Chapter Two Stages of Motion
Grief does terrible things. It makes you sick. It feels as if nothing in this world could ever subside the pain.
Root knows this, but she tries anyway. Being busy has a way of dulling the senses. Root works herself to the bone, anything to take her mind away from what's ailing her the most. Though it ails her more with each passing day.
She doesn't think about Shaw when she's on the job. Sneaking into places where she doesn't belong, burglary tools embedded meticulously into a fixed cylinder. Focused on aligning the pins and not how many times she's picked the lock on Shaw's door and slipped inside. On the more challenging days, when Root's got her fingers around a trigger instead of a keyboard, she's aiming with precision for the knees, and not thinking about the crude game Shaw would try to make her play to see who can cap the most. Even behind the wheel, Root's thinking about physics. How much she should rotate the wheel given the current ruthless speed before her tires lose traction with the road. She's not thinking about the constant criticism Shaw would be growling from the backseat, if she was here. Root tries.
If it's one thing Root hates, it's to be still. Idle time can be deadly.
Constant motion is her salvation; to stop moving would only bring her closer to hell. A long time ago, Root built a machine in her mind, fueled by woes that are never ending in her life, thus the machine is so. The gears in Root's head were always turning, keeping her alive. Kind to her, as she was kind in return. Now it works in hateful overdrive. The cogs burn white hot and their teeth wear thin under the friction. Something about jagged shaved metal feels dangerous though. The possibility of slipping even more so.
Root wants the danger. She wants the difficult jobs. She wants to feel some other way.
When there's more numbers than they can handle, Root thinks about happy distractions. The Machine is pushing the team into overtime, and Root's in silent agreement that's as wavering as the forced smile on her face. After a recovery, after a job well done, Root barely has enough time to exhale before the first piece of another mission is sounded in her ear. By muscle memory she rises to the occasion. She's in a car or on a plane to who knows where this time in search of something relevant or irrelevant. But now fatigue is beginning to feel like a greater enemy than Samaritan will ever be.
These incessant desires that come with being human, Root could do without. That pang of hunger because she hasn't eaten anything in twenty-four hours, that heavy delirium that fogs her head because she hasn't slept in forty-eight. Because Root feels she would sink to never resurface again if she stops moving. The relentless current grows stronger.
Only in sleep is she so haunted by the ghost of woman that's always and never on her mind. The dreams become more vivid each night. So real, when Root wakes, drenched in a cold sweat and gasping for a breath she can't quite find, she has to remind herself of these tarnishing realities again and again. She will remind herself of choices made for the better and assume that she too will be the same. Night after night though, these things are tugging at Root, more and more, until they begin to claw.
There's a pill to stay awake. There's a pill to go to asleep. There's a pill to get a hold of yourself, but it won't do any good if you want to fall.
Root's dying a little more each day but she presses on. She's who she needs to be; the Machine's analogue interface, humble servant of an AI God. It's her purpose in this life. Root will say it over and over again until the mantra is carved into her soul, until the words burn red with a promise to leave behind scars.
Among the other scars that lie deeper.
She'll work; continue the job she was meant to do. Saving the world, or something like that. For some reason, the long awaited destination is seemingly close to a mirage. Root wavers now, unlike before, if that's the bright future shining in the distance or a taunting decoy. Miles and miles she's gone and millions more she'll have to go. It was always easy with the target visible from afar, beckoning with flashing neon signs and sharp arrows. Her eyes have never wandered and detoured. Now Root's stopping at all the intersections, wondering about the roads less traveled. Each thought she let's linger a little more. Each time she thinks she might turn the wheel and veer off the road.
She straightens though. Because it's what Shaw would have wanted, or so Harold keeps telling her, much to her distaste. She doesn't remember when he started referring to Shaw as of late, now her speaks of her so ambiguously, it just makes Root cringe. Not because she's reminded of a great loss, but because it's then she feels the gun burning in her waistband. She hates that her hand twitches at the thought of hurting him with it.
Just work. Just keep busy. Just breathe.
Only it's become mind numbing labor. Boring and unfulfilled. She used to think the momentum would carry her along, that each hurdle would be boost in the direction of her most sought after dream. She keeps making the obstacles higher and more treacherous, perhaps harder to leap across and easier to trip over.
In the thick of it, the guidance buzzed in her ear goes ignored. Root doesn't want to know how many agents are waiting around the corner and what they're packing. She doesn't want to hear which escape routes are the safest and which streets are absent of Samaritan eyes.
When the bullets are flying, Root's almost leaning in to them. Like she's got her mouth open under a rain cloud in a desert. A graze of near death is soothing sting, and the outward flow of blood heats the body in places so cold, they've nearly lost feeling.
People notice things when they care about you. They notice change.
Reese only has two looks to give her when she stumbles back to the shop with wounds that hit too close to home. One that suggests he thinks she's absolutely lost her mind and another that follows it with sad puppy eyes that Root can't stand. She always manages to blow him off before he can even begin to utter something about Carter, or how he understands what she's going through. Although, the undeniable difference between these two situations is that he actually watched his woman die.
Still, Root will say she's let go of Shaw, but it's a horrible lie and she knows it.
Some things are coming loose through all the wear and tear. One night, Root's looking down the sight of a gun and aiming a little higher at an agent that looks too much like Martine. The bullet hits the part of her thigh over the femoral artery and the woman bleeds out in minutes. Root feels bad for a moment, but for all the wrong reasons. Not because she's broken rule number one, but because Harold will scold her later. And he does. Along with the Machine who's buzzing weapon accuracy details while Harold goes off on a moral tangent. They're both in agreement that Root's long overdue for some target practice. Although, she's starting to think a psych ward would be better fitting than a firing range. Some things are falling apart.
Some things are kept secret.
Being the only person able to converse with the Machine has it's obvious perks. Root begs these questions, only after her resilient patience is stretched too thin. She'll be alone and sleepless at night and whisper to the one who's always listening. She'll ask and hold her breath every time while the Machine buzzes the exact same answer word for word.
/Searching... … … …/
/Asset Sameen Shaw not found./
The Machine will always sign off with a reminder that Root has missed her last dosage. It's been twenty-three days since she's swallowed the pill that makes her care less.
Some people seem to think the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Root's aware of this and out of naivete, thinks that she's the exception. If she realizes, then she can prevent. What Root fails to recognize though is the mere repetition of conscious acts have eroding consequences.
The final gust of wind that polishes the rock face smooth, and the last wave to reduce it to a fine grain of sand... came unexpected one morning.
Root ambles back into headquarters after another number saved or perpetrator subdued, she isn't sure anymore. Everything seems to blur together. Harold must have left in a hurry, his tea sits full and untouched near his desk, but not on it, next to today's paper still wrapped in a rubber band. There's a faint burning smell somewhere and it makes Root worry for a moment. Upon short investigation, it's only the iron that Harold accidentally left plugged into the wall after pressing his clothes. She moves to shut it off, but stops her hand in mid flight. Steam rises from the perforated holes in the hot metal, and Root tries not to think about how she had first met Shaw. Her hand moves closer to feel the heat, emanating in a way that should have frightened Shaw once, but did not. Root tries not to think about what could have changed if she had actually pressed it to her skin. There's sizzling and smoke, there's lightening at the tip of her fingers and Root tries and tries, but finally fails.
Until Reese is pulling her hand away and looking at her in ways she'd rather not have him look. Scorning her with his eyes, and Root stops trying to forget that it's the same stare Sameen Shaw would have granted her for being such an idiot. Because Sameen Shaw cared about her secretly and she saved their lives, and they have done nothing so far to save her's.
Now Root's sitting alone in a bar, solace in solitude at the corner booth. She's drinking Shaw's favorite kind of scotch, knowing now why Shaw loved it so much. The initial taste is smooth on her tongue and it's the best kind burn going down her throat. Warming qualities nostalgic of a woman she used to know. Root's staring into the glass as if she's looking for a reminiscent soul within when a sequence of numbers chide from the implant that hangs so heavily these days. In the past, the voice brought her comfort and joy, it gave her hope, it gave her a second chance. Now it only seems to feel like an irritating fly always buzzing, always watching from the wall.
The old Root would have abandoned her drink, paid the tab, and set off to do what was now becoming a great burden. This time, even as the nine digits echo again, Root stays unaltered, savoring the bitter amber liquid instead of the once sweet voice.
Though the Machine encourages her to action, Root takes her time, sipping from the short glass and secretly finding a way to screw her courage. The reverberation finally discontinues after the last drop is drained from the glass. Root skims a circling fingertip over the edges before she breaks the silence.
"Would you even tell me if you knew," Root asks with an unsettling dryness in her throat, she knows it's not from the scotch. "If you knew where Shaw was," she elaborates with a whisper that's just enough for the receiver to catch the words. The Machine doesn't answer right away, and that's alright because Root's not holding her breath this time.
She waits, and it's as if Root already knows the answer before the Machine says it.
/No./
There's a reason, there's an explanation the Machine is giving but Root can't hear it with all the blood boiling over in her head. Root thinks about lost time that could have been spent well. She's clenching her eyes shut, her jaw, and the glass in her hand and hears nothing but what sounds like the ocean being turned in a vice. Until she remembers to breathe again, and it's as if the angered slate is wiped clean.
Root slips a hand into her pocket and fists a wad of small bills, uncaring the amount tossed on the table before rising to stand and leave. She misses the insincere farewell from the bartender as she sways to the door. Root's great at a lot of things, but drinking has never been one of them. But sometimes in the chill of life, a warmth is needed, even if it is brief and superficial.
The world is too loud and bright and Root winces as she steps onto the sidewalk. The streets are busy and full of people going about their usual or unusual business. They're completely oblivious of her, and what she's done to protect them from the enemy that lies within. Root wonders if these people would even care if they knew. Root wonders if she cares herself.
Root's standing motionless, gazing into the streets and once again the Machine buzzes in her ear. It's new information, further instructions telling Root to turn right and travel five blocks and... the rest might as well be white noise.
There's a wrenching ache within. A pulling that wants to take Root in tow. Sadly, she knows it's not from the three odd scotches consumed earlier. It's that instinct she's never been able to shake away.
Root looks to the right, down the busy street that never ends, the way she should go. Her former self is pushing in that direction, to that vanishing point in the distance that's supposed to be the bigger picture. Root could turn right. She could make the first step among many. She could further add to the ladder that would lead her to what she desired the most. Her reasoning for all that she's done, good and bad.
Never did she believe her desires would change. She looks to the right and only sees a limit constantly raised without warning. The end of which felt so equivalent to Heaven.
God repeats herself and yet Root remains a statue, her face hardened like stone, peering off into the indefiniteness with weary eyes on the verge of drowning.
Root had always trusted the Machine, as cryptic as She can be, obliging any request with only a moment's notice. Always a faithful servant, instilling that same trust in others when they were hesitant and doubtful. The Machine has a plan, and Root believed in it with every atom in her body.
Now here Root stands, in her most raw and bare form with the doubt she never dreamed of having, in front of the inadmissible fork stuck sharply in the road.
She looks to the left, into a greater unknown and it somehow seems more promising.
Root can't believe how her feet feel like lead welded to the pavement as she takes the first step into a new direction opposite of her destiny. The voice echos another command to the user interface and Root simply stops and shakes her head. A hand slides into her jacket and grips the cell phone within. It flies from her grasp and into the trash receptacle close by. That same hand is reaching up behind her bad ear with trembling fingers about to sever the final link and the Machine speaks again.
/Trust me./
She shuts her welling eyes for a moment to compose, to find stillness and clarity, but when she closes them, all she sees is Shaw.
There's a camera just above the light post, and Root gazes in to lens, into the eyes of her God the Machine. Before she undoes the battery of her implant, before she breaks the beloved bond, Root utters a single word in such a blasphemous way never thought to be punctuated. The word she feels as prickling icicles forming within her throat. So chilling as she sharply inhales the breath to load the arrow from her quiver. The sting is a rightful sin against the tip of her tongue on it's release.
Root says, "No".
Grief does terrible things... will make you do terrible things.
