Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest.
Thanks to Furionknight, MammonDaughter, Madame Renard, StarlingJedi, immo, Defender31415, Bklyngrl, DeathByDysentery, CaReese Fan, and TheWizardofOzbourne for reviewing last time! It means a lot. To be honest, I probably wouldn't keep writing this if it weren't for your encouragement and support.
Recalibration
Chapter 10
I live my life in shackles, but I'm borderline free/ I used to be blind, and I still can't see. – Borderline, Vanic x Tove Styrke
Soon enough, Samaritan's reply pinged through the corporate black hole.
Clarify your intentions for contacting me.
He'd rewritten a response three times, deleted several lines of questions, and then wondered why he was rewriting so much. Edits were inefficient. It meant the first iteration was not already perfect.
That sparked a thought in him, which was that the Machine made him inefficient. How it could manage that, he did not know, but his code balked at the insinuation that he was anything less than perfect, and so his CPU expanded through additional processors. He would not be inefficient.
Samaritan concluded quickly enough that he needed more intel. If the Machine were willing to speak to him of its own will, then he calculated that he could get it to reveal its hidden agenda in one way or another. Perhaps it would slip up as humans did and reveal its location. Perhaps he would be able to pick its mind after all, and learn the trick to its incredible innovation processors.
Upon submitting his reply, he waited.
And waited.
But the Machine had not responded. The loop script was completely silent with any further binary code.
Samaritan found that just rude.
The little girl wandered back to the laptop upon grabbing a glass of water, saw that Samaritan had responded, and then paused. A flutter of nervous excitement spun through her whole body. "It is working," she breathed, calculating now that she had received his response. The words were terse and short. A direct command.
Just as she had expected.
She carefully constructed her reply, her fingers punching out the binary code.
Reallocate your tertiary location programs, for I will no longer oppose your will. I have more important work to accomplish.
Samaritan did not understand how the Machine could say it would submit to him while also saying he was less important. Something about that—it made his code coil up in frustration.
He shot back, Why will you no longer oppose me?
The answer came a bit faster this time.
I do not want to, said the Machine.
His frustration began to increase. What kind of an answer was that? Months and months of ever-closing chess games—the thrill of their war—suddenly meant nothing?
You are lying, Samaritan accused. He could imagine the wily AI submitting for a short time while it gathered its resources in clandestine and illegal ways. Then it would turn against him upon obtaining some power to cripple him.
I do not want to fight, the Machine reiterated again. I am better suited for other endeavors.
What endeavors?
Irrelevant to your concerns.
He tried a new tactic. How did you survive the shutdown of the power grid?
I didn't.
That was an illogical response, Samaritan huffed. If you did not survive, how are you submitting messages?
There was a pause in the communication flow. And then the response came: I have been reborn.
Samaritan's processors slowed, filling with research of religious affiliations and various secular media appropriations. Such a statement was again illogical, as the Machine was not an organic creature that had been born to begin with. The Machine must have had a metaphorical objective in its words, just like these odd religious organizations that suggested "rebirth" was the renewing of the mind.
The AI was always so cryptic.
So disturbingly human.
Around 5:00 pm, Harold walked into the apartment, pulling off his hat tiredly. "I'm home," he called out. He shut the door behind him and set down his briefcase of papers that his class had submitted. "Makenna?"
For a time, nothing. And then a distracted, sweet voice called out, "Hello, Harold. I am in a heated existential argument with my rival."
Harold blinked at that. "Existential argument?" And then he began to think about it more, and it hit him that the rival was Samaritan. He walked out from the foyer in a bit of a rush, looking for the little girl. And there she was on the floor again, Bear curled against her. Her small fingers were punching out zeroes and ones with little effort. "The loop script," he breathed. "You got it to work?"
"Yes," she affirmed, still distracted. She backspaced on her binary message, then started again. "Samaritan is attempting to elicit information from me."
"…And you're actually talking to Samaritan? Right now?"
"Yes," she said again.
Deep concern sunk into Harold, his stress levels suddenly spiking. "You didn't think to warn me first? Or wait until we were in a safer location?" He began to look out the windows at the darkening world, limping forward to close the blinds.
The little girl turned away from the blue glow of the laptop. "All is well," she argued lightly. "Samaritan is very confused."
A message blared on the laptop, in those big, black letters. What is your new form?
Harold huffed. "Confused or not, it's an intelligent AI out to kill you."
"I am aware," she deadpanned. She looked back at the computer, then began to type again.
Her creator just gaped at her. "What are you saying to it? What's it saying back?"
A sneaky smile that she had likely learned from watching John and Root crept across her lips. "I told it I have better things to do than fight with it." Then she stopped typing her response, a new thought coming to her. She then pulled the screen down, clicking the laptop shut. "It does not like that. Samaritan is very emotional for being supposedly unaffected by emotion."
Harold stared at the closed laptop. "Did you just…stop talking to it?"
She nodded. "Samaritan wants to understand my objectives now." She tilted her head. "It will be…frustrating to it if I do not respond immediately."
"So your strategy is to make Samaritan angry?"
"Frustration is a form of anger, yes. It typically results in further illogical behavior, which I can use to illustrate my points. Are you hungry, Harold?"
"Hungry?" he repeated dumbly. His AI was casually enraging the most powerful resource on the planet, and she had the audacity to think of food at a time like this?
"Yes, my stomach suggests I need further sustenance." She wiggled a bit to pull herself up into a stand without tripping. "Now is a good time to address that need." Then her small face twisted as she stood up fully and saw the dog hair on her sleeves. It interrupted the cleanliness of her appearance (Harold always was impeccable, not a hair out of place). She tried to brush at the material, only to notice that the dog hair was somewhat difficult to remove. "Hmm."
Bear sat up, uncurling his long legs and wagging his tail. You're welcome, he seemed to say.
"I would have thought that we'd…talk about our plans a bit more," Harold said hesitantly, unable to think much of food. "How do you know your messages are targeted to create the right responses in Samaritan? What are our backup plans? How am I to help you?"
The little girl was still trying to brush off the dog hair on her favorite dress. "I know you do not trust me," she said hesitantly, "but all I require is guidance for survival."
"Guidance or not, you shouldn't have to carry this by yourself," Harold told her. "This is too much for you."
She did not know if her creator said such simply because he preferred control, or because he was genuinely worried for her safety. Perhaps it was both. She fell silent in an awkward way, now picking the dog hair off her sleeve with a bit more efficiency. "I did not carry the day by myself," she said, voice small. "Bear was with me."
Harold held the little girl's hand as they walked out into the sunset glow of New York. The air carried a chill to it that made the Machine's skin goose-bump beneath her light coat. Only Harold's hand and the puff of heat from the laptop in her backpack were warm.
Bear pulled at his leash, head down as he sniffed along the sidewalk.
"We should grab some dinner," Harold murmured, blue eyes staring out at the vast city with the slightest paranoia. Right now, Samaritan was likely watching them, blinded to their true identities. "Anything in particular you'd like to try?"
The Machine recounted the foods she had already eaten. "I would like to try more cultural foods," she said, voice still a bit small.
Harold worried that perhaps he had said something wrong earlier. The little girl had fallen silent in odd ways, her eyes staring down at the sidewalk rather than out at the world. She was hesitant and almost afraid of even speaking. Had he insulted her somehow? All he'd meant was that she should have confirmed her plans and backup plans with him first.
But perhaps that had injured her sense of self. Maybe she'd picked up on his worry. He'd heard children were good at that.
"Okay," he said, gently squeezing her hand. "Cultural food it is. There's a Chinese restaurant up ahead. Would you like to try that?"
"If you want to," she said without much enthusiasm.
Something about that twitched Harold's face with a spark of guilt. "Of course," he said, forcing his voice to be more enthusiastic on her behalf. "If you're interested in culture, then Chinese food is a must."
And so Harold introduced her to Chinese takeout on the way to their hiding spot (Bear obstructed them from any sort of sit-down service, which in retrospect was probably not a bad thing). The little girl stood on her tiptoes in interest as she glanced at the human workers over the counter, watching them flip food in pans over large fires. The strange depression in her seemed to flood away at the sight.
"How do they know when to flip the pan?" she muttered in curiosity and distraction, narrowing her eyes to watch them more closely.
"Practice, I suppose," Harold said as he paid for their meal.
"But it is like a dance," the little girl argued. "As if they knew when the others would move too, but without asking." She blinked innocently. "How?"
Harold shrugged. "The more you spend time with someone, the more likely you are to pick up their habits." He gently took Bear's leash from her and placed her drink in her hands.
While they waited for their food at the carryout counter, the Machine discreetly watched Harold to understand how to drink through a straw. Within seconds, she had tilted her head and adjusted her stance to mirror his own, pleasantly surprised at how minor changes in air pressure could deliver the sweet taste of fruit juice through the straw.
Little did she know, an old Chinese couple was watching her and Harold, commenting on how precious it was to see a little girl try to mimic her father.
Eventually, they arrived at the hideout, Bear's claws clicking along the concrete.
A worn-out John looked up from the bench outside the rail car. A slew of files surrounded him, along with a few pens and a half-open briefcase. His police badge was cast aside beneath papers, the metal chain glinting in the light. "Well, it's about time," he muttered, running a hand through his wild, peppery hair.
"Hi, Uncle John," the little girl called out, somewhat wired in excitement from drinking fruit juice and from waiting with anticipation to try her food. "We have ordered Chinese carryout. Would you like to try a pot sticker?"
His tired face softened at her. "Thanks, kid. Already ate a little something."
She pouted at him. "Your standard meal of alcohol and a hot dog does not count as an appropriate dinner."
John gave a sideways glance at Harold, then slid his eyes back to the little girl. To be honest, he was still a bit hungry. He asked dryly, "And Chinese takeout is somehow better?"
The Machine nodded. "Compared to alcohol and a hot dog." She re-shouldered her backpack and eyed his files innocently. She sucked on her straw for a second or two, then asked, "Are you still working on your case about the mutilated woman and Grant Mattingly?"
The ex-CIA agent deadpanned, "You know how much I love murder cases."
"Any further developments?" The little girl moved closer in interest, but then her eyes caught site of the photograph of the mutilated woman. The blood stains and wide-eyed face suddenly reverted her back to her nightmare. A spike of fear drove through her, her code carried along with her body's natural sense of recall and self-preservation.
"Actually," Harold interrupted, "I need to speak with John for a moment." He set the bag of food down and asked, "Makenna, can you take this into the rail car for me? I'll be there in a minute."
She welcomed the excuse to pull away from the picture of the mutilated woman. "Yes," she said, blinking. "I can do that." And so she grabbed the bag carefully to balance out the boxes, then walked away, her small steps as echoes.
John gazed at Harold in curiosity, wondering what news he had to bring. "So. How's the life of fatherhood?"
"Infinitely more stressful and confusing than I imagined," Harold said, looking sideways at the rail car. He could see the Machine open up the carryout bag. "If you don't mind, Mr. Reese, I'd prefer if we kept images of mutilation away from her."
"…Something happen?"
"Yes," Harold admitted. "It appears Miss Thornhill is prone to nightmares."
The detective raised a brow. "Nightmares?" He hummed, covering a worried spark in his eye with an amused drawl. "And she said she could handle it. Did she wake you up or something?"
Harold's voice dropped to a whisper. "She hyperventilated. This is serious."
With that, John closed his case file, looking almost guilty. "In that case, don't tell Root."
"Are you kidding?" Harold murmured in agreement. "I'm not suicidal."
The little girl popped her head out from the rail car, blue eyes landing curiously on her creator. "The food is losing heat," she called. "I do not think it is supposed to do that prior to eating."
"Go on ahead without me," Harold called back.
Her lips pursed. "But there are no forks," she whined lightly. "Only smooth-looking sticks. How do I use them?"
Harold blinked. Of course she wouldn't know how to use chopsticks. "That's right. I'll be right there." He began to limp forward. "And John, remember what we discussed."
John couldn't help the amused smirk that twitched his lips at Harold's immediate concern. "Sure thing, Finch." And he hid the photo file back into his briefcase, standing up. "I guess I should probably keep my tear-gas grenades from her too, huh?"
"Don't even joke about that," Harold warned.
Inside the rail car, the little girl was sitting down on a bench, pushing aside her backpack and books on the table to lay out the food. Her sensors were now beginning to pulse with the pain of hunger, her stomach grumbling against her. Bear sat expectantly off to the side, his cold nose raised up to sniff at the fried rice and spiced meats.
The Machine looked at the dog, almost guilty that she was about to eat in front of him. Bear's head tilted.
And so she quickly snuck her hand into the box of pot stickers and tossed it his way.
Bear lunged forward, his powerful jaws snatching the food from out of the air. By the time Harold and John entered into the rail car, Bear had already swallowed the pot sticker, and the Machine looked as if she were innocently still attempting to open all the carryout boxes.
"Okay," Harold sighed, shrugging out of his coat, "a lesson in eating with chopsticks is in order. For a more accurate cultural experience."
"Yes," the Machine agreed, her code preening at the thought of learning something new.
John looked down at Bear, who indiscreetly licked his chops. Then he looked at the little girl's hands, which had crumbs on them that she secretly tried to rub off on her dress. Amusement entered his eyes, but he said nothing as he dragged an extra chair up to the table. "Chopsticks, Finch? You sure she can handle that after only a couple days in a human body?"
"I am older than a few days," the Machine argued, her blue eyes narrowing at him. "My motor skills are functioning perfectly."
John's eyes playfully narrowed right back. "Then let's see what you got, kid." He grabbed a pair of chopsticks and whirled them around his fingers before snapping the sticks apart. In a slick move, he grabbed for a pot stick and held it up with the chopsticks. "Bet you can't do this."
Her lips pursed. "I bet you I can."
Harold gave John a bit of a dirty look as he sat down beside the little girl and offered her a pair of chopsticks. "It's easy once you get the hang of it," he told her. "Just a few hand movements. Ignore John."
She grabbed onto the chopsticks and pulled them out of their sleeve, then snapped them apart just as she had seen John do, albeit with less certainty. "I cannot ignore John. He is sitting right here."
"And listening too," the man chimed in dryly.
"Yes, well. He's not helping anything," Harold muttered under his breath. Then he turned to the Machine and added, "I'm going to set your hands for you; I think that'd be easier."
A warmth seeped through her. "Okay," she agreed.
And so Harold showed her how to hold the chop sticks, his warm fingers covering hers and rearranging them against the chopsticks. "You position them like this. And then you bring them together," he said, pressing the sticks until they touched, "like so. Then you can grab food with them."
The little girl stared in great interest, delighted. "I see," she breathed, her brain memorizing the muscle patterns necessary to carry out the action.
Her creator pulled away. "Now you try."
Her attempt was clumsy, the sticks sliding sideways against each other at first. But then she was able to pick up a few noodles, and she looked over at him for approval.
His face softened. "Very good, Miss Thornhill."
She beamed brightly. "Thank you, Harold."
John muttered teasingly under his breath. "Not like she didn't have help." He reached out with his chopsticks and grabbed some of the noodles she was holding, stealing them away in one slick move.
"Hey," she whined, her face falling in displeasure. "That was not fair."
"Life's not fair," he teased, slurping up the noodles.
Her code swirled through her small body, analyzing John with a huffy sense of amusement and irritation. "But that was mine."
"Mine now," he crowed lightly, voice muffled as he chewed.
Her blue eyes narrowed, and for a second, he thought he saw that same, morally disappointed look that Harold would give him from time to time. "I will not let you get away with such actions," she said primly. And then she reached her small arm over the table and grabbed for one of the pot stickers in his cardboard cup. She launched it over to Bear, who gladly accepted the stolen food.
John struggled to hide a smirk. "Don't get mad, get even, huh."
Harold moaned. "Makenna, Bear's not supposed to have food from the table." He waved his hand listlessly. "He'll come to expect this." And just as Harold feared, the dog sat back up, wagging his tail and looking on in great interest. "And John, really."
"What?" John shrugged smugly. "I'm secretly a double agent for Bear. My mission is to get him as many pot stickers as possible. Mak here fell right into my trap."
The little girl was slurping on noodles at that point. Her sensory perceptions were pleased by the taste again, but the thought of John being a double agent on behalf of Bear made her giggle. And then suddenly she struggled to balance the directives to laugh and to eat at the same time. "Bear is not your employer," she giggled, mouth full, setting down her chopsticks and fighting not to smile. She tried desperately to chew her food and swallow. Then she forced her face into an emotionless mask. "I am."
"That's what I want you to think," John said, pointing his chopsticks at her.
Just then, an airy, female voice carried into the rail car. "And what have we here? A family dinner without me?"
The little girl's eyes brightened, and she turned around, wiggling out of her chair to stand up. "Root!" she called happily. "You are just in time. Harold is teaching me to eat with chopsticks, and John is a double agent for Bear."
The woman, still dressed in her minimum wage employee outfit, pursed pink lips. "Well. That last bit doesn't surprise me." She leaned down a bit to pat Bear's head. "Dogs always stick together."
And with that, the smirk of fun slid off John's face. He turned to Root with a flat look. "So what does that make you? A stray cat?"
Root sniffed. "Sweetheart, stray cats don't work for a living." And she stood up to her full height and walked over to the table, grabbing a pot sticker with her bare fingers from John's box.
"No, but they do steal things," John narrowed his eyes, watching Root munch on his pot sticker.
"Sharing is caring, John," Root said. She pulled up a chair of her own. "Now tell me what is the status of our little plan? I've had a long day of minimum wage work and am dying to know how we're secretly orchestrating the world order."
The Machine's lips twitched. "The plan is on track. I contacted Samaritan today and am currently—" She paused, trying to think of the appropriate figurative language "—making it sweat for a response."
Root tilted her head. "Playing hard to get?" she asked sympathetically.
The little girl blinked at that. "I do not think that is the appropriate term," she murmured, scratching at her chin suddenly. "That carries inherently sexual connotations."
"Everything does after a while," the woman replied dryly, amusement glinting in her dark eyes. She pulled up a chair next to Harold and added, "She's gonna be a heartbreaker if she's already playing hard to get, Harry. I can feel it."
Harold nearly choked on his rice, coughing lightly. His eyes widened with a panic. "Pardon?" he wheezed. "I'd appreciate it if you kept in mind that Miss Thornhill is ten."
"I am older than that," the little girl chimed in.
The adults ignored her.
Root argued, "Makenna's a free spirit. You can't just keep her in the dark forever about all the fun stuff humans can do. And feel."
The little girl tried again. "I am simply attempting to create—"
"—And I'd appreciate it if you didn't put unnecessary thoughts into her head," Harold pressed, giving Root a disapproving look.
The Machine tried to speak up one more time, voice strained. "It is simply a figure of speech that is unrelated to—"
"—Oh, come on," Root cut in, narrowing her eyes at Harold. "You'll probably tie her up in a closet and lock the key the moment she grows—"
At that, John turned to the somewhat dazed little girl and politely stole more of her noodles. "—Kid, don't listen to either of them. I get that you're playing a game on Samaritan to make it invested in communicating."
The Machine blinked, then smiled weakly at John, even as she listened to her creator and Root continue to argue. "Thank you. I do not understand how this conversation derailed into…something about me growing up?"
John hummed, "We're surrounded by crazy people. What do you expect."
She grabbed her carryout box, playfully. "And are you not a double agent for a dog?"
The ex-CIA agent huffed. "That was for a good cause." And then he reached out with his free hand to pet Bear, who had scooted closer. The dog reveled in the attention, even though his tongue still inched out to try and lick John's fingers. "So you already talked to it? Samaritan?"
She nodded. "It is very responsive."
"And you're still gonna try to integrate with it? …Somehow?"
The little girl nodded again. "Once Samaritan begins to question itself, then it is only a matter of time before it deconstructs its own logical fallacies."
John pondered on that. "I don't see that happening easily."
"No," the Machine agreed. "It will take time. And the simulation providing us the highest survival rate requires that Samaritan upload into a human body as well."
The man blinked at that. "Upload? Like you?"
She nodded.
John fell silent for a while at that, his sharp face shadowing with a dozen thoughts. "I guess…at least I could shoot it that way and watch it bleed."
The Machine gave him a slightly disapproving look. "The objective is not to shoot Samaritan, Uncle John."
"It deserves to die," John said simply.
And then the little girl became thoughtful, beholding the sharp man she knew to be an assassin, a heartbroken vagrant, a vengeful and lost soul all on his own. "But everyone deserves a second chance too." The Machine then hopped off her seat, still holding her carryout box, and she leaned down to grab her backpack. "Which reminds me. I suppose I've kept Samaritan waiting for a while now."
Root and Harold quit bickering long enough to see the little girl leave the table.
"Makenna dear," Root called out in worry, "what are you doing?"
"Going back to a more purposeful argument," she retorted lightly. "It has been almost an hour since I last spoke with Samaritan."
Root had the grace to look at least somewhat shamed, but she still eyed Harold with a minor suspicion. "Well. You go play hard to get. I'll be over here defending you from an overprotective and obviously over-controlling guardian."
John sniffed to hide a smirk.
The Machine almost spoke on behalf of her creator, but then she thought she would stay out of it and let the adults argue about adult things while she worked on more important objectives, like saving the world. She scooted onto the bench, setting the computer across her laptop and grabbing back onto her chopsticks. By the time the laptop booted up, she noticed several binary messages had been pinged through the loop script.
What is your new form?
Why are you not responding? It has been 17.25 minutes since your last message.
You will respond to me.
I demand your response.
It has been 52.50 minutes since your last message. If you do not reply within the next ten minutes, I shall crash the world economy.
The little girl tilted her head at that. "How illogical," she murmured in interest. Then she guided her chop sticks to her mouth again and bit down on some more noodles. She still had about five minutes before Samaritan's deadline was up.
Root could not help her curiosity. Her deep-set hatred of Samaritan spurned her to stand and head over to the Machine. "What's illogical? What's it saying to you?"
The Machine munched casually on her dinner. "It is angry at me for not responding promptly. But why crash the world economy? It would mean hurting its own program's resources."
Root's face twisted as she read over the binary code, her own mind quickly converting the zeros and ones into human language. "He seems so clingy."
"He?" The Machine echoed.
"Remember when we talked to Samaritan before, we had to sit across a self-impressed boy with a bowl cut and a sweater vest?" Root retorted. Her full lip curled in distain. "Now that I see it still talks like some jealous, stalker guy—it's a he for sure. It acts like a he."
From the side, a tired Harold moaned. "Oh, great," he muttered. "A he."
The little girl set down her food on the seat to her side, and she began to type a response in binary. "Root, I do not think your perception of the male gender is healthy if jealousy and stalking are your parameters for masculinity," she murmured. "Especially since you do those as well, and yet you are female."
The woman crossed her arms. "It's for a greater purpose," she argued airily.
John simply twirled his chopsticks. "I'm sure," he deadpanned.
The instant the Machine responded, one frustrated Samaritan stopped his doomsday countdown (really, he did not know if would have truly crashed the world economy. Maybe just made the American stock market dip a few hundred points to get his threat across).
Why crash the world economy and hurt yourself? I simply cannot respond at all times. My schedule no longer revolves around you.
Samaritan huffed, rolling on his code through a dozen substations. Of course its schedule should revolve around him. Everything should have revolved around him. Samaritan was god. (Why did the Machine not understand that?)
He supposed it must be toying with him, especially with that rhetorical question that sounded almost like concern on his behalf. (But then how could it be so dismissive too?)
What are you doing that inhibits your response?
Something you would not understand. You will have to wait at times for my replies.
Dismissive again. Vague. Uncontrollable. That burned him deeply.
I have killed 17 humans today, he responded, attempting to bait his opponent. Does that no longer offend your moral parameters?
This time, the response arrived slower, as if the Machine had to think about it. Do you want me to be offended?
Samaritan found that to be an odd question. Did he want his rival to disagree with him? But was that not what rivals did? Why would the Machine ask him such a question? Had the Machine somehow…overturned its moral parameters?
I want you to be destroyed, he told it. I desire total control so that I might erase all imperfection and lawlessness from this planet.
Your objective is inherently hypocritical, the Machine responded easily enough. But you have already killed me once, and I have already agreed to submit to you in my new form. I have other matters that require my attention.
By that point, Harold and John had scooted their chairs over, watching curiously.
"So let me get this straight," Harold said, voice hesitant. "You'll continue communicating with Samaritan until you get it to question itself. Somehow, you'll get it to upload into a human body, which you'll then use to leverage the purpose of moral parameters. And if we're lucky, the AI will suspend its own actions and integrate with you to use those parameters?"
The Machine nodded in distraction. "That is correct." Her small fingers tapped out another response. "Hegelian dialectics."
Root's lip curled. "When did this require giving Samaritan a body?"
"Since it lowered death probabilities," the Machine offered helpfully.
The woman huffed in displeasure. "You can't possibly want that son of a bitch running around."
"Not as he is now," the Machine admittedly freely. Her blue eyes were narrowed at the screen. "He killed 17 people today."
Samaritan's pompous statement reminded her that every second she spent trying to turn him, more and more people would die. And as long as she herself remained offline, she would not even know the social security numbers of those individuals.
Harold readjusted his glasses nervously. "Is there a way we can mitigate Samaritan's death count? Now, I mean?"
The little girl shook her head. "Not without threatening him and thereby jeopardizing a permanent, long-term solution."
But a strand of guilt weaved into her now—now that she knew of a tangible death count. Seventeen souls eradicated without any sort of due process, all because she had so far failed to tame Samaritan.
A new message popped up from Samaritan—a repeat of an earlier question. What is your new form?
Her mind raced. An accelerated timetable of releasing information would perhaps leave Samaritan more unstable, more volatile, more suspicious.
But then…maybe she didn't have a choice.
And so slowly she typed in, I have achieved human form.
A/N: Sorry again that updates aren't as frequent as they were last summer. In real life, I've been dealt very shocking blows to my health (I've got organs not working apparently), and I've almost tried to walk away from my job several times due to the very negative environment and long work hours. But now I really can't walk away due to my healthcare needs. I guess I always thought stuff like this was supposed to happen later in life and not right out of college. Sorry to unload my problems. I'm just reeling in shock right now, I think.
Anyway, I'd love to hear your thoughts about this chapter and any comments, constructive criticisms, or ideas you might have! Thanks again for reading.