"Hey." Shaw brushed a strand of hair back across her forehead. "Been awhile," she said casually, as if her continued existence wasn't an issue of contention.

"Sameen." Root's jaw didn't drop—things always seemed natural in dreams—but she did let surprise enter her voice. "You're alive?"

"Maybe," came the noncommittal reply, "maybe not."

"Don't say that," Root insisted. "You're alive, I know it. And I'm coming for you."

"Desperate doesn't suit you," Shaw reprimanded her, giving nothing away.

"It's my dream," Root said, slightly annoyed. "I can be however I like."

"So how do you want this to be, Root?"

Root paused, taking in their surroundings: It was some kind of indoor gym or martial arts training facility. There were thin blue mats strewn across the floor, the kind people would grapple each other on top of, and she could envision Shaw practicing in a place like this during her off-hours.

"Seems more your scene than mine, Shaw."

"Interesting how the mind works," Shaw said reflectively. "You put me somewhere I'd fit right in. Do you miss me that much?"

Root swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "What if I do?"

Shaw's gaze was piercing. "You think it was cruel. Doing what I did after…y'know." She twirled her fingers in the air.

"I—I don't," Root said, stubbornly refusing to let the tears fall. "I just wish there had been another way."

"There wasn't," her companion said with conviction. "If you don't believe The Machine, look through your memories. You'll see."

"I wouldn't have wanted it to be anyone else," Root clarified. "That's not what this is about." She swallowed thickly. "But a part of me wonders…why didn't you just shoot the damn button?"

"Typical nerd," Shaw said, but feigned annoyance couldn't disguise the affection Root heard in her voice. "Someone had to hold them off."

"We could have lain on the floor while the doors closed," Root persisted, deciding to use dream liberty to its full capacity. "No one had to stay behind." Least of all you.

Shaw actually had the gall to bite back a derisive chuckle. "You realize," she said with some condescension, "that the blonde agent at least would have found her mark?"

Marks for realism, Root thought, biting her lip. "You can't be certain."

"The Machine would have told you if it had been possible. You know that."

"I don't, Shaw," she whispered, turning away as if to admire the walls. "I'm not sure if I trust Her completely anymore."

A light breeze wafted in through the open doors, ruffling Root's hair like an invisible hand. "You wanted it to be you," Shaw called astutely from behind her, her words cutting the space, both physical and emotional, between them sharply. "Dying is easy," she continued, not sparing Root time to collect her thoughts. "Living isn't."

Root clenched her fists but didn't say anything.

"You were prepared, during the election. Think I didn't see through your Eeyore routine?"

Any other day, Root would have deflected the observation with something witty, but grief and rage bubbled within her, yearning to be set free. She turned and grabbed the collar of Shaw's jacket. "So it's not okay for me to die," she yelled in her face. "But it's okay for you?" Everything that wasn't right with the world came rushing out of her in that instant.

"You're angry." Shaw observed coolly, making no attempt to dislodge the hold on her. "Go on, hit me."

"This." Root tightened her hold, unsure if she was trying to force her point home or keep Shaw with her. "Isn't. Funny."

"Will you kill?" Shaw asked nonchalantly, as if she were taking Root's drink order on a hot summer day. "For me? Because of me?"

"I…" Root's grip slackened as tears began flowing. "There are times—I don't know."

A knowing look flashed across Shaw's face, and this time she removed Root's hands effortlessly.

"Remember who you are," she said, reaching out to brush Root's hair away from her face in a gesture that was unlike her.

"That's just it," Root admitted, the sculpture of her emotional landscape still a work in progress. "I'm not sure."

"When your friend died," Shaw said matter-of-factly, "you did everything to avenge her, including killing." She smoothed her jacket, appearing not to notice the pained expression on Root's face. "Then you met The Machine and slowly your methodology changed. But after what happened, it would be easy to go back to your old ways."

"I almost did," Root said hesitantly. "Harold stopped me."

"And you let him?" Shaw raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"It was Control." Both women shared a brief look that spoke volumes. "But he won't always be around when I…gather information."

"Trust yourself."

"You wouldn't say these things in real life," Root pointed out, amused and reproachful at the same time.

"Didn't your time as a fake therapist teach you anything?" Shaw countered, sounding more like her usual self. "Dreams are a projection: things you wish for, things you fear. Everything you want me to say; everything you can imagine me saying…" A mischievous smirk crossed her face.

"Isn't that convenient." Root took the opportunity to roll her eyes. It felt good. "Anything else you'd like to share with me?"

"It's not over 'til you see my body." There was no sympathy in Shaw's eyes, just hard logic.

Root pretended she didn't feel as though she'd been punched in the gut. "Straight to the point."

Shaw grinned like a cat about to pounce on an unsuspecting dog. "Don't like to waste time."

"Do you know what your name means?" she added after a brief pause, surprising Root with the question.

"Yeah, it's th—"

"Not Root. Your first name." Shaw's eyes found hers and stayed there until a whirl of color changed them into the windshield of a car. Root ran a hand across her face and found her cheeks wet with tears.

"Some dream you were having," Reese said pleasantly from the driver's seat. "Want to take over?"

Root turned her face toward the passenger window and dried her eyes. "Yeah, I think I'm done sleeping."