his head against the Merovingian's chest, trying to hide the tears just starting to slip their way out from his eyes. "This is kinda getting me depressed, you know. ...Damn it, am I crying?"

"I doubt you have stopped once since we began this session of ours," the Merovingian said.

iSmith closed his eyes and sighed. He shook his head, brushing his faint crest of black-brown bangs from side to side below the curve of his master's neck. "Why do you always put up with that?" he asked.

"With...?"

"My crying. And blushing, and... and whining, and all those other things I keep doing. I mean, I know I can't help it, it's just what happens when I feel one way or another-- but didn't you ever get tired of it? Want to change it, take that part of the code out, something? Makes me feel like such a sissy!" iSmith sniffled, then gave a mewling growl of frustration. "See and I'm crying harder now!"

"I never saw the need. Your personality seemed to be emotional enough... it was only fitting. And it was rather appealing to me, seeing you behave in such a submissive manner," his master admitted, his smirk glinting lustfully. "But if you are distraught over such a thing, did you never consider why you feel the need to blush and cry in the first place?"

"Well, I just..." iSmith trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Why DID he blush all the time? He always blushed when he was alone with his master, or when they were doing... things... out in public, right? "I don't know. I just feel happy when I get to be around you, be with you, anything like that. And that makes me feel so guilty."

The Merovingian seemed amused at this. "You become guilty whenever you feel happy?"

"Not really. No." iSmith paused. "Maybe just 'cause you're choosing to be with me. I guess I don't know why you'd want to spend your time with me in the first place. Or screw me... or want to be seen screwing me in front of other people, even!"

"And this is because...?"

"...Because I blush and cry so much," muttered his pet.

"You never seemed bashful when I requested you service me from under my desk, now did you?" The Merovingian smiled fondly at the memories. "Even when I would schedule meetings to talk with others in that same room, as you did so?"

"But that was different! You could've had anybody under there," iSmith protested.

Nodding, the Merovingian said, "I could have, indeed. But it was you I chose, was it not?"

iSmith was silent, turning his master's words over in his mind. A smile finally returned to his face. "Yeah," he said, wiping his tears on the sleeve of his blazer. A sudden realization flared in his eyes. "Oh! About that. I was gonna ask, what happened with that one guy from La Vrai? The tablecloth one?"

"Table...?" His master trailed off, not placing the reference.

"From the second time around. We were all at the restaurant, you had an extra long tablecloth set up that night, and you had a bunch of people sitting with you at the table up front. And you wrote something on a slip of paper you had someone pass over to me, about sneaking under your table and... and, you wanted..." A blush came back to his face; he continued on, figuring his master could fill in the blanks for himself easily enough. "So I did, and it was so dark under there, by the time I'd gotten the pants unzipped and had it in my mouth, it turned out it..."

"...It wasn't mine?" The Merovingian laughed, finally placing the memory. "Yes, that is right, I never told you... You must have stopped for a moment, when you realized. My guest was surprised at first, but he certainly appreciated the attention. He thought I had planned it."

iSmith’s smile grew wider, as if he’d finally found the fitting piece to close up a puzzle's picture. "So that's why you kept rubbing your foot on my back?" He tilted his head just enough to sink further into the particularly fluffy pillow he rested upon, looking to the Merovingian with the awed interest of a child being told a bedtime story.

"Oui..." said his master, his eyes drifting to regard the canopy ceiling as he continued. "I was pleased that you did not stop for long. Your 'mistake,' as it were, led him to double the price he was offering in our negotiations." An amused smirk flitted upon his mouth for a moment, then vanished. "As he told me later that evening, he wished to continue similar encounters with this 'woman' of mine, who was so obviously an expert in such matters. I found a human brunette for him to play with soon afterwards, but he never gave such high praise for her services again."

Sighing happily at the thought, iSmith paused, his spirits raised some small amount by having had this time to relax. "We've still got enough time to go one last round, right?" he asked, looking to his master with new eagerness.

"That we do," the Merovingian said, moving his arm to drape his robe over iSmith, covering them both like a colorful shroud. "What might you prefer?"

After a moment of thought, iSmith said, "Just missionary. With you on top. No fancy acrobatics."

The Merovingian scoffed at his pet. "Your fondest desire is for something so boring? Realize, you can even be on top, if you choose. For this occasion alone, I would permit it."

"Yeah, I know... but you heard me." Beneath the softness of the robe, iSmith slinked his arms around the Merovingian's bare body, pulling his master into a hug. "I feel safe, when I'm under you. I don't need anything more."

Though the Merovingian blinked at this gesture of closeness at first, he soon relaxed in his pet's embrace. "You really do believe these words you speak," he said. There had been no questioning tone to his statement, but iSmith nodded anyhow.

When he felt his master's hands reaching to unfasten the collar from his neck, it was iSmith's turn to be surprised. "What're you doing?" he asked, confusion wavering in his voice.

The Merovingian's fingers traced over a ghosted line of bruises just starting to fade. "It does not suit you, I think," he said, resting the pink band on a pillow far enough away to not be a distraction.

"What?" iSmith's mouth hung open slightly in disbelief. His gaze darted this way and that as he fretted, "You don't like it? I'm sorry, is it the color...? Oh, I've been wearing it all this time, why didn't you say something?"

The Merovingian shook his head, smirking. "Don't worry about it."

Their final fling was short, compared to the rounds and rounds of sex earlier. Their bodies moved slowly, pressed close with each easing thrust-- all of it frightfully mundane, compared to how the Merovingian tended to supervise such activities. Yet through the quiet gasps and almost inaudible rub of flesh against flesh, there was a feeling of tenderness to the scene, even through the near-paralyzing sense of finality iSmith felt looming over his every action. He pulled at the Merovingian's cock with an odd mix of gentle desperation-- closing around its throbs of warmth like a silky, muscled fist, trying to hold as much of his master inside him as he could for as long as he could.

iSmith's body jerked clumsily-- following the flow of his master's motions at first, then shifting to push against the driving rhythm, squeezing tight, then melting into frictionless obedience again, as if unsure which action to take next. In their lopsided trading of movement, it was difficult to know for sure whether it was iSmith who was being penetrated, or if the Merovingian was instead being engulfed.

However, the rush of the moment soon won over iSmith's attempts to make that moment last. As he stared into Master's watchful eyes above him, he already felt himself starting to slip away. From the cynical part of his mind, one thought raced bitterly: this is it, after this is the end...

"L-love you-- so damn much!" he managed. His words sounded tiny and broken, like spoken sobs. "M'gonna-- ah...!" The feeble tips of iSmith's fingernails scrabbled to find hold in his master's robes as his voice peaked, frantic: "Gonna--!!" His head sank back into the pillows, mouth gaping, pulling in a gasp that shuddered to draw more air than his system was allowed to hold. His eyes jerked in place, struggling to stay focused on Master's face, even through the throes of le petit mort.

The Merovingian leaned to kiss iSmith upon the lips, sucking at them hungrily, feeding upon his pet's heady waves of passion. "That's it, little one, let go," he whispered through his lunges. As if in response, he saw iSmith's pupils dart to focus on his own, then pinpoint into dots as the sensations overtook him.

With all the flurry of emotions he was drawing from his pet, it was impossible for the Merovingian to tell what happened next in any semblance of order. He felt iSmith's erection twitching against his stomach in its empty orgasm, and heard his pet's cry clearly-- a sharp wail, dying down to a tense, dragging moan, as if iSmith was trying to force three times the sound into the only breath he had in his throat.

By the time his pet had quieted, the Merovingian discovered he had already let loose his load into iSmith's backside, only aware that he had come by the hot, sluggish squelches he could feel shifting against his still-tender prick, wedged within the tightness of inner walls. He allowed some uncounted span of time to drift by, doing nothing more than savoring the moment while it lasted... and noted the light tugs iSmith's sphincter muscles gave every few moments, rippling along his shaft from root to tip, as if his pet's body was trying to memorize the space made when stretched wide by his own penis.

Finally, the Merovingian pulled out with a quiet slurping sound. Droplets of white runoff oozed onto the sheets as their bodies parted. The rest was quickly sealed inside, as his pet's groin flickered back to its norm-- an unmarred plain of flesh, mannequin-smooth. The Merovingian spoke to him through his still-rough panting, one hand sliding to rest under the folds of iSmith's white shirttails and softly patting what little skin of his pet's stomach could be touched. "There you are, mon petit, nice and full... heavy with Master's milk," he murmured. Upon seeing iSmith's closed eyelids flutter at his voice, he smirked, wondering if this acceptance of iSmith's nickname for him had even been understood... ah, not that it mattered now.

They lay there, entwined upon the blankets, until their breaths could finally be drawn with little effort once more. iSmith's eyes opened slowly; his afterglow smile faded to a wince, as if he was waking from some wonderful dream.

The Merovingian sighed, reaching through the canopy draping to pick up the revolver from the bedside table. "It pains me, but we must do what we are here to do," he said. He sat up, shifted the gun in his hands, and brought the barrel to rest upon the bridge of his pet's nose, right between the eyes. Cocking the gun with a cold snap, he spoke quietly. "Are you scared?"

iSmith gave him a chuckle, but the fat tears rolling new trails down his cheeks betrayed his true emotions. "I wish I could tell you I'm not, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't terrified out of my mind right now," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "But it's all right... it's what I've chosen."

His master replied with a solemn nod of his head.

The seconds felt like forever... The Merovingian sat there, robes pooled around his body. iSmith stared back at him, not daring to flinch. His frame trembled, giving him an air of vulnerability that seemed strange for a program so like an Agent to have, but those watery blue eyes stayed fixed on the Merovingian. Such a clear, tranquil emotion they showed...

Was this what loyalty looked like?

The Merovingian's hand began to quiver.

He felt a gentle pressure against his arm, and looked down towards it. His pet had brought his hands up to brace his own firmly in place. His gaze leapt back up to iSmith, to that same stare...

The gun pulled away.

With a whirl of embroidery, the Merovingian swept the drape to the side and shoved himself off of the bed. He crossed his arms, glowering furiously at the wall.

His pet mumbled something, too quietly for him to hear. "What?" the Merovingian demanded, still staring down the wallpaper.

"I knew you couldn't do it."

The Merovingian's tense shoulders sagged. "What...?" he asked again, now sounding more bewildered than angry.

"I knew you couldn't kill me," said iSmith. He was crying even more now, but a new joy shone through the tears in his eyes. "I felt it. I wasn't completely sure, but I believed it was true. And I was right." He leaned back on the pillows, grinning up at his master. "Because you really do love me, too, don't y--"

In one fluid motion, the Merovingian turned around and pulled the trigger.

A red explosion erupted from iSmith's chest, drowning out his words as the bullet choked them off.

iSmith's mouth opened, but no sound came; his face was frozen in utter shock. Body twitching, he dipped one arm to his shoulder and raised it before his face, as if he had to see the blood coating his hand before he could even comprehend that the action that caused it actually happened.

He gave a weak tilt of his head towards the Merovingian, who glared back at him with the gun at his side, mouth pursed into a thin line. iSmith gurgled from deep in his throat, his eyes going glassy and unfocused. As he shuddered, lurching forward in an attempt to sit up, a dark trickle of red fell from his lips, carrying the start of speech along with it.

"B-- buh--"

The Merovingian grit his teeth, nose flaring in rage. He cocked the gun and spat a bullet into iSmith's crotch. And cocked it again. And fired. And again, and again-- as fast as he could shoot, emptying the revolver's payload between his pet's legs, as if defending himself from some crazed wild beast.

He stood clicking the trigger through the empty barrel for a moment, then paused, coming back to his senses. A few tiny bits of down fluttered about the bed. iSmith was still there, but just barely, rasping thick, labored wheezes in and out with an audible strain. The revolver had effectively turned anything below iSmith's waist to a wrecked pulp, his programming displaying precisely what a human would look like after such treatment. Virtual or not, iSmith's system would continue to pump a compound indistinguishable from human blood from his body until a specific command would be triggered, declaring the level of damage to be fatal.

His pet was alive, but he definitely wasn't going to be for long.

The Merovingian was silent a few moments more, debating what should be done in these circumstances... That last action had been rather harsh, he had to admit. His pet was an idiot for making such leaps of judgment, true. That was obvious. Anyone in their right mind could see there were no pitiful human feelings of "love" within him... but for some reason, it seemed to him that such a helpful pet deserved a better final experience before being forced back to the Source.

He placed the gun back on the nightstand, crawling back onto bedsheets now splattered thick with ten shades of gore. Stains were of no concern to him-- the room and all its contents could be rebooted at any time, as good as new. Right now, the only program on the Merovingian's mind was the one writhing spastically before him.

iSmith's eyes were glazed, even as his master carefully settled himself over what was left of his body and took him in his arms, embracing him, gently nuzzling along iSmith's red-speckled face. "There, there," he murmured, not sure of what else to say. He exhaled a long breath into his pet's hair and closed his eyes, speaking only what he could not deny. "I... will miss you, mon petit."

Perhaps it was best that his eyes were closed, he thought to himself. After all, if his pet tried looking to him for comfort, there would be no emotion reflected back.

iSmith's eyelids flickered. From within the shrinking void his existence had faded to, he heard his master's voice... The words warped and rippled in and out of clarity, just like everything else was. They were still clear enough for him to recognize, though, even through the fog of nothing. His master was-- oh he'd made his master happy... iSmith tried to smile, but the action felt fuzzy. He wasn't sure if he was moving his mouth or not.

And then, warmth... a growing heat that flooded his senses, beautiful beautiful familiar warm breath coming in little gusts over him, even if iSmith couldn't remember what the parts of his body where he felt it were called anymore. It didn't matter. He was finally warm.

Rain? He was wet. Wasn't this... Didn't he have a dream like this? It made him dizzy to try thinking about it. But it was wet here too. All over.

Warm and wet, just like his dream.

and Master. Master and him

and everything coming

together and oh

yes perfect

perfect001000000110111101101000

The Merovingian heard his pet's breath came out in a faint rattle. The trailing code within his arms glimmered in a flash of light, almost too quick to catch by sight at all...

...and he found himself lying on the bedsheets alone, still covered in gouts of his pet's rejected code-- a runny, drying gloss of reds and browns and purples.

He lay there for some time, sulking in silence, ignoring the agitated scuffling sounds coming from the deer cage. Almost as an afterthought, he brought his hand up to his face and rubbed his fingertips against each other, watching the colors swirl together. He licked at the blood thoughtfully. The first time he'd actually tasted his pet's code, instead of the other way around... He found himself craving more of the peculiar flavor.

Ah, bittersweet irony.

It was then that he noticed a clear droplet or two on his fingers. He watched the rivulets they made as they trickled downward, creating a stark, diluted line through the blood on his hand.

Water? ...No, tears.

Must've been rubbed off from iSmith's face, the Merovingian figured. It was the only explanation that made any sense. When any unpleasant reactions could be staved off with a simple mental command, why would he, of all people, feel the need to grieve? He'd never stoop to allowing anyone such hold over him as to bring HIM to cry, now would he?

...Wouldn't he?

Frowning, the Merovingian brushed the idea of remorse from his mind as easily as humans would sweep a stray hair from their clothes. He would have the bed and his robe reset tonight, he decided. No use pining for something that was gone... not to mention something that seemed so dangerously close to damaging the Merovingian's own mind, he added. He was already disturbed by the thoughts he'd been having only hours-- no, minutes ago... and all over a pet, no less. Such poison in his mind-- mind, not soul, he repeated to himself firmly-- could luckily be put to rest along with iSmith, unmourned.

Still, he couldn't help wondering over iSmith's final words. Had his pet truly been so dense in this third incarnation as he was in the other two, hiding his true affections for who knows how many years? Or had iSmith re-imagined that pesky "love" theory of his within those last moments?

He shook his head, staring idly at the blood on the cuffs of his robe, and waited for one of his servants to come in and find him. His hand reached for the pink collar, scarcely realizing what he was grabbing for until he was twirling the ruined, red-slicked band in his grip. How soft it still felt, he mused...

As he replayed the image of iSmith's hopeful eyes in his mind, the Merovingian corrected his earlier thoughts.

His pet had never seen it coming...



[fin]






-----
le fée verde = "the green fairy"; a common 19th-20th century French nickname for absinthe
mon chérie = my darling
Telle folie vous pensez à! = Such madness you think of!
mon petit = my little one
Je dis quelque chose, et vous agissez comme si vous êtes sur le point de jouir dans des vos pantalons! = I say something, and you act as if you are about to cum (literally: 'enjoy') in your trousers!
Monsieur = Mister
Vous bouffon horrible! = You horrible idiot!
Oui = yes
Nom de Deus de saloperie de m-- = Goddamn filthy sh--
vous ne ayez pas faire ceci = you do not have to do this
Vous êtes sans espoir, savez-vous ceci? = You are without hope, do you know this?
mon petit secrétaire timide = my little timid secretary
souci pas = do not worry
le petit mort = "the little death"; a French-originated term for the state of orgasm