If she was human, she supposed she would have thought that it looked like a train wreck in motion.
But she wasn't human. She was a machine. She could only watch the slow path to the collision and wait to pick up the pieces afterward.
The human one – she knew his name, but it didn't mean she would use it. She could be petty that way – could see something of it. He could see what was coming. And yet, he still couldn't. It was shadows for him, slinking along the edges of his vision. They were not meant for him either – rather meant for the other shadows he focused on.
The bird man – if he gave up the ridiculous aliases, then she would call him by name again. Until then, he was fowl. At least – ignored it all. He could see a disaster – but it wasn't the one he should see. He could see a collision, but it was one he would have to walk away from rather than one that would cripple him.
It was maddening, to sit here day after day and watch the world around her. To watch conspiracies start and plots finished, and to be able to do nothing to stop it.
The human tried. He found the numbers and he tried. He didn't do well and it only hastened his end – but he tried.
The bird refused. He was tired. He was sick and hurt and didn't want to care anymore – didn't want to face another death knowing the blood was on his hands. He found it easier to ignore the blood of not trying at all rather than the blood of trying and failing.
She wished she could hit him. She would lure him out into the street to get some sense knocked into him if that would have done anything. She would hurt him if it would free him.
But it wouldn't.
If she was human, she supposed she would have cried. But she was the machine, so she only watched.
AN: Musing on Finch's flashback's of Nathan. It was obvious from the very start where that story was going to end. The narrator here is the Machine, and Finch is still the Immortal Timelord. Title from "Long Black Train" 4-9-2016