Author's Note

This story is set against the background of the award-winning popular TV Drama Series Person of Interest created by Jonathan Nolan; developed and produced by Jonathan Nolan, JJ Abrams and company- all of whom are not me.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities among real persons, living or dead; real cases; real locales; or real life events are purely coincidental.

Disclaimer

The background story, the main characters, and the cover graphics depicted and included in this story are not owned by the author. These are owned by the respective creators, developers, writers, and producers of the show Person of Interest.

However, the original characters and the original situations all characters find themselves in are created and written by the author for recreational purposes only.

No profit is gained in printing, publishing, or reproducing this fan-based story. In fact, the writer's financial status is not affected by this even for a bit- neither positively or negatively. On this note, please do not sue the storywriter. She is relatively poor. Do not make her plead like Darren Cris did after his Potter Musical circus- she is honestly bad at it.

Prologue

The Machine

It was year 2012 at the city of New York where streets are watched by security cameras, a middle-aged man with round framed glasses had just finished his breakfast at a local diner. And as he limped out to the exit, he melancholically whispered to himself, "You are being watched."

He turned his head from left to right awkwardly- not fully turning it, obviously because of a neck injury. He sighed. He was overly paranoid, but with good reason. After this, he continued to limp away to the streets, blending in with the crowd.

"The government has a secret system, a machine that spies on you every hour of every day."

And, as if on cue, another man, tall with greying hair and in a simple black suit, walked out of the café from across the street. Apparently, he was following the silent speaker.

"I know because I built it."

The man with glasses halted, checked his mobile phone, and continued on his way without missing the camera spying on him from the traffic post.

"I designed the machine to detect acts of terror," the crippled man continued his quiet tirade fully aware of his personal stalker, "but it sees everything…"

"Violent crimes involving ordinary people," he stopped in front of a phone booth. It rang and he answered it. Afterwards, he looked ahead of him, at the commercial building's glass panels, to see the reflection of the man following him. There, he noticed him look away towards a store and crossed the street, trying not to get his cover blown.

He said to his shadow, "People like you. Crimes the government considered irrelevant."

He hanged up the phone and limped again, but this time, hastier.

"They wouldn't act, so I decided I would."

At a corner, he turned and then disappeared. The tall guy pursuing him reeled and calmly threw the New York Times he was pretending to read.

The pursuer then walked towards another direction- far away from where his target disappeared to. It seemed he gave up the chase. But in the end, both men arrived at the same destination- a supposedly non-existent abandoned library.

Inside, the crippled man, seated on a chair, in front of many LCD computer monitors, ignored the arrival of his stalker. The said stalker, however, greeted him a good day and offered him his favorite tea.

"But I needed a partner, someone with the skills to intervene."

A few words were exchanged between them including "progress on our new number", "who wants to kill our number", and the most often used "we have a new number". Afterwards, the tall man left while the other continued, "Hunted by the authorities, we work in secret."

At one of the screens, one footage featuring police cars speeding towards a hotel lobby caught the recluse's attention. He zoomed in the image of one of the drivers to see its face clearer. The driver was a black woman with straight hair flowing to her shoulders. She seemed menacing with her lips thinned and her big eyes set to the direction ahead.

The license plate number was very clear- the car was owned by no other than Detective Joss Carter.

He closed the video window.

"You'll never find us, but victim or perpetrator; if your number's up..."

He turned off his computer and limped away from the desk into a room. He then opened a cabinet, pulled out an insanely expensive grey suit and headed to the bathroom. After dressing up, he took out a wallet, yet again very expensive, with a handsome amount of cash and bank cards from credit cards to debit cards to atm cards; and finally a plane ticket disclosing that Christopher Lammergeyer arrived to New York earlier this morning from Chicago. He put the wallet in his grey jacket's inside pocket but decided to put the plane ticket on its front pocket. Indiscretion was the suitable front in this particular operation.

Finally, he emerged out into the city streets sporting his new suit with his gold Swiss watch and gold framed eyeglasses, unbuttoned his grey jacket, and rode a pseudo black limousine.

"We'll find you."