The Weight of Darkness
by RocheIle17
Chapter 15: Two Evils
Thank you for all those who have followed this story and who have encouraged me with positive thoughts or friendly comments, know that they go straight to my heart!
Finch had trouble lifting his eyelids. The curtains, which remained open, let the morning pass and a glaring light invaded the room. The man covered his eyes before turning over in a bed that he knew was not his own. The mattress was too soft; the sheets, with an unusual scent, were a little too rough. His body was broken, his hip more painful than usual, and a migraine was drumming in his skull. He was in a bad way. And not just physically.
But for now, in a state of semi-consciousness blessed to people more fully asleep but not yet fully awake, the recluse was disoriented. He did not recognize the familiar noises of his room. He could not hear the regular ticking of his alarm clock or the crackling of the parquet floor of his apartment. Instead, he could hear the purring of the city and the sound of fine raindrops banging against the window panes.
The sound of the water instantly awakened Finch, as surely an icy shower, and unfortunately all the memories of the day before came back to him. He remembered everything: John's cold distance when he entered the room, his refusal to eat, and then his retreat to the bathroom.
He remembered the muffled sobs that the sound of the water jets couldn't cover, and the anxiety that had beset him to the point of opening the locked door with a screwdriver. The image of John, curled up in the shower, his body shaken by tremors and his face ravaged by tears, would no doubt remain engraved forever in his mind. Fear and sadness had struck him in the heart when he discovered his friend in the grip of a violent panic attack, the last symptom of the post-traumatic syndrome that had been eating away at him since his release from the coma.
Without thinking about the danger, since the victims of PTSD could be potentially irritable, uncontrollable, or even sometimes violent, he had rushed to comfort John. He had been seized by the bitter cold of the water and had hastened to stop the icy deluge that fell on his friend, whose skin had taken on a disturbing blue coloration. He'd grabbed a thick sponge towel and vigorously rubbed the agent's chilled body. The epidermis had quickly turned bright red. The recluse had vaguely been conscious of rubbing a little too hard, that the skin, numbed because of the cold, must have been painful. But all Finch had in mind at that moment had been to warm John up and calm him down. Once he had made sure that the man was no longer hypothermic, he had tenderly hugged him before reassuring him with soothing words.
After a few minutes, when Finch had gently cradled John like a child, the tremors had subsided and his sobs had eased. He'd then helped him get up, then led him into the room, and invited him to bed. Without a word, the agent had obediently obeyed his requests. But he hadn't been fooled. He had noticed clearly that John was turning his back on him, again avoiding all contact with him. He then decided to go against John's desire for solitude.
He had taken off his soaked clothes and lay down behind him, passing his arms around John's now lukewarm body to warm him, but also and above all to feel him alive against him. He wanted to reassure him, but also to make sure he was okay. He had wanted to monitor him, watch over his sleep and possibly intervene in case of new seizures, or simply to comfort him in case of nightmares. But he couldn't resist sleep for very long and had fallen asleep against his will.
The film of the events of the previous day had paraded through his mind in just a few seconds, but the recluse remembered the smallest details, as perfectly as if he had just experienced them: of John's pain and distress as well as of his helplessness and his own sadness. He swore to do everything possible, and even more, to get Reese out of this trap. And as if to seal the oath he was making to himself, he wanted to once again hug the young man whom he thought was still asleep by his side, but instead of meeting his friend's body, the recluse's fingers found only the sheets.
Ignoring the protests of his stiff muscles and sore hip after a night of immobility in an unsuitable bed, Finch quickly straightened up and adjusted his glasses that had slipped from his nose. He looked with amazement and fear at the now empty place beside him. He could still make out the silhouette of his partner in the mattress that had not yet regained its original shape, as if Reese had just gotten up. A little reassured, the recluse put a trembling hand in the hollow next to him but the temperature of the sheets ended his hopes... They were cold. John must have left the bed a long time ago.
Where is he? he wondered to himself, casting anxious glances around him.
But the room was empty. Despite the dim light of that rainy early morning that plunged the room into dimness, he saw no trace of John. This absence and silence did not bode well. His anxiety escalated when he noticed an innocuous detail... or rather the absence of a detail... Near the door of the adjoining bathroom, he saw no trace of the clothes he had brought the day before. However, he remembered leaving them on the ground to help his partner during his crisis. So concerned about John's health, he hadn't picked them up or stored them. If they were no longer there, it was because someone had picked them up... And that someone could only be John.
Seized by a dreadful foreboding, Harold threw off the blankets and got out of bed as quickly as possible, without a care for his sore body. He managed to stand up, but when he put one foot in front of the other, he could not hold back a groan of pain. The tragic events of his most recent days had put his body to the test and his suffering, usually barely tolerable, had passed the bearable stage. Normally, he would have taken a few minutes to stretch his sore limbs, massage his stiff muscles, and probably swallow painkillers. But he didn't have time for that. His physical suffering was nothing in the face of his partner's psychological pain. So he limped painfully towards the door of the room, praying inwardly.
Dear God, please let him be in the living room…
He unceremoniously opened the door that led to the large living room of the apartment, his heart pounding in his chest. He glanced at the place, desperately searching for a presence; a garment carelessly thrown on an armchair, the remnants of a meal left on the large table, a coffee cup forgotten on the worktop. Of course not. Nothing. The place was as empty and tidy as a staged apartment. He then listened for the sound of a presence, but only a deafening silence answered him.
He had to face the obvious, the apartment was empty.
John was gone.
He had fled.
Totally dazed, Harold stood for a few seconds, his hand on the doorknob, staring at the place with an absent air, having no idea what to do. He was lost, distraught, anxious, panicked. Given John's condition, Harold feared that John would do the worst. He knew his teammate's self-destructive tendencies. Time was running out but unfortunately for the genius, he had no solution... This feeling of being totally overwhelmed by events, coupled with a guilty impotence, had been painfully familiar to him for some time. But despite everything, he had never become used to it.
Once the stupor passed, his mind began to function again. He stepped into the middle of the room and turned around slowly in search of a solution. Reese had not taken his cell phone, so there was no way to get in touch with him, nor to trace him for that matter. Unless…
An idea arose in his mind when his eyes landed on his laptop still open on the living room table. He limped toward it, put a hand on the mouse and moved it with a nervous gesture to blank the screen saver. He sat down in front of his PC which was still showing, like the ultimate insult, his most recent research. Slightly upset, he closed the pages of confidential army files concerning post-traumatic stress disorder that he had hacked, and logged on to the city's surveillance network. He would try to trace John's route to find out where he had taken refuge.
But as if that were not enough, he was faced with a new problem. It was his own fault this time. This apartment had not been chosen at random. The building was located in a white area, that is, not covered by city cameras. He was going to have to look at the borders of the uncovered area to see which path Reese had taken. But the perimeter to be examined was rather wide and he knew his time was running out. So, he had to get help.
"Are you there?" he asked, staring at the webcam above his screen.
Immediately the little red light right next to the lens lit up while an inhuman but paradoxically very soft voice rose from the speakers.
"Always."
The recluse wasn't surprised by the presence of the Machine or by its responsiveness. A faithful ally, she was always there and watched over him in the manner of a guardian angel.
"I need your help," he announced without preamble. He knew he didn't need such pleasantries with her.
"I'm listening."
"I want you to find John," ordered the Creator to his creation.
A totally unexpected silence greeted the request. Finch lowered his eyebrows, vaguely worried by this less helpful than usual attitude toward him. After long seconds, the AI finally consented to speak.
"Are you sure he wants to be found?"
This question surprised Finch. He wasn't prepared himself for this answer at all. With his mouth suddenly very dry, the man swallowed painfully before asking with suspicion and concern,
"He is not in his normal state, he left without leaving me a message…"
"Are you sure?" the AI brutally interrupted.
Finch swiveled in his chair, uncomfortable with the Machine's sibylline answers. But what did she mean? He turned his head to the right and left, trying to spot a detail that had eluded him. His gaze swept the living room, from the open kitchen to the bar, the leather sofa and the coffee table with the chessboard that had not moved since the last evening spent in the company of Elias. No. Nothing in particular.
But suddenly a detail jumped out at him. His extraordinary photographic memory allowed him to notice what the common man would probably have ignored: a game piece had been moved. With his throat tight, Finch rose and slowly approached the coffee table. His discomfort grew as he approached the chessboard, his eyes fixed on his white bishop. The piece had been deliberately pushed into the path of the black queen. A sacrificed pawn.
There was no doubt in Finch's mind that John had moved this piece before he left. So that was the message the Machine was referring to. She had observed him as he left the apartment. And for Finch, the message was clear: John had sacrificed himself for the game to continue. Namely the fight against Samaritan and the protection of the Numbers.
Finch clenched his fists as a dull anger grew in him. He pivoted slowly and walked towards the computer. He sat down again in front of the screen and aimed a cold look at the camera lens.
"Why did you not wake me?" he demanded through clenched teeth, his voice barely constraining his rage.
"He didn't want me to."
Finch's mouth dropped with surprise before closing into a sardonic line. "Since when do you listen to us?" whispered the man with contempt, remembering how many times the Machine had not obeyed him, following her own choices at the risk of derailing missions or putting their lives, including his own, at risk.
"Only when it comes to the best solution."
This implacable response instantly caused the recluse, whose blood had begun to boil in his veins, to react instantly. He banged his fist on the table, causing the decorative candlestick in the centre to wobble dangerously. "Because to you, John's sacrifice is the best thing to do?!" he cried violently.
But the AI was unmoved by this outburst of anger and continued her explanations in her calm and direct voice.
"John considers himself as a weakness, a danger to the team."
The reality of the analysis struck Finch in the heart.
"He is not..." murmured the recluse with a sigh.
But he knew deep down that this wasn't true, that Reese was in no position to continue the missions at all. If Reese had been vaguely aware of it at the time he woke up, feeling lost and disoriented, he had gradually acquired the certainty in the following days; until last night, when, in addition to his panic attack, the young man had not heard Finch approach. His senses were less sharp, his mind paralyzed by a flurry of violent feelings and by traumatic memories. How could he save Numbers when he himself was not yet saved from his demons?
But all wasn't lost. Finch had read in the army reports that it was possible to recover from this kind of trauma. There were different methods ranging from hypnosis to psychotherapy to drug treatments. But the commonality between all these solutions was that patients had to be particularly supported. Harold doubted the effectiveness of psychotropic drugs or psychoanalysis on Reese. The man would probably refuse opiates, and he was too quiet and suspicious to confide in strangers. But one thing was for sure, Finch would be by John's side. Always.
"He chose to leave us for the good of all," continued the computer, which, like a coldly efficient machine, had developed an implacable argument.
"That's not true, and you know it!" Harold said rebelliously, clenching his fists to contain the despair that threatened to engulf him. But his voice clearly lacked conviction.
"Statistically, this is the best solution."
Obviously, the Machine must have done hundreds of simulations before reaching this conclusion. The computer scientist knew that she was right, that John had made this decision for the good of the team, for the missions... For the others.
But what about himself? Who would take care of him? Who would look after him? Finch's throat tightened in the face of such injustice. Was the young man destined to sacrifice himself for others? Ignoring his own life? Wasn't he, too, entitled to happiness?
No! As long as Finch had a breath of life, an ounce of hope, he would refuse to give up and try by all means to save John! And as was often the case when Finch found himself cornered. despair quickly gave way to anger.
"John is not a statistic! He is not a number! He's a man! Complex, wounded, tormented, lost..." The recluse trailed off, his eyes shining with tears.
"The opposite of a machine in short," concluded the AI in her neutral voice.
Finch froze as he realized the clumsiness of his words. He opened his mouth to apologize for once again being unjustly against his creation, which in the end did only what it had been programmed to do. But he was cut off by the supercomputer:
"It is precisely because he is not a machine and I am one that I cannot do anything."
"What do you mean?" asked the recluse, frowning.
He was increasingly confused by the Machine's behavior. It was not the first time, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Although he liked philosophical discussions with her, he had to admit that this one was going badly. John was in danger, and for once, the Numbers, Samaritan, or the government had nothing to do with it. His partner's worst enemy was none other than himself. He had no time to waste deciphering the riddles of an AI.
"Do you remember your discussions with Greer?"
"Yes," replied Finch with suspicion, not particularly keen to recall those rather painful episodes of his life.
"Do you remember your debates and your main point of difference?"
The genius thought quickly. Greer had kidnapped him to perfect Samaritan. He'd refused because he didn't want humanity to lose its freedoms and become the slave of an AI, however sophisticated, just, and omniscient it might have been.
"Free will," murmured the computer scientist, more for himself than for his questioner.
This had been very heart of their dispute: ensuring that technology assisted humanity, not the other way around. Humans always had to make sure that they kept their free will, the freedom of their choices, their actions and their thoughts. But Finch still didn't see what the Machine was getting at. It was then that the supercomputer spoke again:
"While John was unconscious, I spoke to him. I gave him all the cards, to choose to die or live. He made his decision, in his soul and conscience."
Finch's heart skipped a beat and his hands became sweaty as he understood the Machine's message. She had done what she had been created to do: protect his partner without interfering in his choices, leaving him the final decision. The rational side of engineering fully adhered to this approach, but there was nothing rational anymore when it came to John.
Overwhelmed by the idea that his creation didn't wish to help him, he bowed his head and gave free rein to his despair. Tears flowed silently down his cheeks as he murmured in a pleading voice, like that of a child, "But I didn't have time to talk to him…"
The Machine remained silent, its cold lens watching Finch uncompromisingly as if to find in his drawn features and in his lost gaze, the most appropriate response. After an interminable time for the man, probably much shorter in reality, she finally agreed to speak.
"Do you think it would make a difference?"
"What?" asked the recluse who uncharacteristically, under the force of his emotions, had lost the thread of the conversation.
"Do you think you can change his mind? Do you think you can save him?"
Finch wiped away his tears and blinked. He had perceived a kind of hesitation in the artificial voice of the Machine, as if she were no longer very sure of the relevance of his decision. Finch understood that in these questions was possibility of changing his mind. He was thinking fast. Should he lie or be honest, at the risk of having to do without her help? He hesitated for a brief moment and then made his decision. He had promised himself that he would never lie to her. He had made the same promise to John and had kept to it, against all odds. He straightened his head and glanced at the cold lens. He could almost feel the gaze of the computer on him, the interrogator, gauging him, judging him.
He gave a deep breath before answering in a more confident voice, "I don't know. But what I'm sure of is that I will do everything in my power to do so!"
Another silence greeted this response. The Machine analyzed the words of its Creator, the intonations of his voice, the determined features of his face, all the objective signals that could enable her to make the most reasonable decision. The AI realized that in order to decide, she needed to know all the elements. John, on the other hand, had not had that privilege. He hadn't had all the cards in hand to decide whether to leave or stay, since he hadn't had the opportunity to speak with Harold.
Her decision was therefore made: she would help Finch, but within the limits of her abilities, and above all, by following to the letter the moral code he had enacted for her. She would help the two men to talk to each other, but without interfering in the final decision: a choice that depended only on them. In other words, if Reese, after their discussion, decided to leave anyway, she would not go against his will, even if his departure would cause her administrator infinite grief.
"Very well, I'll help you find him, but my role will end there," announced the supercomputer after a few thousandths of a second of reflection.
Without further ado, various windows showing shots from the surveillance cameras appeared on the screen. The images in the videos scrolled across the monitors far too quickly for a human eye but not for the eye of an AI. The Machine's thousands of powerful eyes tracked John's silhouette in the night's recordings.
Suddenly, the waltz of the images stopped. A tiny detail on the video from a camera that monitored the corner of Madison Avenue and 120th attracted the supercomputer's attention, and she enlarged the window. Finch approached the screen, squinting his eyes, and made out a dark shape, barely visible in the dark, sneaking by. As he had guessed, John had put on the belongings that had been left on the ground. He walked quickly through the deserted alleys of the sleepy city. With his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, the collar of his leather jacket pulled up to try to protect himself from the violent gusts of rain, the man didn't seem to know where to go. At each intersection, he glanced quickly at the surveillance cameras that he still knew how to spot: at the top of the traffic lights, at each crossing, or at the entrances of the buildings. As soon as he saw one, he quickly lowered his head and took another direction in order to blur his tracks and escape the gaze of the thousands of eyes that were watching the inhabitants of the metropolis.
But despite John's precautions and persistent reflexes of his past as a CIA agent, the Machine managed to follow his journey beyond Harlem River, in the Bronx. The young man hurried through the streets of one of New York's most deprived neighborhoods. Moreover, the signs of this poverty were clearly visible despite the darkness associated with poor public lighting. Garbage bags were piled up near each porch, some of which had been gutted by stray dogs blithely rummaging through the rubbish in search of a pittance. Groups of young people hung out, bottles of alcohol in hand to drown their sorrows; others chatted at the feet of the buildings while waiting for a customer to buy their goods... illegal, no doubt. Women in garish outfits were waiting for another kind of customer, who, in exchange for a few dollars, offered a night of illusory pleasures or love. A veritable court of miracles, in short. But in the end, all these poor souls had one thing in common: the forgetting in alcohol, drugs or sex, the emptiness of their lives. And Reese was looking for the same thing, oblivion, even fleeting relief from his pain.
John pushed open the door of a bar at the corner of 167th and Clay Avenue, probably one of the few establishments still open at this late hour of the night. With a knot in his stomach, Finch watched him disappear into this questionable bistro. The façade was faded, covered in graffiti, and one of the windows had been roughly patched up. Large-cylinder motorcycles were stationed near the entrance, giving a vague idea of the type of customers inside.
"Can we get images from the inside?" asked Finch, worried about his partner being in this kind of place.
"No, the establishment does not have a CCTV system," replied the Machine's mechanical voice.
"Can you get access to customers' phones?" the computer scientist insisted, feeling his palms become increasingly sweaty.
"No, the neighborhood is in a white area."
"Obviously..." said the recluse with irony.
This was probably the reason why John had taken refuge there. With his heart beating heavily in his chest, Finch stared at the screen for any minute detail. But the lens, pointed at the closed door of the establishment, revealed no movement for long minutes. The Machine then decided to speed up the videotape before returning to normal speed. Nothing had changed, except for the time displayed at the bottom of the screen: 3:30. So it had been an hour since John had been holed up in this infamous spot. But as Harold began to wonder if his partner had been able to slip away discreetly through a back door, the bar doors opened with a bang on two bikers carrying a man's inert body at arm's length. The two bulky men threw their burden violently to the ground before turning on their heels and re-entering the bar, without a glance at the unfortunate man who had miserably landed in a pile of garbage bags.
Finch couldn't help but feel sorry for the man who lay in the pouring rain in the middle of the garbage. He watched him roll over and then straighten painfully. The stranger wobbled dangerously on his legs and only avoided a fall by clutching at a lamppost that hadn't played its role for a long time. Despite the semi-darkness, the computer scientist guessed that the man was completely drunk.
But why was the Machine interested in this alcoholic? Then Finch froze as he recognized the clothes of the unknown man: the leather jacket, the sweatshirt, the jeans. His mouth opened with amazement when he realized that the pathetic drunk who had just been thrown unceremoniously from a squalid bar in the Bronx was none other than John!
What a pitiful vision! Despite the sadness that strangled his heart, the recluse could not detach his eyes from the tragic spectacle of this drifting man. After stabilizing on his feet, John raised his head and observed the surveillance camera across the street for a few moments. Despite his advanced state of inebriation, the agent was still acutely conscious of being observed by the Machine, and no doubt by Finch. Even at this distance, the computer scientist felt as if he was being pierced by his ever-sharp gaze, of being overwhelmed by the despair he could read in the blue irises just before he turned away.
"Oh... John," whispered Finch in a choked voice as he watched John walk away with difficulty.
Reese staggered miserably along the pavement, stumbling several times and avoiding a slip only by leaning heavily against the brick wall he was following in the manner of a blind man, clinging to everything he could find to move forward without falling.
The agent wandered around this shabby neighbourhood for a few minutes before being confronted by a gang of young people, who were also visibly very drunk. Normally, even alone against five, he would have made only one bite of these young boys just out of adolescence. But he was so drunk he could barely hold himself upright. As a result, he was unable to fight his attackers. And even if he had been able to, would he have really wanted to? For Finch, the question remained on hold as one of the thugs had just shoved his partner, presumably looking for a fight.
John tried to ignore him, continuing his arduous journey. But he hadn't counted on the stupidity of youth. The assailant returned to the charge by kicking the agent in the lower back, who fell heavily to the ground. A rain of blows then fell on Reese who had just enough time to curl into a ball, hands on his head and legs bent over his belly in a primitive reflex of protection. The group kicked or punched their victim for endless minutes. Finch, a helpless spectator, felt every blow. Unable to detach his eyes from this beating, he clenched his fists until he hurt himself, a poor consolation in view of his partner's pain.
Finch had before his eyes the perfect example of what Dr. Campbell had described as self-destructive impulses during his interviews with John. He already knew that the young man had suicidal tendencies. He had never forgotten the state in which he had found Reese five years earlier. At the time, he was at rock bottom and wanted to end his life in one way or another: by alcohol, fights, or a swan dive from the top of one of New York's many bridges. Harold had the impression of a flashback, as if their meeting, their association, their friendship, and perhaps their love, had never existed.
Then the thrashing ceased as it had begun, for no reason. The boys just seemed to have grown tired and decided to leave, leaving their victim to his sad fate, without regret or remorse. Lying on his side in the fetal position, John was no longer moving. Finch began to panic. He could feel beads of sweat dripping down his spine. Finally, the computer scientist noticed a slight movement in his partner. It was with intense relief that he saw the man turn around and lie on his back. He was motionless for long minutes, indifferent to the rain that fell upon him, contemplating the night above his head. Only his chest lifted to the rhythm of his laborious breathing.
He probably has broken ribs, Finch thought. His suspicions were confirmed when Reese tried to stand up. The operation proved to be doubly complicated, by his drunkenness on the one hand and his injuries on the other.
Luckily for the agent, charitable souls, but not very brave ones, since they had witnessed the whole scene without interfering, flew to his aid. A swarm of prostitutes who were making their rounds nearby rushed to him and helped him to stand up. One holding him by each arm, they dragged him to a dubious-looking motel across the street, no doubt their... professional location.
Its façade had nothing to envy to the bar, if one believed that the agent was touring the most sordid places in the city. An ageless neon sign illuminated the dilapidated façade of the establishment with a garish pink light. Despite the drawn curtains, the windows didn't hide much of the activity inside the rooms. Impotent, Finch watched as the ladies dragged the agent into this place of debauchery, secretly hoping that he would do nothing but sleep. But on the face of it, the young man was not in any state to do much other than that.
And suddenly, as that nightmarish night drew to a close, the computer scientist had a glimmer of hope.
"Accelerate the video to the present time," he asked, carefully paying attention to the images of the hotel's entrance.
The back-and-forth of the customers and their "madams" marched at breakneck speed but there was no trace of John. Finally, when the video stopped at the present moment, Finch breathed a discreet sigh of relief. Although he already knew the answer, he asked the AI, just to be sure:
"You've seen the same thing as I?"
"You're referring to the fact that John didn't leave the motel."
Finch gave the Machine his first smile since he had awakened. It was a shy and hesitant smile, as was the hope that had just been born in him, but there it was. And the recluse cherished this hope as the most precious of treasures. He grabbed his phone, but the Machine stopped his gesture.
"I've already called a cab. He'll be downstairs in five minutes."
This initiative did not surprise Finch. "Thank you," he murmured. Even the longest speech couldn't have expressed his gratitude to his Machine. So he contented himself with this simple thank you, certain that she would understand, beyond that very small word.
"Good luck," replied the AI soberly.
With this, the little red light above the laptop screen went out, leaving Finch alone. In his heart, he knew that the Machine would keep her promise. For it was her very essence, which she would never go back on for fear of betraying herself, something as impossible as seeing the moon and the sun shine at the same time in the sky.
The computer scientist stood up and then went into his room to remove his crumpled clothes from the day before. He went into the bathroom to do a quick wash and then put on clean, ironed clothes.
He returned to the living room, grabbed his phone, and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. He knew that his partner did not have his, and as the Machine had already explained that it wouldn't help him in what was arguably the most arduous mission of his life. This gesture was to be interpreted as a reflex rather than as a necessity, the unconscious desire to feel connected to the world, to the Machine, to the girls and perhaps, to John.
But before heading to the apartment's exit, he limped to the chessboard. With his fingertips, he pushed over his king, which fell on the board, thereby signalling his defeat. Life was not a game and he refused John's sacrifice. Satisfied, he turned on his heel, climbed the few steps leading to the door, grabbed his coat and hat and then left.
Never had a journey seemed so endless to Finch. However, it took only half an hour to cross Manhattan and reach the Bronx. Despite the early morning rush hour, the taxi was lucky enough to leave the island, unlike most motorists who went there to work in the world's largest business district. As a result, his lane was much clearer than its twin, on the other side of the central median, on Harlem River Dr. The computer scientist looked, without actually seeing them, at the vehicles opposite, stuck in a traffic jam that ushered in another day of work despite the rain.
The man was nervous. Even for a stranger like the driver, there were some signs that were unmistakable. He was initially surprised by this elegant customer's destination, but refrained from commenting. After all, the customer was king and he had to honor the reputation of New York taxis who were accustomed to seeing nothing or hearing during their routes. So he politely acquiesced and then started to drive his passenger to a motel with a dubious reputation in an equally dubious neighborhood.
But during the ride, he couldn't help but look at the man in the back seat of his vehicle. He had noted the nervous gestures such as smoothing imaginary pleats on his pants or his uncontrollable foot taps. And such was obviously not to keep time with music, since he had refused the radio and CDs, preferring an uncomfortable silence. Instinctively, the driver had sensed that any attempt at conversation would be futile, and therefore focused on his driving without opening his mouth.
Finch, on the other hand, had no care for the landscape or the discomfort that filled the sedan's interior. The only thing that consumed him was John.
The further away the vehicle was from the city centre, the more the landscape became faded, murky, and sordid. The dilapidated, ten-storey buildings flanked by exterior emergency staircases on their red brick facades had replaced modern buildings with their soaring architecture. The streets were much less clean; no doubt the city's utilities didn't see the point in cleaning up these neighborhoods that were less frequented by businessmen or tourists. So garbage cans piled up on every street corner, trailing their rubbish on the sidewalks.
Finally, after half an hour of a mute ride during which Finch had repeatedly replayed in his head the reunion with his partner, had repeated hundreds of times what he planned to tell him, the car stopped in front of the motel. Finch looked up at the vulgar storefront. And for all his mental preparation, he was as anxious as a young first-timer who was about to take the lead role in the theatre. He was afraid to do everything wrong, by an unfortunate word or a clumsy gesture, to scare John away again... and for good this time!
He paid for the taxi and then got out of the vehicle, which peeled away quickly, in a hurry to join civilization. Immediately, a swarm of girls, attracted by very enticing outward signs of wealth, clumped around the recluse like bees around a jar of honey.
"Hi, what can I do for you?" said a busty platinum blonde in a suave voice, wrapping her arm like a vine around Finch's.
"Leave him, Rosy," cut in another, a brunette this time, "you can see that he needs someone with class."
"In that case, you aren't in the best position," exclaimed a third.
This remark provoked general hilarity. While laughing heartily, the young women sought to attract the attention of this potential customer, by letting a strap slip to reveal an attractive shoulder or a generous neckline. Despite the competition over who would win the pass, there was a warm and rather friendly atmosphere among the prostitutes. They had probably quickly realized that they had to stay together to survive on the streets. Alone, they would have put themselves under the protection of greedy pimps, and suffered the beatings of violent customers.
But Harold was not in the mood to open up about the miserable life of these unfortunates. He gave them a look as sharp as a blade and announced point-blank, "I am looking for the young man you rescued last night."
The jovial mood dropped instantly. The women distanced themselves from the recluse as if, had he been a friend, he had suddenly become their enemy.
"If you only knew how many young men we collect each night," said the most reckless of all the girls with irony, seeking to discourage him but also to impress him.
Finch drew a small smile in the corner of his mouth, showing that he was not fooled by the maneuver. He continued to look at them sharply, retorting with contempt, "I'm talking about the one who was beaten by five drunk kids under your nose, without anyone trying to interfere."
The women blushed under their garish make-up. The atmosphere then became clearly hostile.
"What do you want from him?" blurted the platinum blonde named Rosy as she moved to stand in front of the front door of the motel, immediately imitated by her colleagues, thus blocking the way for the intruder.
Posted at the top of the four steps leading to the entrance to the establishment, half a dozen girls regarded Finch with anger and distrust. The man then decided to be honest with them, relying on his first impression: namely, that these women were good people despite the harshness of their existence. So he dropped his cold mask and began to speak, weighing each of his words to be as close to reality as possible, without revealing everything about their association. "He is my employee... My... partner. His last mission was particularly difficult. He suffered a deep trauma and is not... in his normal state. I absolutely have to talk to him, to help him... To save him."
This last phrase, uttered in a whisper, was barely audible. When finished, Finch remained silent, head down, looking sheepishly at the tips of his shoes, well aware that his life depended on the judgment of these six young women who were watching him akin to Solomon.
"You're Harold, aren't you?" asked Rosy suddenly. Her voice had softened.
When the recluse raised his head, he gazed into the young woman's blue eyes. They were full of compassion. "Yes," he replied, uncertain.
She smiled at him and walked down the steps with extraordinary ease despite her high heeled shoes. She gently took his hand and declared, "He called out your first name in his sleep. I'm going to take you to him."
Relieved to the point of letting out a few tears, Finch let himself be led down the narrow corridors of the hotel, passing the ageless decorations. Their steps, smothered by a shredded and stained carpet, didn't cover the sound of mattress springs squealing at a steady pace, exaggerated moans of women and the dull grunts of men. Finally, Rosy stopped in front of Room 101. She put her hand on the handle and opened the door before beginning to slip away.
"He's there," she said, indicating the inside of the room with a nod.
Finch tried to see his partner but the curtains had been drawn and the room was plunged into darkness. He then stepped into the room, taking care to close the door behind him. A very unpleasant pungent smell gripped him by the throat, a mixture of cheap alcohol, marijuana, sweat and other bodily fluids of which he didn't particularly want to know the origin.
Holding his breath, his eyes riveted on the bed he was guessing at the back of the room, he walked forward slowly, making sure not to frighten the man he thought was asleep. But as he approached, a strange feeling rose in him. Squinting to try to divine Reese's silhouette, he didn't have time to realize on his own that the bed was empty, when a voice rose behind him, causing him to startle violently.
"What are you doing here?"
The voice was tired, the tone was aggressive.
Finch turned and saw John, slumped in a worn-out chair in a corner of the room. The man was scary to see. His hair was uncombed, a burgeoning beard obscured half his face and the marks from his battles the previous night were clearly visible. His lower lip was notched and the left cheekbone had a purplish bruise. His clothes were also in poor condition: his jeans were covered in blood and his sweatshirt was torn at the collar. But despite his pitiful appearance, Reese's gaze was still as sharp and his attitude honed.
Finch took a long breath to give himself courage and answered in a trembling voice, "John, we need to talk."
"What can you say that hasn't already been said?" replied the young man, sniffing with contempt.
"Nothing has been said. We didn't talk about what had happened, what Greer and Samaritan had done to us," Finch said, ignoring the hostility he perceived in John's voice and attitude.
"There is nothing to say," replied the man dryly, squirming in his chair, visibly uncomfortable with the mention of the facts in question.
Finch saw this an encouraging sign. He had read that victims of post-traumatic stress disorder tried to suppress their painful memories. One of the keys to healing was precisely to confront them. The fact that John so vehemently refused to speak to him was the glaring proof that he had been right. Then, despite the wrath of his partner, whom he was guessing was about to burst, the recluse raised his chin and insisted, "There's everything to say. I know you blame yourself for making me suffer..."
"Making you suffer?!" John repeated, leaping from his seat to rush towards his friend like a leaping deer.
Finch was so surprised by his vivacity that he didn't begin any retreat. Nor did he react when John brutally grabbed him by the shoulders before sandwiching him against the wall. He merely stared at John, his eyes wide with surprise but no fear. No, he was not afraid. He even had a blind trust in him. So he remained silent, gazing at him.
"I almost killed you!" the agent continued, staring at him with an aghast look, not understanding why the other man was trying to convince him otherwise.
"But you didn't," Finch said in a soft voice that contrasted with Reese's: chopped, breathless, emotionally vibrant.
A long silence followed this exchange. The two men regarded each other at length. Their faces were so close that Finch could feel the smell of alcohol that John had ingested during his night of debauchery within each of his exhalations.
"Why don't you leave me? Can't you see I'm dangerous?!"
But despite the agent's fingers sinking painfully into his flesh, despite the tone of his voice, urgent and desperate, Finch began to see the mask crack. The barriers that Reese had erected were crumbling, revealing flaws that the genius intended to exploit. "You are not dangerous," he murmured, placing his hands on his friend's chest, not to repel him but just to feel the uneven beat of his heart under the fleece of his sweatshirt.
Immediately John stiffened and his expression closed. His gaze became hard and a mirthless smile formed on his wounded lips. He forcibly grabbed Finch's wrists before declaring in a threatening tone, "Maybe that's what you like, eh?" he said with a bitter smile, placing his hard, nervous body against Finch's.
The computer scientist grimaced in pain as Reese's grip tightened a little more.
"You came to get the great thrill from the killer, didn't you?" the agent continued, his eyes gleaming with rage and sadness, pouring out all the hatred he had of himself on Finch.
"Stop..." This simple word wasn't to be misunderstood. Finch wasn't imploring Reese to let go. He was begging him to stop denigrating himself, to stop presenting himself as a bad person when he was the best man Finch had ever known. Finch knew exactly what John was getting at. John wanted to scare him, to disgust him enough to scare him away.
"But that's the truth. I've done so much harm, I've killed so many people," the younger man continued before whispering, "I'm a monster."
"No, you're not a monster," Finch corrected, trying to catch his companion's gaze.
But John let go and bowed his head, fleeing from Finch's direct gaze, which seemed to read his deepest thoughts. Sensing that he was gaining the advantage over his companion, Finch took his face in his hands and gently forced him to raise his head, to plunge his gaze into his own. The steely eyes, usually so certain, so implacable, were lost.
Finch tenderly stroked John's cheek before declaring in a trembling voice, "If there is a monster in this room, it is not you."
Shocked by this statement, John hesitated for a few seconds before asking, with a frown, "What do you mean?"
The recluse took a deep breath before blurting out, "To save you, I freed the Machine, at the risk of sacrificing billions of innocent people." Even though he was confident that the AI would continue to play her role, the man was still crushed by shame.
"It's not the same thing," said the agent as he placed his hands on Finch's shoulders. His touch was light and caressing, as if he felt the weight of guilt in his partner and sought to comfort him.
But Finch continued, his voice still shaking, "You're right, it's not the same thing... It's worse. I acted selfishly, forgetting all my principles, sweeping away all the values to which I was attached." Harold paused before resuming, staring John straight in the eye. "Do you know why?"
Hypnotized by the force that he saw shining in Finch's pale blue eyes, John shook his head in denial.
The recluse remained silent for a few seconds. He took the opportunity to slip his fingers into the strands of the other man's hair as he had so often dreamed of doing. "For you," he confessed in a whisper.
John swallowed with difficulty, overwhelmed by the simplicity and power of the confession.
"If there's a monster in this room, it is I," Finch continued with a sad smile.
"No, I don't want to hear you to say that!" John exclaimed, outraged by what he considered unfair.
"It's true, however; I am the origin of so many misfortunes, so much suffering, so many deaths... because of the Machine... Because of me." Finch closed his eyes, to better remember all the loved ones who had suffered by his fault: Nathan first, then Grace, and now John... It was then that he felt the killer's elegant hands slowly rise from his shoulders to his neck before gently framing his face. Harold savoured this extraordinarily tender and soothing intimate touch.
"That's not true, the Machine has saved many innocent people," Reese whispered in a soft voice.
A thin smile appeared on the of the computer scientist's sad face. "The Machine is both my blessing and my curse..." breathed the man before slowly reopening his eyes, "but it allowed me to find you."
"You were looking for an agent, a mercenary," replied John bitterly, ignoring his companion's subtle confession.
"That's right. The Machine has fulfilled its mission perfectly. She led me to you, and it's true that you are a great agent for the Numbers..."
A veil of sadness sneaked into the steel irises. This is what he was: an agent, a weapon, a killer for the missions... But the rest of Finch's statement left him speechless in amazement and soon drove away his resentment and distress.
"...But she hadn't expected me to fall in love with you... Hopelessly... At first, I was afraid of my feelings and I tried to ignore them, to repress them." He uttered a little joyless laugh before adding, "But how to struggle against yourself? It's simply impossible, as impossible as stopping one's breathing or stopping the sun from rising every morning."
At the end of this impassioned tirade, John let out the tears he'd been trying to hold back from the beginning. A heavy silence then settled in the room. The recluse held his breath, feverishly awaiting a reaction from the other man. But John was motionless, stunned by the turn of events. It took him several minutes to understand the scope of these words: intense, vibrant, distraught, and desperate.
As soon as he was able to speak, it was only to whisper in a breath, "I don't deserve this..."
"We all have darkness within us," replied Finch, tracing his fingertips across the tears that rolled over the agent's whisker-darkened cheeks, "I'm no different from you. We are very similar. When I'm with you, nothing matters but my heart that beats... for you."
It was then that all of Reese's defenses suddenly broke in the face of this admission, which he had been trying for so long to ignore and reject. He cracked and collapsed to the ground, his legs refusing to hold him. The computer scientist knelt down and took John in his arms, gently rocking him while stroking his hair in a soothing gesture. This wasn't a new panic attack. John was simply winning his internal war, arguably the most difficult of his life. He hunted down all the demons that had been eating him for so long. With his head tucked into Harold's neck, John wept in silence.
The computer scientist then whispered against his ear, "How much torture have you endured to protect your country or a Number? How many blows did you take for the sake of others? How many bullets?"
Reese pulled back slightly and plunged his gaze into Finch's. The distress and sadness had been erased, replaced by, not only a little confusion, but above all, a lot of love. "It's not a sacrifice when it comes to saving you," the agent murmured as he traced the line of Finch's eyebrow with his thumb, rounding his cheekbone before following the curvature of his mouth.
"Don't you think you've paid enough?" asked Harold, capturing John's hand before carrying it to his lips to lay a kiss upon it, "Don't you think you, too, have a right to happiness?"
The young man remained silent. Finch, who could see the impact of his words on the expressive features of John's face, began to take hope...
But the silence went on interminably. Endless seconds that began to cause the recluse to panic inwardly. He felt a ball of anguish rising from his belly, rising to tighten his throat. No longer holding back, he was about to speak again when Reese's mouth crashed into his. This kiss was not tender. He was imperious, desperate, violent. But Finch wasn't afraid, quite the contrary. He had waited for this kiss, which he took as a declaration of love, and responded with passion, even savouring the taste of alcohol on the tongue of the agent who searched his mouth with ardour.
The two men parted breathlessly, but joyous and finally freed from their chains. John helped his companion rise and led him to the bed in which he had slept a few hours earlier. He straightened it carefully and then backed up, searching for the recluse's gaze to read all the love Harold felt for him, as an echo of his own. The hungry glow in the pale blue eyes and Finch's sensual smile reassured him and even surrounded him.
In a supple movement, John removed his sweatshirt and then his T-shirt. At the sight of his muscular chest, wide and marked with scars, Harold shuddered with anticipation. John gave him a torrid smile before unbuttoning his jeans. He took off his trousers and underwear in the same motion, then straightened up and stood for a few seconds in front of Finch, completely naked, offering himself to his lustful gaze.
The recluse felt his mouth become very dry and swallowed with difficulty. He knew his partner's body perfectly from the medical treatment he'd given on numerous occasions. He had already been able to appreciate his muscular figure and knew the marks of his wounds. He couldn't help but look at the gash his own bullet had left on John's shoulder. But soon, his gaze was drawn to other details of this splendid anatomy, such as his powerful torso, his belly, and even lower... The man passed his tongue over his dry lips enjoying the promise of a memorable moment...
Undaunted by his own nudity, as most men aware of their beauty are, John knelt on the bed and drew Finch to him to help him take off his clothes. He began by removing his jacket and vest, which he threw into a corner before attacking the buttons on the shirt. His skilful hands quickly mastered the small pieces of mother-of-pearl and the computer scientist found himself, in two or three movements, shirtless. Unlike his lover, Harold felt slightly uncomfortable being exposed in this way. He wasn't used to such closeness to others, especially when the other in question, who was now raking him with his intense gaze, was John. He blushed under the examination and then closed his eyes.
The silence in the room was disturbed only by the heavy breathing of the two men. The discomfort began to seep into the computer scientist's veins until an avid kiss made him forget everything.
John then released him from his last effects. Harold shivered, but the cool air in the room had nothing to do with it. What made him tremble was the sight of John's splendid body as John slowly traveled over his skin. The younger man touched his thigh, hip, belly, and torso with his lips before taking possession of his mouth in a demanding kiss.
While John's tongue explored his with a gluttony close to savagery, his hands strayed over his body, honoring him with more and more precise caresses. When his elegant fingers gently touched his manhood, a flame of desire ignited within him. Gradually, the touches became firmer, more sensual caresses. The computer scientist then lost all sense of reality and swung into a world of voluptuousness and lust. Nothing mattered but that hand that still gave him more pleasure and that mouth that devoured him.
Then, to his dismay, John ceased this gentle torture and pulled away slightly.
"Touch me... " John murmured in a hoarse voice.
Harold obeyed, marvelling at the feeling under his fingers, accustomed to the cold plastic of keyboards, but now instead the warmth of his lover's skin, his soft hair, his whiskered cheeks, his broad shoulders, his hard arms, his torso that rose and fell to the rhythm of his uneven breathing, and then his belly. With his eyes half-closed, John gazed at him. His breath was short, his face strained by the need to go further. When Harold's hand went lower, the younger man held his breath and stiffened. With a little smile floating on his lips, the genius decided to give his partner the same pleasure he had just received.
The agent closed his eyes and bit his wounded lip until he felt the taste of his own blood in his mouth. He was fighting against a powerful and unrelenting desire that was rising in him. Harold's hands were about to drive him crazy. He didn't know whether he should worry about being so dependent on someone else or, on the contrary, cherishing this new happiness of loving and being loved in return.
Burning to put an end to this terrible but very exciting ordeal, the younger man swung back toward Harold and captured his lips in a sensual kiss. At the same time, he lifted all his weight onto the other man to become one with him. His mouth smothered a groan of surprise and perhaps pain. But it was too late to ask questions, and anyway, his brain was no longer functioning properly, fully anesthetized by a kind of fullness and euphoria. He left his lover's lips and buried his head in his neck, growling with pleasure. He moved then, gently first and then faster, trying to control himself.
Although Harold had initially felt a slight pain, this soon turned into pleasure. Despite his best efforts to try to control himself, the recluse gradually sank and let himself be carried away where John wanted to take him. With his body bright with perspiration, he tuned to his partner's rhythm with a mixture of rapture and fear.
Then suddenly, without warning, John stopped all movement and lifted himself up on his elbows. Harold opened his eyes with surprise and let out a groan of frustration.
"I love you so much," John whispered in a barely audible voice.
Harold pushed back a few salt-and-pepper strands that fell across the blue-gray eyes obscured by desire and answered in an equally hoarse voice, "I love you, John..."
A smile illuminated the beautiful sweaty face of the agent who resumed his languorous hip movements, his face serene and reassured. Focused and attentive to the expressions that flashed across Harold's face, John tried to contain his desire. With their eyes locked, the two men moved at the same pace, deep, steady and sensual. But soon the younger man's movements became shorter and more urgent. With each thrust, Harold felt flashes of pleasure from his belly irradiating into his body, taking him ever further. He then lost control over his senses and tears began to flow silently. He plunged his gaze into that of his lover and murmured, "Never leave me again... Promise me... Never leave me..."
"I promise you... I promise..." John repeated as he continued his movement.
Totally liberated, the two of them were seized by a kind of frenzy that quickly brought them to the top of a climax that took their breath away. It was without a doubt the most intense moment of their existence, which bore a strong anticipation for the first day of the rest of their lives.
Replete but happy, John collapsed on his lover. It took long minutes for the two to drift down to earth. Harold lovingly drew circles with his fingertips on John's sweaty back, who straightened himself on an elbow. John stared at him with a naughty look before placing dozens of little mutinous kisses on his mouth. Harold couldn't help but laugh before drawing him against him and kissing him deeply.
"I love you, John," he whispered.
John smiled heartily, but his eyes remained veiled, as if something were disturbing the perfection of the moment. Harold's smile froze when he saw his partner close his eyes before inhaling deeply, as if he were about to reveal the most shameful of secrets.
"Say my name... my real name," John begged in a trembling voice.
If at first the recluse was disarmed by this plea, he quickly understood. John Reese was a fake name, an alias given by Kara Stanton on his first assignment as a CIA agent. That name reminded him constantly of the killer that he was at that time. Harold loved him beyond the killer, the monster that the army, the CIA, Samaritan, or even the Machine had made of him. He loved the man.
Finch hiked himself up on his elbows, approached his lips to his lover's ear and whispered his true name, the one inscribed on his baptismal act, the one given by his much-admired father and by his adored mother...
The younger man smiled.
I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese.
John had never forgotten Harold's words when they'd first met. Harold had known his true identity from the beginning. And despite everything, Harold loved him. Him. Only him, with his qualities and his flaws, with his past and his mistakes. A bubble of joy exploded in the younger man's heart, erasing all his doubts, all his fears. He leaned over and placed his lips on Harold's to seal what looked strongly like the promise of a common future.
A few explanations are needed:
-"Madam" is an allusion to the Genesis song, Mama, which is about a man's nostalgia for the prostitute he dated as a teenager.
-The title of the chapter is largely inspired by the song Two Evils by Bastille, particularly the chorus.
