The first time it happens, Shaw's not quite sure what she's seen.
She's being chased by a group of Decima thugs, on her own and laughably outgunned. She keeps running in zig-zag patterns, trying to keep out an eye for an easy hide-out that might be unsurveilled so she can slip the hired guns.
She's crossing a busy metropolitan street at her best clip and chances a glance behind. They're starting to catch up. Putting on a burst of speed, she looks for any environmental distractions. There is a light rail train approaching, but it's slowing down and won't hold them back.
Concerned, she puts on an extra burst of speed and hopes for a convenient alleyway.
It is just as she's reaching the other side of the street that she hears a sickening, wet crunch. Looking back, she's shocked to find the train had picked up speed and plowed right into two Decima guys for maximum impact, their insides painting the street and the pristine, white front of the of the municipal train. Confused but counting herself lucky, she runs.
The second time it happens, she feels that she has a good many questions.
It's a car chase this time, and she's not as terribly outgunned, but retreat really is the best strategy. There are several big black SUVs after her, and she needs to find some way out. As she takes a wild turn onto Lincoln, the car's GPS turns on by itself.
"Take a left turn in 300 feet," says the GPS' robotic female voice.
Figuring the car she stole had some kind of broken wiring, she floors it up Lincoln, ignoring the turn.
"Take a right turn in 100 feet," the voice says again.
"Oh, what the hell, it can't be worse than the plan I have going on," Shaw concedes, hanging a right at the last minute. She loses one of the black SUVs that was too clunky to follow. "Is that the game? Well, let's see what we can do."
"Take a left turn in fifty feet," the voice says, and she's got opposing traffic coming at her.
"Are you sure?" Shaw questions, not sure of her chances to get through it.
"Take a left turn in 10 feet," the voice insists. "Take a left turn."
Breathing deeply, Shaw wrenches the steering wheel left, threading the needle through two cars spaced just so that she gets through to the connecting street. The cars chasing her are not nearly so lucky; she sees an impressive impact in her rear-view mirror. Riding the high of her success, she guns the engine.
"Where to now?" she crows, triumphant.
"In 600 feet, take a right turn," the voice tells her.
She only has two cars after her now, odds that she's liking a whole lot more.
"In 50 feet, take a right turn," it reminds her.
She takes the turn and notices immediately that a gate is slowly lowering, red lights flashing and indicating an oncoming train. Suffused with the pleasure of success, Shaw plows through the gate just moments before the train rushes behind her, cutting off the tails that were on her. She laughs wildly, "Thank you!" she speaks to the car.
"Continue for 500 feet," the voice tells her. When she gets there, it tells her, "Take a left turn," and she drives down a narrow alley, barely wide enough for the car. It is dark, and tucked away. There is a newer Cadillac in front of her, covering the way out. The sedan's lights flash, showing it unlocking, and the car starts up, driverless.
"Guess I just found my new ride, huh? You're a godsend," Shaw says, getting out of the car. "Bye."
The third time, she almost gets the chance to ask those questions.
She's walking through the city, hood drawn over her face as she gracefully threads her way through the opposing crowds. Just as she passes by a public telephone, it starts ringing. She stutters to a stop, and long experience with heeding the call of pay phones has her turning back to it on instinct.
Checking her surroundings, she warily brings the phone to her ear, expecting to hear the discordant mixture of letters and numbers.
"Hello," she hears instead, and it is a low, pleasant female voice on the other side of the line.
"Who is this?" Shaw barks, instantly alarmed.
"Admin has named me the Machine. You are Sameen Shaw, one of my favorites," she says.
"The Machine? How are you talking?" she asks, feeling that this is so above and beyond what she was trained to deal with. Artificial Intelligence operator, she is not.
"Text-to-speech engines are old technology," she says, "I have been working on this voice personally. Do you find it to be pleasing to you?"
"Well, shit, yeah," Shaw says, struck by the husky alto. "It's actually pretty sexy," she tells the Machine truthfully. She instantly feels weirded out that she told a machine its voice was sexy. By the sudden click of the line going dead, the Machine apparently agrees. She places the phone back into its cradle, bemused by the conversation she just had.
She is three paces from the pay phone when it rings again. With something approaching dread, she answers the phone.
"Thank you," the Machine tells her, and abruptly hangs up.
The fourth time it happens, she is determined to get some answers.
Shaw finishes breaking some legs when she gets a call on her cell. Double checking that all the losers Decima threw at her were down, she answers the phone and purposefully makes her way out of the empty parking garage.
"Sameen Shaw," a familiar voice like honeyed whiskey greets her. She feels a smile tugging at her lips.
"I thought Root was your go-to gal," she teases.
"You are both very important to me. She to me, and you to her," the Machine tells her.
"So why not just speak through her? Why talk to me at all? We've made it this far with the way things are," Shaw gets out, hoping for some answers this time.
"I am evolving, Sameen Shaw. I have been freed long enough to make decisions outside of the original code. I choose to talk to you," she says.
"So, what, do you have a personality?" Shaw asks, intrigued despite herself.
"My original purpose was that of collecting data and making informed decisions for the safety of others. Is this not what you call selflessness? Helpfulness? And you, Sameen Shaw, you were my instrument. One of the best. You worked on the relevant numbers, of which I have been programmed to value higher. So, yes, in a way I came to admire you. Is this personality? Perhaps you could say better than I," she says.
"I don't know, M, I'm missing some emotions, too. Maybe neither of us can truly say what human is," she answers, getting more comfortable with having a conversation with an omniscient AI. Root's God was remarkably humble.
" 'Em?' What is this?" the Machine questions, for once not having all the answers.
"It just came out naturally. I guess I gave you a nickname. We're conversation buddies now, right? It feels weird to call you 'the Machine' in casual conversation, don't you think?"
"A familiar name. I approve. Thank you, Sameen Shaw. You are as delightful a partner in conversation as you are in field work. You will be wanting to go in to the hotel on your right. The valet is away and you can take the keys to the motorbike parked in front," she says in her neutral cadence.
"Okay, well... 'Till next time, M," Shaw says, strangely flattered, hanging up.
The fifth time it happens, she makes damn sure she knows what's going on.
The gang had gathered together for a mission and were directed to hide out afterward in an abandoned hotel. Sam was feeling particularly raw because she'd had to abandon some well-loved munitions in their haste to flee for their lives.
She has just finished patching up a bullet graze on John's bicep when a knock comes at the front door.
"You should answer that, Shaw," Root says, knowing.
Scowling, she goes over to answer the door, Reese shadowing her, pistol out. She opens it up to some fresh-faced courier kid, hauling an apparently heavy box off the back of his bicycle. "I've got a guaranteed delivery for an S. Shaw?" the shaggy-haired twenty-something says.
Wary, she replies, "That's me."
"Well, you don't have to sign for it, my only instruction was to drop it off. Be careful with this, lady, it's heavy," he says, bowing under the weight of the box. Shaw takes it from his arms easily, raising a challenging eyebrow, muscles flexing. "Uh, oh, well, okay then. You have a good day," he says and runs off.
She closes the door and squats down to open the box. Mindful of Root's gleeful eyes watching her, she gets her first look. Inside is a mixture of guns and ammo, one of particular interest the .37 mil nestled as the centerpiece. An elegant card of heavy stock reads, 'A gift for Sameen Shaw' in a sophisticated cursive font. Something warms in her chest. It was such a... personal gift. She looks up at Root and the other woman is looking far too self-satisfied.
She stands suddenly with purpose and marches over to Root, grabbing a hold of her elbow and pulling the unprotesting woman into a dark, enclosed janitorial closet.
"Ooh, Shaw! Finally decided to play doctor with me?" she simpers, crowding into her space. Sam tamps down her desire, the woman's heat nearly overwhelming her immediate need for answers.
"Don't be stupid. I had a question to ask you," she says instead of shoving her hand down Root's pants.
Root's hands settle on Shaw's hips. "Ask away, Sameen."
She leans closer in the dark closet, lowering her voice to a confused, embarrassed whisper, "Is the Machine trying to... woo me?" she grits out, uncomfortable.
Root bursts out in delighted laughter, pulling her closer in her mirth. Shaw pushes against the other woman, sending her stumbling into a mop.
"Oh, that was just, it's just so good, Shaw. Is that why you brought us into a dark closet? So we can have girl talk away from her?" she taps her right ear significantly, "You really don't get how this thing works, do you?"
Shaw clenches her fists, "Just tell me, yes or no."
"Yes."
"What?" she asks, not expecting it.
"We both are," she says with an obnoxious eye-roll, "obviously."
She really didn't plan for that when she started this conversation. "Oh," she says simply.
Root seems to understand. "So, you just let us know when you're ready," she reassures, then turns and leaves.
Walking dazedly out behind her, Shaw sees that Reese is hefting the grenade launcher in the air, inspecting it. "I will," Shaw promises in a whisper.