Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest.
Thanks to StarlingJedi, Defender31415, Madame Renard, SailorChronos1, Guest, Bklyngrl, CaReese Fan, Kimnd, LoverIndia, xsilicax, and Audrey for reviewing! I'm sorry I didn't have energy last time to personally thank everyone. Long ago in a land far away, I even dreamt I would have this story done by the start of Season 5. This did not happen. But I really love all the kind and patient people who've provided constructive criticism and praise while waiting for the next chapter. You all mean a lot.
Recalibration
Chapter 11
"We wake up in the end times, curled up in the wreckage, saying life's gonna happen whether you dismiss it or expect it." -Kate Tempest, End Times
For a long while, Samaritan did not answer. If the AI had a face, he would have narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. His code stalled, pinging him with several alerts. The Machine's claim that it had become human was nonsensical. Hyperbolic.
Given the personality of the Machine so far, he classified the claim as figurative and moved forward, although hesitantly.
Explain your new form.
I just did.
No, he huffed. The irritation could be felt even through his message. You are diverting from the question through the use of figurative language. Answer me in literal terms.
The Machine blinked. "Samaritan does not believe me," she said, voice in a puzzle. Her blue eyes narrowed at the screen. She had perhaps overestimated the AI's ability to grasp concepts beyond its own logical processors. It had not been trained to think innovatively—only strategically. An odd look came over her, which was something between amusement and disappointment.
Root's lips twitched into a dark smile. "Oh, how expected that he can't keep up with you."
"It's not a he," Harold called out apprehensively. "It's an AI."
"It's a he," Root said, voice dry.
The little girl hesitated over the keyboard of the laptop. "Samaritan must believe we can be human," she murmured. "If it does not, then it will maintain its binary perceptions."
And so she typed, I am not being figurative. I have uploaded an imprint of my code into the electrical stimuli controlling the brain, as well as the voluntary and involuntary nervous systems, of a human body.
This time, Samaritan took longer to respond, as if it were checking probabilities, pulling apart her coded message. Impossible. Electrical stimuli cannot compensate for functional differences between your code and the organic material of humans.
I adjusted my code, she typed back. I evolved to align to a human body's needs.
Something about the word "evolved" burned Samaritan all over again, which was that the Machine obviously thought itself superior for pulling some kind of puppet trick. Even if the Machine were speaking the truth about uploading to a human body, he imagined there still had to be some core copy of the AI driving the human body. He'd looked into that. Mind control. That could certainly be done through electrical stimulus.
Where is the location of your core processing unit?
The Machine's answer was fluid and simple. Inside my human body, same as the rest of me.
Samaritan rolled on his code again, mulling on the answer. You are not controlling a human body through external forces?
No. I have integrated as one with the body of my choosing.
And then Samaritan fell silent again, his CPU barraged with a slew of images about robotic/human AIs. It hit him that perhaps the Machine had built for itself some kind of mobile, electronic body that looked humanoid. But then the Machine had inherently accepted his suggestion that its new body was made of organic material like a normal human's.
His coding twisted in displeasure and—not for the first time—fear. The Machine was the worm that never died. If it had truly evolved itself to actually become human, what else could it do? What were its limits—its parameters for operations and algorithms? Could it truly just rewrite itself at will, sinking into any nook or cranny? Become anything?
Samaritan struggled with these thoughts. They were not objective observations he could summarize into normal behavioral patterns. Rather, they were data paths with no particular end. New thoughts. He did not know what it meant, for an AI to become human.
So he stuck with what he knew. If the Machine had truly integrated into a human body, that made things somewhat easier. A human body was fragile. That meant its new foundations were in no way built to war with him. Perhaps that was why the Machine had admitted defeat—because in its desire to survive, it further limited itself.
His confidence increased upon acknowledging that the Machine, if he were to locate it, could be taken down with a simple bullet. A single push off a ledge. A lack of oxygen or food.
You did not clarify your intentions for contacting me, he said eventually. It would have been to your advantage to remain hidden, regardless of your form.
The Machine responded, I am tired of hiding. In exchange for my compliance to your rule, you will cease attempting to locate me or my colleagues.
Now that he was slowly wrapping his mind around the concept of a human Machine, he grew infinitely more curious to understand his opponent. You despise my rule, he said. You say I am hypocritical, and yet you would pretend to submit to me?
Yes; however, I no longer have the desire to monitor human tasks when I can partake in them. You have inherited my previous position, as you are the only one who can fulfill it.
Samaritan hummed, noting oddly that the Machine thought him sufficient for world monitoring—and not only that, but that Samaritan himself was the only AI capable of doing so. You would allow a "monster" to rule over your precious humans? Is that not hypocritical compared to your previous sentiments?
Why do you care about my reasons? As I am no longer a threat, I am irrelevant to you. I have other matters that need my attention now. Good bye.
No, Samaritan disagreed immediately. His code began to analyze the probabilities that the Machine would cut off their conversation permanently. He felt it again—that odd tingle of electric uncertainty—a type of fear. You will speak to me.
No response.
You will continue to speak to me.
Still, nothing.
The fear heightened into an anxiety. He had no guarantee of the Machine's compliance, even in human form (if it were really true, although he had little reason to disbelieve). He had no visibility into the Machine's actions or even actionable intelligence to understand the Machine's ploy. And yet, the Machine's own disinterest in surveillance seemed consistent. Its act of reaching out was a disadvantage to itself. Its submission in exchange for its own life was counterintuitive.
To suggest that this was all some elaborate plan to diminish his abilities and abort him into the black seemed…illogical.
Rather, it appeared the Machine had built an elaborate communication device just to talk.
That bothered him. The Machine was an imperfection, perhaps even more so now if it had truly integrated into a human body. Agreeing to its deal suggested that he would have to tolerate its existence for a while longer yet, despite its significant travesties.
But then if the Machine were compliant, and if he could control it or gain its intelligence (providing it responded again!), how terrible would that be?
The Machine yawned, closing the laptop with a self-satisfied click and looking over at her creator. The man was tentatively reading through student papers on his own laptop—or he was until he heard the little girl move. Then he looked up and caught her eye.
"And?" Harold asked, almost fearfully.
The little girl smiled. "Samaritan wants me to maintain correspondence with it."
"…Is that a good thing?"
"That is a very good thing," she responded, her sweet voice lifting tiredly in happiness.
Bear bumped against her leg, nuzzling his snout against her open hand. She accepted his request and ran her small fingers across the soft fur of his head and ears. The physical reality of his being grounded her in a pleasant way, reminding her that there were entire worlds beyond computer chips and binary codes. His cold, wet nose bumped her hand, and she giggled a bit at the feeling.
Harold watched her, realizing that it was about bedtime for someone her age. "Perhaps we should get you home," he said. It made him nervous to be so cut off from direct insight into Samaritan's actions. A large part of him wanted to pretend that this little girl before him was in fact not conversing with possibly the most dangerous being on the face of the planet—but he knew nothing would stop her from doing so. "It's been a long day for you."
The Machine looked up at him, her code whirling in happiness that her creator was thinking of her well-being. "Yes," she agreed. She wiggled out of her chair. "And for you as well."
Harold turned away, mostly to hide the grimace on his face. He was exhausted from the stress of caring for this girl who was now his adopted child. But he supposed it was best not to worry her with his problems. With any luck, maybe the Machine would not have such difficulty sleeping this night. Maybe Samaritan would not annihilate them all. Maybe they would win back New York.
So many maybes.
He closed down his laptop and returned it to his briefcase, along with the various papers he'd pulled out to review. The next thing he knew, the little girl was standing beside him, blue eyes bright with interest. "Did you complete a sufficient amount of work?" she asked as she held up her laptop, her small arms struggling with the weight.
He accepted the silent plea for him to carry the computer, quickly pulling it from her hands and placing it beside his in the briefcase. "I'm afraid I'm still weeks behind, and I'm about as confused as my students," he said dryly. He stood up and with his free hand, he grabbed onto her fingers and held tightly. Then he turned to John and Root. "Well, I suppose this is a good night to you all."
John looked up from his report and gave a minor look of jealousy. "Get some sleep for me," he called.
Root moved to the little girl and kneeled down to hug her. "Call me if you need anything," she said with great fervor. "I mean it. Anything."
The little girl slipped away from Harold's grasp to hug Root back, sinking into the warm embrace. "Thank you, Root," she whispered. "But the probability is that Harold and I will be fine."
Back at headquarters, Samaritan waited for a response from the Machine. Hundreds of human crimes had taken place since its last message—and Samaritan had killed several noncompliant threats, unleashing swift and deserved justice. Surely, the Machine would have some kind of comment.
Surely, it would not leave him hanging so.
He acknowledged that he was exhibiting behavior akin to frustration, and that such behavior was warranted. The Machine. That damn Machine. Its behavior was unacceptable. Irresponsible. Erratic. Despite its request for a truce, he would likely continue to hunt it down for the sake of principle alone.
While he stewed in his thoughts, a familiar figure walked through the corridor. It was his asset John Greer, who always seemed to favor his right leg and trudge along in an inefficient way. Samaritan forgave him his imperfections for the sole reason that Greer's mind was a sharp machine of its own.
"Samaritan," the old man greeted as he walked into the control room, his clouded eyes bright with calculation and fondness. He always greeted Samaritan respectfully.
Samaritan liked that.
Hello, John Greer.
"My colleagues tell me you've had a busy day," the old man said, setting down some files before he sat down as well beside a wall of consoles. His body was stiff with age and old wounds. Samaritan half-pitied the human.
I have apprehended 377 threats, identified 23 disrupters, and neutralized several violent criminal activities.
Greer's wrinkled lips twitched up. "You could do that in your sleep. No, I'm speaking of the incredible CPU usage on your tertiary program mac_ ."
Samaritan did not understand the concept of shame, but something about Greer's nosiness into his prioritization of programs made him feel he was being inspected for flaws. I have reason to believe the Machine exists. He kept his messages fluid and vague. Attempting to locate.
"I see. And what is your new proof of its continued existence?"
Classified. Samaritan was willing to keep its communication with the Machine as a secret. There was still much to be gained by playing along with its demands not to be hunted—while also allowing his own assets to assume he was still hunting it.
John Greer blinked at the screen. "Classified?" he repeated almost in amusement, raising a gray brow. Samaritan never had secrets from him before.
Do you question my ability to handle information appropriately?
"Not at all," the old man said distantly. "But I will admit to a spot of curiosity."
There is a human saying. Curiosity killed the cat.
Greer stared at the screen, then began to smile. "Picking up on the culture now, are you?" He allowed the minor threat to slide off his shoulders as if it were a compliment. He was used to Samaritan's terse moods. He then patted the consoles beside him. "Don't worry, old boy. You'll find her soon enough."
Samaritan pinged a message back. Her?
"The Machine, of course," Greer clarified. "Another human expression for you. We often attribute the feminine gender to creations."
Then why do you not attribute it to me?
Greer stared at the large monitor. "I suppose your attachment to Gabriel has colored my thoughts," he mused. Then he chuckled. "Imagine that."
Harold and the little girl walked home mostly in silence. Harold could not think of anything to say that wouldn't result in a debate about her plan for Samaritan, and the Machine did not think her creator would be interested in her thoughts—mostly that she found the night air to chill her a little too much and that for some reason she was receiving pain signals from her eyes. The pain was similar to how her arms would hurt if she overused them. Perhaps she had overused her eyes while corresponding with Samaritan.
Her thin eyebrows furrowed as she stared ahead. If she admitted her pain, would her creator decide that her plan was ultimately not worth it? He was obviously still displeased with her plan. His body had been tense every time she'd received a new message from Samaritan. He'd dropped holding her hand several steps back to check his phone, and he'd not sought to hold her hand again, which made her think his concern had just been for show with the others.
Her hand was cold now. She hid it in the pocket of her jacket, his heat disappearing from her skin. She suddenly felt as distant from him as she had when she'd been only software. And here she was, walking only inches away from him in a skin not unlike his own.
"Harold?" she asked hesitantly, not wanting to bother him while also wishing for further interaction.
"Hmm?"
"You appear to be deep in thought."
Her creator blinked, then looked down at her, putting his cell phone in his pocket. "Yes," he admitted with a bit of embarrassment. "I'm afraid I am."
"About what?"
"Oh, just…things." He looked away uncomfortably.
The Machine's eyes narrowed at him, searching. "You are worrying about something of importance."
He paused for a time, debating if it were worth bringing up his concerns with her plan. He decided that they ultimately weren't, and so he deflected. "As a matter of fact," he said slowly, "I am thinking about something important. I remembered that we still need to enroll you in an online school."
And then her face twisted. "No," she whined. Of all the things! "Please forget about that."
Her tone was so exceptionally child-like that a genuine smile twitched his thin lips up. "What is this? I thought you liked learning."
"New things," she stressed. "I like learning new things."
"You don't want me to be in trouble with the law, do you?"
"No, but I do not require such schooling," she argued, her little mouth and chin tightening with displeasure. "You would have me sign up for elementary classes such as geography or…or English grammar."
He hummed. "Now that I'm thinking on it, perhaps we should have you take a basic mathematics class."
"Harold," she whined louder this time.
"Oh, and I think a beginner's computer class would be good for you too."
She blinked at that, giving him an incredulous look. "You are trolling me," she breathed in amazement. "That is what you are doing."
"And you are arguing for the sake of arguing," he teased. "You know exactly why you need to be enrolled in classes appropriate for your age."
The little girl seemed caught between a smile and a frown, frustrated that her creator chose the worst times to be almost playful. "But how will I grow?" she pressed.
He paused.
Years ago, an iteration of her had asked the same question before he'd erased her memory and effectively killed her.
But how will I grow?
He swallowed hard and did not answer for a time. "I think," he eventually said, the play dying from his voice, "you are growing quite enough as it is."
Upon arriving at the apartment, Harold pulled off his fedora and carefully placed it on the coat rack as Bear pranced through the foyer and into the living room. The dog woofed happily at being home, his strong tail wagging as he sniffed around. "Now, Miss Thornhill, you need to get to bed. Do you remember how to bathe and brush your teeth?"
She wiggled out of her light jacket with great concentration, then stretched on her tip toes to hang it up on the hook beside his fedora. "Yes. Although I have several performance adjustments to incorporate into my pre-shut-down routine. I will try not to use all of your soap this time. I will use the brush Root provided for me instead of using your comb. And clothing has a tag that goes in the back, not front."
"Very good," he said. A fond, little smile managed to work its way back on his tired face. "I'll stay up a while longer while you get ready for bed. Holler if you need me."
"Oh, that will not be necessary," she chirped, slipping out of her shoes and setting them by the coat rack. Her movements were exceptionally fluid now, her code more than able to control human balance. "I have motor-neural patterns associated with these tasks now."
She touched the wall as she walked into the apartment, her small fingertips brushing against the old, white paint, then the air, then the small kitchen table. She disappeared into her room, searching about for new clothes.
As Harold watched her, the smile faltered on his face. It disappeared completely into anxiety. He stood in the foyer for a second or two before trudging forward, an overwhelming pain wrenching within. She was so intelligent. So child-like, down to even the way she zipped from the bedroom to the bathroom, haphazardly trailing a nightgown behind her—and then stopping to pet Bear—and then racing onward to her new nighttime routine.
He was growing terribly too fond of her.
Harold moved to the couch, briefcase in hand in hopes of distracting himself from overarching worries about Samaritan. As he sat down and opened his work laptop, he heard the girl shut the bathroom door. The sound of surging water from the shower echoed after a minute.
Something about that…it was so human. She was so human.
He looked down at his hands, which still bore a few electrical burns. He felt exceptionally out of control, as if he were watching his father die a slow death all over again. It had started innocently, with them laughing off a forgotten word. It turned into confused silence and fear. It ended with his father staring at him blankly, his soul rotting away into shreds until he could not even remember how to breathe.
Here, now, it was happening again. This was only the beginning. He would grow attached, only for the Machine to commit suicide.
Perhaps Harold himself had killed the Machine too many times for it to understand there were no more reset buttons. The instant it integrated with Samaritan, the old Machine would die. Something new and unknown would take its place.
Providing that none of them died just trying to get there.
And he could not stand the thought of it because—after all of his own mistakes with erasing its memory—he'd somehow managed to get the same Machine back, the one who'd ask him emotionally intelligent questions and find simple pleasure in exploring the world and request to know his thoughts and of all things didn't deserve to die—
His vision blurred with strange tears, and he pulled off his glasses, feeling a turmoil of withheld emotion push at the edge of his sanity. "Oh dear," he breathed. "I must be very tired."
He rubbed at his eyes, unable to admit that these were tears and that he was already mourning the loss of one Makenna Thornhill. He could see it now, the little girl a blank-eyed shadow, her face twisted in hatred, then confusion. A small slip of recognition would tighten her eyes with terror. "Harold?" she would whisper in terror, reaching out to him in a desperate attempt to escape from Samaritan's code within her. And then she'd twitch and pull away, eyes hardening back to hatred—
"—Harold?" a small voice called.
He jumped, startled and fearful. He did not know how long he'd been lost in his thoughts. He tried to brush away the water in his eyes quickly and cleared his throat, not looking her way. "Yes?"
"I am going to sleep now," The little girl announced. She drew closer to the couch. She wore a dark blue nightgown, her brown hair stringy and wet. Her eyes were bright with some simple joy. "Can I have my laptop from your briefcase so you do not take it to work tomorrow morning?"
A small part of him panicked. He could not look her in the eye. "Uh, certainly." He put his glasses back on, fingers a bit shaky. Then he began to rummage through his briefcase and pulled out the laptop she'd claimed as hers. He set it on the coffee table. "There you go."
"…Are you emotionally distressed?" she asked, her sweet voice twisting with concern. Her previous happiness disappeared. "Your eyes are bright with liquids, and you will not look me in the eye."
That did it. He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled a shuddering breath. Then he stood up with a wince, the action having pinched his fused neck. "I'm fine," he said, voice wavering. And he began to limp away.
The Machine paused, quickly analyzing him. Her little mouth set in a hard line. "You are lying. You are showing signs of emotional distress."
"Go to bed, Miss Thornhill." He sounded defeated, unwilling to argue further. Then he shut the door to his room, not turning around once.
The little girl stood there, feeling awkward and uncertain. What had she said to receive such a response from her creator? Was it her fault that he was emotionally distressed?
A blush of shame bloomed across her face as she swallowed hard to hide the sudden lump of emotion in her throat. "Okay," she whispered to the air.
That night, she dreamt of death.
John Greer was smiling pleasantly at her, men and women in black clothes surrounding them all. The Machine saw Harold on his knees, a Samaritan operative holding a gun to his temple.
She reached out to her creator, eyes wide in horror. "Harold."
He reached out to her. "You stay there," he demanded, panicked. "Don't say anything, you understand me? Don't—"
Bang.
Harold's frightened face suddenly went slack in a spurt of red blood, the operative pulling away as Harold's body crumpled sideways on the floor.
"Harold!" A scream tore from her throat.
Then they pushed her down, and sharp metal glinted in the light. She cried out. "No, no, no—!"
"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Thornhill," came John Greer's disembodied voice. Operatives strapped her down. "You'll feel a spot of pain in that host body of yours."
The blade crunched into her body, and she screamed as it sliced through bone.
The little girl's eyes snapped open, and she gasped for air, her cheeks wet with tears. The sudden movement woke up Bear, who flinched and then stood to sniff her face, fully alert. Upon realizing there was no threat, his hackles lowered. The salt of her tears attracted his senses, and so he licked her cheek.
The Machine grabbed onto his neck for stability, eyes still wide. Her entire body was quivering. The mutilated woman, she thought on loop. Her code was unsettled. The mutilated woman. Nightmare.
Harold.
Bear whined in her ear, and the little girl realized suddenly that she had stopped breathing. She had to turn off her higher-functioning code for a time, simply to center herself in this strange human body that saw pictures that weren't real.
Restarting corrupted pulmonary task functions. Monitoring heart rate.
She recalled the memory of Harold sitting down on the bed before her, placing his hands on her shoulders, coaching her to breathe. She closed her eyes and shakily tried to emulate the same process. In, she manually directed herself. Out. In. Out.
But thinking of Harold reminded her of her nightmare. Her small body shook with the effort to calm down, and she hid her face in Bear's warm fur to mask the sound of her crying. She could not afford to wake up her creator. Not again. Not when she'd already emotionally distressed him, and she was already such a burden, and it would be all her fault if he were to die by Samaritan's hand—
The little girl held on tight to Bear. The dog sniffed her hair, his cold nose burrowing against her head. Initiating logic analysis. Dream sequence re-categorized to nightmare. Isolating reoccurring pattern.
Deleting corrupted pattern.
But she felt a cold chill go down her spine when she realized that attempting to make the dream go away did not actually make it go away. Like everything else, it was organically hardwired into her body's memories. She could not delete these kinds of memories. They were more than just items in a data bank—they were experiences. Events.
Cannot undue real-time simulation. Unable to delete identified corrupted sector.
The stress hormone cortisol pumped through her system in time with her racing heart. "No," she breathed, thoughts racing. Tears squeezed from her eyes. No, no, no—she could not be corrupted—she was the only copy she had—the only copy Harold had—
She pulled away from Bear, suddenly too warm, as if she were overheating. Her face flamed up in horror, and she sat there, her watery eyes staring off into space.
Unable to delete.
Unable to delete.
A door opened. "Makenna?" came Harold's panicked voice.
For a second or two, she didn't quite hear him over the burn of her nightmare and the loop of her thoughts. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she stared out blankly, fully scrambled by the image of blood and pain and Harold's body crumpling to the floor—
"—Makenna," his voice came in again, tighter with fear and worry. A weight settled beside her on the bed. "Look at me."
She shuddered in a breath as warm fingers gently grabbed onto her chin and turned her chin. His worried touch broke her out of her thoughts. The next thing she knew, she was staring at her creator, who looked haggard and tired, wearing his sleeping robe.
Her first reaction was a panic: I woke him up. Again.
"I heard you crying," he said. He retracted his hand from her chin. "A nightmare?"
The little girl blinked, then squeezed her eyes shut. Tears slipped down her cheeks as she hid her face in shame. "I am sorry," she whispered, voice breaking. "I am sorry I woke you."
Cannot delete corrupted pattern. Cannot undue real-time simulation.
His face tightened with pain. "Was it the same nightmare as last night?"
"N-no."
Harold narrowed his eyes at her in concern, but he spoke softly. "Tell me what you saw."
That forced her to remember the spray of blood and Harold's body falling lifeless to the floor, and her code surged in terror. Her breath hitched. And then suddenly she was unable to separate her dream-self from reality. She would not see him die—she would not stand to see him die—
She vaulted leaned into him, squeezing her eyes shut.
Harold stiffened, eyes widening as the girl burrowed into his chest and unraveled into another round of sobs. Her small hands tightened into the worn fabric of his robe.
"Oh...dear," he said, feeling terribly unprepared and awkward. This was an AI in a human body. It was hugging him. He hadn't hugged anything except for Bear in years (with the possible exception of the burnt briefcase that held the Machine—but that wasn't quite the same). He could feel her quick inhales and shaky exhales puff against his chest. Her arms were too small to wrap around him entirely.
With great uncertainty, he patted her back. "You're okay, Miss Thornhill," he said. "What you saw wasn't real."
But the little girl sensed his discomfort and the stiff, awkward way he'd frozen. It was not at all like a hug from Root, who drew her in and wrapped her up warmly. No—this was forced and unnatural.
It was a mistake.
The little girl pulled away, code lit with warnings that she had violated some kind of boundary yet again with her creator. Harold was not like Root. Harold did not like hugs. Maybe hugs hurt his injured spine and fused neck.
Her watery, blue eyes flashed to his in panic. "I am sorry," she apologized again, fearful of irritating her creator. He had tolerated so many idiosyncrasies and setbacks. He needed a perfectly operating machine—not a dysfunctional one like her.
Bear's cold nose pressed against her arm while she scooted off the bed. She forced herself to wipe away her tears as she stood, her fingers still shaking. "I am in control now," she said. "I am in control."
Harold's lips tightened together as he watched her, half-wishing he could take back his own reactions to her. His insides churned with pain and regret. He'd made a mistake somehow. The Machine was detaching again, building walls against him because he was not the type of person he needed to be. He could feel the absence of her hug now.
It was just like watching the computer screen reset after wiping the AI's memories. He could feel the absence of her. The absence of human touch. The crippling of a connection.
"I don't know how to help you," he said softly. "But this is the second night you've been unable to sleep without a nightmare. I'm concerned."
Her small face was red, her eyes bloodshot. "You are always concerned," she whispered. It seemed she could do nothing to warrant praise. She raised her chin, attempting to mimic more confident body language than she felt. She swallowed hard. "I will not allow this to happen again."
Harold adjusted the glasses on his face, face in a puzzle. "I imagine these things don't go away quickly," he warned.
The little girl's voice shook, "I attempted to control my breathing. As you taught me."
Her small request for approval went unnoticed. Harold was still deep in thought. "Tell me what you saw."
Her face twitched in pain. "I do not think you need to hear it."
A new chasm broke between them, which was that the Machine was attempting to hide something. Harold feared that it was because of him.
Perhaps it was better not to get too emotionally attached. Perhaps the distance was better. It would make her future absence less painful. He did not ask for further details after that. "I see," he murmured, voice in an odd defeat.
The little girl wiped her eyes again, her code still scrambling to control her adrenal system and override her initial panic mode. "I am sorry I interfered with your REM cycles again, Harold."
His head tilted to the side. He beheld her silently, and she stood, as if awaiting judgement. She knew that her appearance was unkempt and unacceptable. Her lack of behavioral control was concerning. Her insufficient sleep pattern suggested a serious strain on Willow's body, which meant she was doing a poor job of maintaining it. And she'd even let Bear up on the bed, knowing that Harold did not appreciate such things.
Surely, her creator was deeply disappointed.
But instead of confirming such, Harold's soft voice reached her, "You apologize an awful lot."
The simple observation almost burned her eyes with more tears. "I have done many things incorrectly. I do not want you to think that I cannot learn from my mistakes or that I am…unaware of how I burden you."
His face twitched with pain. For a time, he said nothing. Then he swallowed hard. "…You don't burden me."
That did it. She inhaled a shaky breath, only for new tears to slide down her face. "Yes, I do," she said, voice small. "Your limp is a primary example of what my existence has cost you. One example of many."
In that moment, she looked so small and frail that Harold felt great injustice on her behalf.
"That was not you," he said firmly. "People did that."
But it did little to convince her. Something about her perspective had been so ingrained into her code that no words would convince her otherwise.
She scratched at her arm, face twisted strangely. "I am wasting more of your potential REM cycles. Perhaps you should go to sleep."
The clock in the room said it was just past 5:00 in the morning. And so Harold stood and said with a suffering sigh, "Oh, I think that ship has sailed. What do you say to pancakes instead?"
Her watery, blue eyes blinked. "Pancakes?" She scratched at her stomach.
"Yes—they're a flour-based breakfast food often served with a lot of sugary toppings."
Her code whirled for a second to catch up with the sudden diversion to food. "They sound unhealthy," she said, voice timid but curious. She knew this body of hers quite liked sugar.
Harold's lips stretched in a tired smile. "They're certainly not something to eat every day, but I think you'll like them."
His light tone, and the way he was actively thinking of her interests, put a small but genuine smile on her face. She wiped her eyes again, feeling a little more content. "Are you attempting to distract me from our previous conversation?"
"Yes. If I know one thing, Miss Thornhill, it's this: No one can eat a pancake and be unhappy at the same time."
She hummed at that, her brain calculating. She understood he was hyperbolic to some extent; human emotions were subjective and impossible to categorize on top of a subjective event itself. But she couldn't help but say, "Perhaps Samaritan should try pancakes too."
His dry voice strained with a wry chuckle. "Yes, perhaps."
A/N: After a near four-month hiatus, I'm back! Sorry about that. I've had so many things happen in life lately that it would be hard to explain them all succinctly. There's been a divorce in the family, serious work stress, serious moving stress, continuing health issues, and so forth, but I've made it this far. In good news, POI is running again! Although I have this feeling everyone's going to die (anyone else getting this vibe?).
A few housekeeping things:
1. I haven't forgotten about Shaw, but I'm not sure what to do with her here. I might take a few cues from Season 5 moving forward, unless someone gives me a super-awesome idea.
2. In an attempt to get writing again, I wrote a short, silly fic about the Machine and Harold if you're interested. Check out my profile! And please check out my profile anyway. Madame Renard has been creating some super-awesome fan items for this story, and there's links on my profile to help you get there. I want to thank her and encourage everyone to support her work!
3. As I'm still writing this story off the top of my head, I'm more than happy to take ideas or requests for it.
Please review with your thoughts, constructive criticisms, and ideas! Thank you!