'You created something that understands human behaviour, something as smart as human. You created an intelligence, a life.' - Root
The Machine:
Nathan was a man of vision, a business man at heart and also a protector. The Machine was his idea but he needed Harold's wisdom and skills to build it. This suited Harold, he preferred computers to people anyway, so was perfectly happy to let Nathan have the limelight and since security meant a lot to both of them, Harold made sure that the Machine would never be found by hiding inside a nuclear reactor, but Nathan wanted more. Soon enough, he figured that someone would find it there. What Harold had built was unethical and wrong on so many levels but it was needed so needed to be hidden and kept away from prying eyes. If it was found it would most certainly mean jail time, possibly even death for them both. He wanted to hide it in plain sight, even more so than Harold already had. The Machine was built to detect acts of terror in the American population; the safest place for the Machine was within the population.
Then the bomb exploded.
Nathan was killed, but his IT guy survived, just. Harold carefully made his way back to the library, leaning heavily on one crutch and clutching his bleeding neck. He got there, only to see Nathan's name on the irrelevant list as it was wiped at midnight. His world had been turned upside down and inside out. He'd lost his best friend and his fiancée, he'd seen Grace come looking for him but he hid. He had to keep her safe, and she was safest thinking he was dead. From that day on, Harold made it his job to save those on that list just as Nathan wanted to, but the people he'd gifted the Machine to wanted to destroy it. Harold knew he'd have to complete the last of Nathan's wish – the wish of ultimate security.
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John hid behind a large dustbin in a dark alley, he reloaded his gun and paused, waiting for a gap in the firing. Lowlife druggies were after his latest number, she'd stolen their stash and sold it as her own taking the money, over $250,000 and they wanted her dead. He jumped up and fired two rounds into a lowlife drug dealer who slumped against the wall then fell to the floor. Dead. Panting, his put his gun away and pulled a young girl out from behind the bin. This was the girl in question. Her name was Lucy Maine, 17, ran away from home aged 14. She had dark ginger hair and brown eyes, freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. She looked up at John, annoyed.
'How much longer do we have to do this? You've shot half of New York!'
'I haven't shot half of New York, only the druggies. That guy I just shot is the boss you stole from. He's dead; we don't have to do this anymore. You can go, just don't do it again.'
She grabbed her bag off the floor and stormed off into the night. John watched her go and chuckled. 'Respect your elders they say.' He said mockingly. He neatened up his jacket and walked back to the main streets of the city. It was only the early hours of the morning so he decided to turn back to his apartment. He rarely stayed there; normally he was out saving the numbers. Number after number, night after night. He didn't have a long walk to his apartment, only a few blocks. He pushed open his door and threw his jacket onto the sofa and headed for the bedroom. He was tired, Lucy was a pain to look after and keep safe, as soon as his head hit the pillow he fell asleep.
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John walked into the library carrying a cup of green tea and a coffee, Bear was still asleep in his bed but Harold was nowhere to be seen. John put the hot beverages down and looked around. It was deathly silent. He rested his hand on his gun, tucked in the back of his trousers.
'Harold…?'
There was no answer. He heard some quite mumbles from down the corridor. John took out his gun and waited for any sign of life. Instincts. He walked carefully down, gun poised at the ready. He checked each room but didn't find anything. John sighed, Harold was probably out somewhere running an errand. John returned to the computer station and sat in a chair. He looked around the room; the high ceilings, tall cases stuffed with books and the iron clad windows. Outside, the sun poked its rays through the clouds and buildings. A door opened and Harold walked into the room, he looked at John, surprised.
'It's early Mr Reese. We haven't had a number.'
'I brought you some tea.' Said John, indicating the paper cups on the desk.
Harold eyed them up them limped over to his desk and sat down. He took a sip of the green tea and sighed. That's good idea. Mr Reese was getting good at this. John leaned over and pulled a long hair off Harold's shoulder. Harold sceptically watched him; he didn't like being touched unexpectedly, especially near his scarred neck.
John held the hair up, 'This isn't yours and it definitely isn't mine. Who does it belong to?'
'Probably the dry cleaner, she's a nice girl.' Harold started typing; his eyes kept coming back to John's who sat there staring at him. Both men were good at hiding thoughts and emotions being their pokerfaces. 'Can I help you Mr Reese?'
'The Machine's been quiet, and you've been busy but you won't tell me what you're doing. Most mornings I walk in now, you aren't here then you appear from somewhere. Where is that?'
Harold sighed and leaned back, he knew this would come eventually. He thought carefully about his choice of words. 'I have been completing something for an old friend; it was his last wish before he died. Only now, do I understand it.'
'It wouldn't have anything to do with the hair would it?'
'Alright it does.' He knew that John would find out sooner or later. 'Come with me.'
Harold got up and walked John through the corridors, like was a maze, John didn't realise that it was this big. Harold stopped at a bookcase and slid to the left, revealing a door. He took the key out of his pocket and unlocked it, he looked at John then opened the door.