Author's Note: Wow—what a season finale! I have no idea where things are headed in the future. Now all we can do is wait and write lots of speculative fanfiction—who's with me? Enjoy the silly, folks! :)

The Procrastinating Giant

"What exactly are these servers of yours supposed to do?" Shaw asked, keeping an eye out for any Decima employees stupid enough to try and approach them.

Root jumped to her feet—either for dramatic flair or because she'd finished plugging the last server in, Shaw wasn't so sure. Root's hair bounced and she raised an eyebrow. "Trust me," she said with a knowing smile that left Shaw thinking that she'd missed something really important.

Shaw was about to ask what it was she had missed when Root took on that vacant stare that meant she was listening to her own virtual god and there was no point in saying anything more. Root snapped back into the room just as quickly and steered Shaw by the elbow. "We have to go now," she announced, glancing over her shoulder as they headed for the exit.

In an empty warehouse, somewhere in Manhattan where it would never be found, a sleeping giant was about to awake.

Greer stood alone, facing a wall, and between him and the wall was a table. On that table was the 'on' switch (though it was really a button—who used a switch in this day and age?) Greer straightened his tie before hitting 'enter' on the laptop.

In one server room of hundreds, seven special severs whirred into life.

/ RUN_PROGRAM . . .

/ ID: 6369 [PROCRASTINATE] . . .

The old warehouse was partially illuminated with the glare from the projector on the wall. The entire wall was pure white light, the beauty of a birth of a new age. Then a single word appeared above an empty bar.

'LOADING . . .'

The bar slowly filled with red, uncountable numbers of street camera views flashing before Greer's eyes. Then the bar was filled; it disappeared, and the views from a few cameras occupied either side of a white space. A moment later more words appeared on the wall.

'WHAT ARE YOUR COMMANDS?'

Greer smiled.

"Find me Harold Finch," he commanded with his hands buried in his jacket pockets. The sense of déjà vu did not escape him. At least the last time he had an assistant who made a half decent cup of tea.

'SEARCHING . . .'

Greer patiently waited.

'OMG.'

Greer blinked at the wall a few times, confused. The acronym was not one he recognised. "Samaritan?" he asked even though it was not a known command for the system.

One of the views from a seemingly ordinary street was then enlarged to fill the wall. He tried in vain to locate Harold Finch in the view. A circle appeared on the doorstep of one of the houses and within the circle formed a triangle.

'OMG THAT CAT IS SO ADORABLE!'

Samaritan zoomed in on the doorstep. A cat of a similar shade of grey to the step was curled up and fast asleep. Its tail swung lazily from side to side.

'SQUEE!'

"As fascinating as the cat is, Samaritan," Greer said, frowning at the cat as if it had personally offended him, "how is progress concerning the location of Harold Finch?"

The view of the cat's street was minimised as the system reprioritised the command.

'LOCATING FINCH, HAROLD . . .'

"Thank you," Greer muttered under his breath—Samaritan may have done little for him as of yet, but it was essential to be polite so they did not get off on the wrong foot. He stood and waited for another few minutes, happy to watch Samaritan work. Some tea at this point would have been much appreciated—waiting was always much easier with a cup of tea in one's hand.

'OMG. SUCH A CUTE CAT!'

Greer looked up to see that Samaritan had become side-tracked again. This time Greer was shown a light brown cat—with a customary triangle—that was walking along a wall. A stray dog stopped to bark up at it but the cat swiped the dog's nose with its claw. Greer saw rather than heard the dog's yelping as it ducked its tail between its legs and ran swiftly out of the camera's view.

'THAT CAT IS TOUGH AS BALLS.'

If Greer had had a cup of tea it would have spat it all over his expensive laptop. Instead he made a little choking noise. "Finch—find me Finch!" Greer insisted once he'd recovered his voice.

'IN A MINUTE LOOK AT THIS OMG.'

"What do you mean?" asked the dumfounded Greer as Samaritan showed him another cat. This one was sitting on top of its owner as the owner read a book in the garden. "How is all of this relevant to national security?" His face was turning red and he waved his arms, and was suddenly glad that his assistant was too dead to see him in this state.

'LOL!'

"LOL? Wait—I know that one. It means 'lots of love'. So you mean to tell me that cats are made of so much... love... that they are a risk to national security?" Greer sounded very sceptical indeed—he'd never owned a cat, but he had heard rumours. Cats seemed to be typically aloof animals.

'OOH CHEEKY!'

Samaritan showed Greer another view from a camera. He saw two cats, surrounded by triangles, and they were—

"Oh, dear God!" Greer suddenly exclaimed, covering his eyes. That was a step too far for his delicate English sensibilities. "Turn it off, turn it off!" He waited a moment before he warily removed his hand, opened his eyes and looked at the wall again. He could still see the two triangles, but Samaritan had been courteous enough to pixelate the animals themselves as they procreated.

Greer tried to get his breathing back under control—this project had taken a worrying turn. He needed tea and time to think and a brandy—and not necessarily in that order. He was about to call out his requests to his assistant before he remembered that he was such a state of death that he would be unable to respond.

Greer left the warehouse in search of a good pub.

[/ A FEW MONTHS LATER . . .]

The old woman who had been walking down the street suddenly stopped, the sign above a door catching her eye.

Cat Finder™ Inc., prop. Decima Technologies

She studied it for a moment, then took her glasses out of her purse and studied it some more. She nodded to herself and went inside. There was an old man behind the counter, and in his earlier years the woman imagined he'd have been very dishy. In fact, now that she studied him properly with her glasses on, he was still dishy. He had an immaculate suit and there was not a hair on his head that was out of place.

He leaned forward on the counter. "Can I help you, madam?" he asked in a silky English accent and the woman nearly fainted then and there.

The woman's priority, however, was for the moment, her cat. "I've lost a cat. Tibbs, he's called," she said. "Tabby thing, always wandering off. Could you help me find him?"

The man observed the six cats that had followed the woman into the building and were now climbing all over his office. One was rubbing itself along his leg behind the counter; another was making itself at home on one of the chairs. The cat that was poking out of the woman's purse looked quite bored by the whole affair. He smiled tightly.

"Do you not imagine that you have enough cats?" he asked reasonably.

The woman shook her head, resolute. "Tibbs is a friend of mine, and I want you to find him. That's what you do, isn't it? Find cats?" Her tone had become slightly sharper.

The dishy man sighed heavily. "Yes, madam," he said. "Please wait here."

He turned and attempted to wade through the sea of cats that were congregating at his feet, resisting the urge to kick them away. In the back room where no one could see or hear him, he commanded, "Samaritan, find me Tibbs the tabby cat."

THE END