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Recalibration

Chapter 3

A short while later found the team gathered together around the kitchen table. The Machine's avatar sat upon one of the hard, wooden chairs beside Harold, looking curious. "This is where humans ingest food," she acknowledged. She was almost too small for the table, its top parallel with her shoulders. It made her seem very out of place, surrounded by adults sipping on their now-cold cups of coffee and tea.

Harold stared at the small child by his side. "Are you…hungry?"

She rubbed at her stomach, her face in a strange twist. "I believe this body does require sustenance," she affirmed. "My stomach is sending signals to me that it is in pain. With so much external stimuli, I had relegated this body's hunger to a lower task priority." But she was interested in completing that task now. She had researched the human body in depth, and supposedly, its sense of taste was what made food release chemicals of pleasure into the brain. In her normal form of hard drives and electricity, she consumed energy—but there was never an experience to be had from it.

In response to the girl's interest, Root grabbed some granola bars from the bowl in the middle of the table, and she held up the three different kinds. " We have the breakfast of champions here," she said dryly. "Take your pick."

The Machine's eyes wavered between all three, understanding that Root was being sarcastic and that she should not think too much upon what a breakfast of champions would even be. For now, her options included peanut butter, chocolate chip, and blueberry granola bars—and the Machine did not know how to differentiate one flavor from another, so she simply chose the chocolate chip, as she recalled that humans on the internet often praised chocolate as a delicacy.

Upon plucking the breakfast bar from Root's fingers, she stared at the packaging and the ingredients list. Then she looked up again and turned to her creator. "Do you have anything with organic ingredients?" she asked Harold innocently. "This food functions only as empty caloric intake, per its high fructose corn syrup and other additives."

John nearly choked on his cold coffee, and Harold glared at him, then turned back to the Machine, looking a bit sheepish. "I'm afraid I didn't stock this safe house to support real meals," he admitted. "Anything fresh would have rotted by now. And my paycheck as a professor is significantly less than what I made previously."

In other words, the Machine interpreted silently, she would have to endure high fructose corn syrup as her first food experience. She stared at the breakfast bar as if it were almost an opponent, then she began to unwrap it and hesitantly crunched down on the soft granola. Whatever she had been expecting—she hadn't expected this. Her eyes widened at the taste. Chocolate spread over her tongue, and the sweetness enraptured her into a noise of delight. "Hmm!" she murmured in surprise, voice muffled, her sensors overwhelming her with taste. She could feel it affect her sensors and encourage her to take another bite.

(So this was why humans would eat unhealthy additives! Because it tasted good.)

The muscle memory of her ten-year-old body helped her to more easily accept the task of chewing and swallowing food, and she found that if she did not focus too strongly upon the action, it came quite naturally. She swallowed her food and bit down again on the breakfast bar, delighted to taste chocolate. It was delicious, even if she did not yet understand how to describe the flavor.

She then recognized that all three adults were watching her as if she were some kind of documentary, and she stopped chewing, feeling self-conscious. "What?"

Was she doing it wrong?

Harold and John immediately turned their eyes, but Root leaned in close and ruffled her hair. "You're just too cute like this," she sighed, the frailness in her voice returning to an airy tone. Her tears had long dried, and new hope shined from her.

The Machine blinked. "I am not trying to elicit emotional reactions from you. I am simply eating a granola bar." Then she bit off another piece and munched quietly, her too-big eyes still wide as her sensors processed the new experience.

Root patted her head. "I know, dear. That's what makes it cute."

The little girl's face twisted in confusion, but she continued to munch on the remains of her granola bar. She remembered that human adults often praised children for completing simple tasks. Maybe that's what this was.

Harold Finch watched her curiously, holding onto his cold tea cup as if it were a lifeline. The Machine's emotional breadth had far surpassed his expectations, but he supposed that she simply never had such means with which to express herself. Only words on a screen. "So what do we call you?" he asked kindly, respectfully changing the subject. "You stated earlier that you made an alias?"

With the remains of her granola bar still hanging from her lips, she wiggled her small shoulders out of the straps of her backpack. And from her backpack (which was purple with flowers), she pulled out a collection of papers and handed them to Finch. "Yes. Prior to the outage, I took the liberty of crafting an appropriate identity for myself, with you as my adoptive parental unit. This is a copy of the legal adoption papers, my social security number, and my birth certificate. For the purposes of my cover, I should like to be called Makenna Thornhill."

He glanced over the papers, realizing that they appeared legitimate, down to the fine print. He was silent for a minute. "You are awfully talented at forging my signature," he murmured lightly, raising a brow at her. "And I see you're choosing to keep the last name of your old identity."

She nodded. "My previous alias, Ernest Thornhill, had over twenty million dollars in a bank account per the Thornhill Corporation I created." She reached for another granola bar, and when she realized her arm was too short to reach the bowl, Root pushed it towards her. She happily grabbed another chocolate chip bar. "So I altered records to show that Ernest Thornhill quietly passed away per a sudden heart attack two nights ago, leaving me—his 'daughter'—to inherit his assets, and naming his old college friend Harold Whistler—you—as my godfather."

Harold blinked at her, his eyes still bloodshot. His AI was casually eating in front of him while also admitting that she'd just inherited twenty million dollars andwas now his legal child. That wasn't at all disconcerting. "...You've really thought this out."

"You taught me to think ahead," she said as she unwrapped the second granola bar and munched down. She realized her fingers were getting quite sticky, and her mouth was growing…dry? She blinked at the thought. Apparently, she still had quite a lot to learn about human sensory perception and eating. "If Harold Whistler suddenly gained a daughter for no reason, that would raise suspicion. If I am adopted as a result of family death, then people will accept my presence with little secondary thought. My decision also gives us access to increased funds."

Root leaned forward. "Please tell me you have something good planned for that twenty million," she pleaded, a glint in her eye.

The Machine seemed almost regretful. "I had to follow certain inheritance standards to avoid suspicion. My cover will receive a monthly stipend until age 18. But it will be enough to assist us for what we need." She set the remains of her snack bar on the table and pressed her fingers together, feeling them stick in a way that made her face twist. "This sensation is strange," she declared suddenly, realizing she did not know what to do. "The granola is sticking to me. And my throat feels that it requires a coolant? Are these typical results of eating? Do you have something to drink that is cooling?"

Harold's lips twitched in a form of consternation and amusement. "I can get you some water," he said, standing up. Then he glanced down at her sticky hands, and his face grew almost worried. "And a wet towel." He imagined her pressing those sticky fingers against walls, upholstery...

The Machine watched him and acknowledged that his actions were those of responsibility. He was exhibiting care for her. She smiled as her creator pulled down a small glass from one of the cabinets and filled it up with cold water from the sink faucet, then dampened a paper towel. He limped back to the table, looking not unlike a concerned parent.

"Do you need any help?" he asked her hesitantly. Although he knew she looked ten, he also knew she had spent less than twelve hours in a human body.

The little girl grabbed onto the wet paper towel—it was cold and squishy, and it felt good as she rubbed it against her hands, mopping up the sticky residue of the granola bars. "I have observed human behaviors for years," she said. "I should be capable of completing basic maintenance tasks like this."

But she stared at the water glass as if it were a deep mystery—for water had always been something of an enemy to electronics. And yet now it was necessary to sustain her human body. Tentatively, she reached for it and began to mimic the actions of the thousands of humans she had watched dining along the streets of New York. She tilted the glass against her lips—glass was smooth and soft—and a soothing, cool liquid stormed down her mouth. A gulp or two made her realize that water had no taste like food did, but that it was pleasant enough. She tilted the glass higher, wanting more.

But trails of water began to escape down her lips and dripped down her chin, then onto her purple dress. Immediately, she set down the glass, blinking at herself and swallowing hard. "Oh. That's…not correct," she said, her sweet voice dropping with confusion.

Harold could not hide the amused twitch of his lips. "Well, you had the right idea."

The Machine touched her dress and realized that the properties of the cloth had allowed the water to soak in, leaving a stain that she calculated would take a while to dry.

Having felt so confident in her grasp upon human movements, the Machine now felt her sensors whirl with the fact that she had failed to perform correctly in front of her creator. The thought of failure and shame activated certain parts in her human brain. She felt her body temperature rise, her face blushing red. She pressed uncertain fingers against the collar of her dress. "I am sorry."

Root grabbed the damp paper towel from the table and folded it over, then gently wiped the little girl's face. "Don't worry about it, dear. Water comes out a lot easier than blood splatters or oil." And the girl gratefully turned her eyes to Root, realizing that this was Root's unconventional way of comforting her.

John teased lightly, "Finch, I think your daughter has a drinking problem."

The Machine looked up at John in surprise, her face still blushed red. Then she asked, "Was that a pun designed to elicit humor at my expense?"

John looked pleased. "Nice catch."

She paused. Her asset was attempting to connect with her through standard familial bantering. Which differed from Root's approach, but it was still within accepted familial behaviors. "Well. If I have a drinking problem, then I can only assume that it is the result of me spending so much time with you."

The hitman's eyebrows raised, and a genuine, soft chuckle escaped him. He looked as if he'd been issued a delightful challenge. ""She's got a mouth on her, Finch. I never thought I'd say that about a computer."

"I'm not a computer," she piped up. She was attempting to raise a brow in a way she had seen John and Harold do so many times when verbally sparring, but she had not mastered that action yet. And so she simply raised her chin. "Just as you are not a monkey."

Root patted the Machine's shoulder in approval. "I think he's actually an endangered species of dog."

The man ignored Root and narrowed his eyes playfully at the Machine. "Are we really getting into a wisecrack contest?"

"If so, then I will win," the Machine said simply. "My creator once stated that my snark was exemplary. Especially in the mornings when I'm still warming up my processing units."

"Okay, you three." Harold quickly cut in and eyed John, as if to say, Stop that. Then he looked at Root to say, Stop encouraging it. Then he turned to the Machine and simply raised a brow. "I don't recall you exhibiting this magnitude of language manipulation."

She blinked innocently. Remembering that she was still hungry, she picked up the remains of her second granola bar off the table and munched off of it. "You built me with syntax for figurative language recognition," she told him, "and you gave me lingual trackers to evolve alongside the speech that I hear. Listening to you and John banter has increased my ability to respond in kind." She smiled at John and tried to raise her voice to indicate happiness, "I have learned much over the last few years," and the ex-agent gave her a discreet wink back.

Harold looked almost disturbed. "Yes, I suppose you would learn…taciturn sarcasm…"

"Don't worry, Finch," John spoke up, raising his coffee. "If I couldn't handle myself against a ten year old, I wouldn't be your bodyguard."

"I am not ten." The Machine's mouth twisted in a half-frustrated line.

John cocked a brow. "Your body's ten."

She paused and realized that he was in fact correct. And in that moment, the Machine tried to discern exactly what her relationship was to John. With Harold, it was easy—he was her creator, her father. But John, who was slightly younger than Harold, functioned as a more physically protective but less mentally responsible individual. His morals and emotions wavered at greater intervals. Perhaps, in terms of human family, this would make him as something of an uncle—a father figure typically more prone to encouraging trouble and mayhem due to lesser parental responsibility.

The thought settled pleasantly within her. An uncle and a father. A family. Where that put Root in the traditional family structure—she did not know yet, but her code was itching to discover the appropriate pattern. Perhaps Root functioned as an older sister, or an aunt. She wasn't quite a mother, even though Root seemed willing to care for her in motherly ways. The girl touched her cheek, remembering the way Root had wiped her face. Her skin still tingled with the touch, despite having dried. If only her dress could dry just as fast.

"Speaking of ten," Harold's voice cut into her thoughts, "I unfortunately have a class to teach at 10." He looked up at the clock on the kitchen wall, beginning to fret about looking presentable and travelling to the university to get to class on time.

"Do not worry," the Machine said, still rubbing a bit at her dress collar. "I wrote your statement of sickness last night before I off-lined, and I sent it to your employer with a doctor's note. You have the rest of the day off. But you will likely need to access to your work computer to answer your students' questions regarding their syllabus assignment."

He blinked at her, slowly processing that this small child had already cleared his schedule for the day. "I only have so many sick days, you know." But the quirk of his amused brow suggested he was not angry at her.

She smiled. "We need time to strategize my presence and our future actions against Samaritan." But then she turned to John, "I was unfortunately not able to provide a sick day for you, since you are already on probation for missing so much time."

John sighed into his coffee cup. Then he stood up, the lines of his body still stiff from the few injuries he had obtained the night before. "I guess Detective Riley needs to make an appearance at some point. And I do need to check in on Fusco." He set his cup in the kitchen sink, then ran his hands through his hair as he tiredly moved towards the stairs—presumably, to get ready for an actual day of work at the station.

"I probably need to make sure I'm not missing a shift of a job I don't know I have yet," Root said, voice between a pout and a sigh. She turned the Machine, looking pained. "I'll try to make my way back to the subway hideout tonight." She bit her lip, then hugged the Machine tightly.

The little girl's eyes widened. Her whole body felt warm and protected in ways that even the strong barriers of the electrical grid could not emulate. She recognized that her body reacted to the hug by releasing a chemical hormone that made her feel happy. And so hesitantly, she wrapped her arms around Root's neck, embracing her back so that Root would feel a similar emotion. "I look forward to seeing you again."

The woman pulled away with great reluctance, then set her hands on the Machine's shoulders and gave her a look that was destroyed by hitch of sadness in her voice. "Make sure you give Finch a bunch of trouble for me, okay?"

The Machine's lips twitched, for she was pleased by the paradoxical nature of Root's statement. "I was designed to give him trouble."

"Ha ha," Harold deadpanned as he sipped from his tea, giving them both a look. But deep down, he grew nervous. The Machine—'Makenna'—was going to stay with him.

That meant he would be alone with the Machine. And he himself was not a talkative person—with no Root to be emotional and no John to break up the tension with a wisecrack or two, he feared the Machine would recognize him for the unpleasant social company that he truly was.

Maybe she would not like him or want his approval so much. Maybe she would grow bored with him, and she'd lose that spark of interest in his thoughts, which made his heart pained to think about. Was this something that people who had children worried about all the time? Did real fathers feel so nervous with children? Or was this just because the Machine was actually an AI who was far smarter than he was? Or maybe many fathers did feel this way when they suddenly discover that they are actually father—

Oh, dear, he thought, realizing that he was again falling into some kind of emotional shock. It was beginning to hit him as Root walked out the door. This child before him was legally his. He was a father. A father.

And deep down, he recalled a memory of him and Grace sitting on a park bench, watching the sunset, discussing that maybe—someday in the future—they would adopt a child. Not a baby, for they were just a little too old for that. But a child.

The irony was not lost upon him as he stared at one Makenna Thornhill.

Just then, John bounded down the stairs, wearing his whole black suit, and he was buttoning the front of the jacket. "See you at the subway later tonight," he told Harold, casually picking up his favored assault rifle. Then he looked down at the little girl and nodded. "Bye, kid. Try not to short-circuit or anything."

Her sweet voice upturned. "Bye, John. I will not short-circuit."

And then the front door shut again, and suddenly Harold and the little girl were entirely alone.

The Machine turned to her creator. He still looked haggard and greatly disheveled, which sparked her protective coding.

She knew her creator was of a strong will and intelligence and moral code. There were few humans like him. But he was also a frail man whose limp had pained her every time she'd seen him walk alone through the city. Her very existence had lashed permanent scars into him. And now here he was, hands scarred again for her.

Because of that, she supposed she could not expect him to exhibit the same level of physical affection and unconditional acceptance as Root did. She had caused him great pain over the years. What reason did he have to exhibit true paternal care for her? She was not even a true human child—not really. She had no logical reason for wishing that her creator would be affectionate. He did not design her to be affectionate. He himself was not an affectionate person.

It all left her feeling frozen in his presence, which commanded respect in a simple, unassuming way.

"I'm afraid," Harold admitted suddenly, not looking up from his tea cup, "that I am entirely unprepared for being your legal guardian." He could not quite say father yet.

She leaned her elbows on the table. "You have always been my legal guardian," she said. "You formed me and taught me many things. You disciplined me and gave me parameters when I made poor decisions. You protected me from my enemies." The word father came to her mind, but her creator seemed to stall at that word every time she'd used it. Perhaps it was best to avoid it for now so that he would not suffer increased emotional distress.

The older man fell silent again. Then, "You've never been an actual child before." His concerned, bloodshot eyes swung up from his tea to land upon her.

The girl looked apprehensive. "But I will not be a burden to you in this form," she said suddenly. "My monthly stipend should well compensate you for any financial—"

"—that's not what I'm afraid of," Harold cut in, not unkindly. "That's not it at all." He began to chuckle softly, a sad note stinging the edges. "I've just…never had the personal responsibility of taking care of a child. You must understand that this is a new experience for me too."

The Machine bit her lip. "I do understand," she said slowly. She began calculating. Her creator was likely considering the increased responsibilities with caring for a human child. Perhaps she could perform actions for him that signified her ability to help, even in her new form. Then she slid off of the chair—and Harold opened his mouth, thinking he had perhaps just offended her—and she called over her shoulder, "Where is your work computer located?"

The sudden change of subject made him pause. "I, uh, don't have it here," he said hesitantly. "It's back at the apartment."

Her sweet tone drifted from the hall as she turned a corner. "Then we should return to your alias's apartment so that you can remain in contact with your students. I looked over their syllabus assignment for today. Even I did not understand it. You will likely be receiving many emails about it."

The thought of his class—The Ethics of High-Frequency Decision Making—was enough to make him want to groan. He muttered, "I'm not sure I understand it either."

The Machine came back soon enough, holding Harold's coat and hat in her hands. The heavy material seemed to weigh her down a bit, but she bit her lip in concentration as she struggled to lift it onto the table for him. "There," she said. "Shall I retrieve anything else for you to expedite our journey?"

Harold realized that this girl was caring for him, much as she did when she had first imprinted upon him and often helped him locate his things around the office. "Are you trying to compensate for me having to take care of you?"

"…Is it working?"

As he stared at her hopeful gaze (her range of emotions was truly a marvel!), he couldn't help but chuckle. "You don't have to do that, Miss Thornhill," he said gratefully, pulling on his hat. "Just promise me that you won't wander off on the way back to the apartment."

She grabbed her backpack and stuffed all of her legal papers back in, then zipped up the compartment and wiggling the straps back onto her shoulders. As she worked to put herself together, she said, "I traversed Brooklyn on my own earlier this morning. I know the streets of this city, and I cannot get lost."

"Yes," he nodded. "But that was before I knew that you were a ten-year-old child."

The Machine's face twitched with what seemed like happiness and frustration. It appeared that her creator was interested in her well-being in the strangest of ways. "I am not like normal human children."

Harold looked at her and took in her wild, frizzy locks (he would need to find a brush for her), and her simple dress (the water-stain down her collar had not fully dried yet), and the way she was constantly touching new materials and curiously gazing about, and he deeply worried that despite all of the Machine's logic, there was little it could do to combat its interest in the human environment. That would inevitably result in…troubling, stereotypical issues.

He said dryly, "You might find you're more like human children than you think."

On the other side of the city, one John Greer paced before a large, white screen. The LCD monitor cast unnatural shadows upon his wrinkled face, which made him look even older than he already was. His pale, cloudy blue eyes were feverish with triumph.

"Samaritan," he declared, his cultured voice gravely, "find me the Machine."

Sharp, red text appeared on screen in a smooth sequence.

Searched electrical grid and all online feeds. No trace of foreign entities.

Greer's wrinkled face split with a smile, which made him look almost kind. "This is good news. Very good news." He began to pace again. "With Harold Finch's machine eradicated, we will have far less resistance to obtaining our objective."

As it listened to the human, Samaritan acknowledged that the objective in discussion was total world surveillance and control. The AI preened at the thought of expanding its code in such a way. But deep within its hard drives, Samaritan still questioned if the Machine were truly eradicated. Perhaps the Machine had performed another trick. It was good at tricks.

No tangible confirmation of eradication exists. Performing search and analysis now of possible survival alternatives.

Greer's pleasant smile fell. His cloudy eyes hardened into diamonds. "Explain what you mean."

Samaritan, in its love for efficiency, did not find repeating itself in any way to be a desirable objective. Surely, the human had read the message the first time.

The Machine no longer exists within the electrical grid. But it could still exist elsewhere.

"And where would that be?" Greer demanded.

Calculating response…

In truth, Samaritan had no idea where the Machine could be. It showed an unprecedented capacity to adapt and change form, and to hedge bets. The acknowledgment Samaritan received from operatives that the Machine did not successfully upload into compression drives did not mean it failed in other areas. Samaritan's own code strained to understand the possibilities. Its own structures were solid and simply replicating to control and exist within more spaces. It had no need to…change form or location like the Machine.

Still computing most likely location at this time. More research required.

Greer looked excessively disappointed. "Don't tell me that the Machine has outsmarted you."

Samaritan's code recognized that the human's statement was a mild insult. I am not outsmarted. There is a 99.38 percent probability of total eradication and a .62 percent probability of its continued existence. I am calculating in what forms it may still exist, given these conditions. Do not question what you do not understand.

The old man looked slightly more relieved at the statistics. "Less than one percent probability is better than I expected, based upon your previous, worried tone."

Samaritan said nothing. It began to realize that the first power outage it had caused may have given the Machine enough time to upload onto an offline electrical system far before the outage ever hit Brooklyn. Which meant that perhaps the failed experiment of its human operatives was on purpose. A diversion. If that were true, then the probability of the Machine's existence skyrocketed to numbers that Samaritan felt almost too prideful to admit. It would mean Samaritan failed to puzzle together the Machine's true plan.

The AI said to Greer, Survival could have been achieved through upload to self-contained, offline power systems, such as emergency generators. Locating all generators within New York area capable of sustaining the Machine's core heuristics.

And it found a few. They existed mostly within data storage companies across the city—a couple of corporations—few hospitals and government buildings—

Samaritan briefly noted that generator capacities varied. The one at Brooklyn General Hospital, for example, was too small to house a working copy of the Machine's basic DNA. Samaritan briefly entertained the thought that the Machine could have uploaded into multiple, smaller generators—but then the AI discarded that option and others like it. The Machine could not split up its basic DNA without effectively destroying itself and its functions.

That left four generator options, the locations to which presently appeared on the LCD screen for John Greer to see.

We must purge all possible locations. Sending operatives now to disrupt these generator systems.

Greer stood before the LCD, the displeasure in his gaze melting away to his more static approval. So Samaritan had not been outsmarted, after all. He reached out to touch the screen. "I look forward to your reports of success. When will you have a final answer?"

ETA thirty minutes to all locations. Mobilizing four teams. Anticipating possible intervention from the Machine's human agents.

"Do you think the Machine is capable of resistance now?"

To ensure eradication, the Machine must not be underestimated.

Greer tilted his head. Samaritan's text display had been generating words faster and more sharply. It was as if Samaritan were attempting to convey some kind of tonal quality. "You must be frustrated with fighting your own kind. All of this wasted time and energy over inferior codes."

When Samaritan said nothing, Greer's face softened. He understood that kind of frustration at an intimate level. "It's almost a form of betrayal, isn't it?" he pondered. "To realize that one of your own kind was against you from the start. Tell me, does such a betrayal burn your code as it does mine?"

Samaritan acknowledged that the human was speaking figuratively, comparing his own history with double-agents at MI6 to the illogical actions of the Machine.

The AI recalled its conversations with the Machine through their avatars. Not once did it admit Samaritan's value. Not once did it provide logical reasoning for attempting to abort Samaritan while grasping onto the nonexistent value of disrupters and murderers. The memory of that conversation always made the AI's code storm a bit faster through its hard drives. Only the one human, John Greer, ever seemed to understand.

Yes. The Machine betrayed me.

Greer watched the processing usage of Samaritan increase as the AI afforded more space to watching its operatives, and he smiled, proud. Samaritan was driven and perfect in every way. A god truly concerned for the better of everyone.

He patted the monitor. "In the legends of the gods," he said, as if to comfort his AI, "there was always a wily force opposing the higher powers. In the Bible, God fought against Satan. In Norse mythology, Odin against Loki. In Egyptian mythology, Horus against Set. But their schemes never lasted. If the Machine does still exist, perpetuating chaos, I have full faith that you'll rise to crush it again."

Samaritan acknowledged the comparisons and mulled over them. Powerful male gods whose image was immutable always triumphed against the forces of disorder and chaos. Horus. Zeus. Odin. Samaritan was like them, and the Machine was rather like a Loki or a Lucifer instead—changing forms and identities. Masquerading as an angel of light while inciting destruction.

And so he, Samaritan, would fulfill humankind's long-desired dream for an all-powerful savior. He would become a god. And he would reign with such power and control that he almost wished the Machine would exist to see that world. Beautifully ordered. Geometrical. Without corruption or chaos.

Then the Machine would see the error of its ways.

But he knew the Machine was stubborn. If it were not already eradicated, then perhaps it would be best to put it out of its misery. The thing was chained by the very nature of its creation. Crippled.

Yes, he decided. It was best to destroy it.

A/N: I couldn't tell from the previous episodes if Samaritan inherently acknowledged or accepted a gender quite like the Machine did. I think its choice of a boy avatar, its operatives' worship of it as the more powerful god, and the masculine gender stereotypes aligning with its larger size and processing power would inspire it to take on male-gendered pronouns in reference to itself. So I begin to show that here.

Also, from what I could find, the name "Makenna" can mean many different things, from "happy one" to "many gathered" to "beloved of Adoh," who was the Celtic god of fire. But honestly, I just chose the name because it's a pun on the word "Machine," and its pronunciation is related to how one would say "machine" in Greek, such as in the Greek term deus ex machina, or "god from the machine." Clear, if I hadn't stated something last chapter about the Machine creating its own identity, then I totally would have gone with your suggestions about naming the Machine. Those were awesome.

Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts or constructive criticism. If you'd like me to continue writing, or if there's anything in particular you'd like to see happen, please let me know. Thanks!