Root barely registered their escape from the stock exchange after Shaw shoved her backwards and locked the elevator without a second glance.
All she knew was she had forced herself to stop screaming long enough to direct them to safety. Everything was a blur through the tears refracting light in her eyes, but that misty vision proved unfailing when it mattered most. She and Harold had dropped Reese off at a private clinic with his cover intact, and Fusco at the station before navigating their way underground. Root's own wound was minor enough she could manage on her own, but the same couldn't be said for her heart.
Once they were safe, Root had sat with her knees curled up to her chest and cried. After that she ruminated numbly for hours, questions about choice and human worth beginning to crack what had previously been absolute trust and true devotion to the only God she had ever known. For the first time, Her quiet whisper that in close to a million simulations there had been no better option, was not comforting. Nor was the knowledge that Her primary objective had been their safety, and not the mission. Root was simultaneously proud that even The Machine hadn't been able to predict Shaw's actions, and upset that She hadn't found a way to save her despite this. Somehow when it came to Shaw, Root's notion of sense went out the window in a heartbeat: caring for anyone when she knew sacrifice would be required was the kind of illogical folly usually beneath her. But even flying above normalcy and beating the odds in a way she had only ever dreamed, had begun to pale in comparison to having a travel buddy like Shaw. Being willing to do anything, and give everything, was something she signed up for; but being willing to lose the one thing that mattered most was something Root had not even considered, its meaning only apparent with Shaw as the price. Even former contract killers had their limits, Root thought humorlessly. If The Machine had told her what Shaw had been about to do, Root would have done it in her stead. Even wounded and out of ammo, that option was infinitely preferable. That She hadn't, made Root wonder whether some pieces on the chessboard were worth more to Her, or if Shaw had simply stood a better chance of succeeding in her condition.
Shaw had always been bold and independent, eschewing rules, social and otherwise in a way that drew Root to her like iron filings to a magnetic pole. In that regard, the simile of a raging fire in an oil refinery was apt – they were too alike to be complementary. But Root didn't care. For awhile now, she had stopped thinking of the other woman in practical terms, and with that had gone her usual powers of deduction. She had allowed herself to enjoy the moment, pleasantly awash in a surprise gesture both innately forceful and exquisitely caring – exactly who Sameen was, Root thought, a bittersweet aftertaste in her mouth – when she should have had her guard up. Shaw was a soldier, after all, and no matter what, Root should have realized she would never let her comrades die in combat. She had known for a long time that Shaw didn't have a personality disorder in the clinical sense: No self-respecting sociopath would give their life for another. Sociopaths were all about themselves, and Shaw was anything but: beneath her cleverly constructed façade of callousness and standoffishness – that was nevertheless acted to perfection, keeping most others at bay suitably concerned for their wellbeing – Root saw an eternal protector frightened of her own emotions, something Shaw herself had only begun to see recently. Root knew these tendencies had their genesis on October 2nd, 1988, when an event so unspeakable had seared its mark on Shaw's heart, creating defense mechanisms strong enough to repel any advance; and she wished she had called the object of her affection on her supposed lack of feelings when they had still had the time. Then maybe Shaw wouldn't have made the decision to sacrifice herself so readily, with so little appreciation of her worth.
Root had initially thought of Shaw as the rook to Reese's bishop, strong and destructive. But over time, she had come to see her as more of a knight: powerful and versatile, useful in a myriad of situations the rest of them weren't equipped to handle. Whether posing as a criminal, extracting bullets or performing ace-in-the-hole saves like today, there was an inherent practicality to Shaw – a willingness to roll up her sleeves and get dirty – that made her invaluable. And attractive. Despite what she liked others to think, Root had known Shaw was reliable and committed long before today; and she had always felt safe around her, even, paradoxically, when shot by her. Perhaps it was the concern that flickered in her eyes whenever Root was injured, or the restraint shown on the battlefield almost redolent of morality. But most of all it was that tendency of hers to check up on them, and Root, whenever the going got rough.
Incognizant of how much time had passed, Root finally drifted into a restless sleep, impossible odds playing before her eyes like a warped rainbow with blurred colors: infinite recursion without a base case, limits tending to zero as time progressed, the digits of pi expanding in a multidimensional kaleidoscope; and finally, Shaw's face.
She's alive. Root wasn't sure if the whisper was real or imagined; dream or hallucination. Six in a million isn't zero.
She jerked awake immediately, startling Harold enough that he dropped a stack of papers on the floor. Root smiled despite the pull in her abdomen, ignoring the feeling of blood wetting bandages.
"Ms. Groves, you shouldn't—"
"Shaw's alive, Harold." She placed a hand over her wound and stood up, cringing. "I'm going to find her."
The smallest of margins was a flicker of hope, like a candle in the darkness. And Root would do everything in her power to keep that flame alive.