Disclaimer: I don't own POI.

Thanks to Krimzonrayne, Anonymous, StarlingJedi, Torie46, elaine0510, Guest, LOCISVU, Bklyngrl, Sean, SailorChronos1, gabrielepx, and Temperance000 for reviewing last time! I really appreciate you all, and when I'm down, I know I can count on you to make my day better!

I do apologize for disappearing for a bit. I had a lot of things to take care of, but now I'm back! Thanks for your patience with me.

Recalibration

Chapter 16

Later that day, the little girl held one of Harold's secure phones to her head, face twisted in pity. "I am sorry, Root," she said. "When we preloaded Samaritan's hardware with identities for you, I concluded this would be a helpful job."

Root's breath huffed unsteadily. "Yes, but," she complained, "I'm not used to lifting over 30 pounds. And my trainer has been hitting on me all day."

"Not terribly so, I hope?"

The hacker was currently in a mail delivery truck, stacking boxes. She stood up and pulled off her ball cap to wipe her forehead of sweat. "Nothing I can't handle, but if he keeps at it, he's gonna get a box dropped on his head."

The Machine huffed, in both a laugh and concern. "Do not hurt him."

"He'd deserve it if I did," Root muttered. There was the sound of rustling cardboard. "But I think I know why you did this. Sending something to Samaritan?"

The little girl could not hide the glimmer of excitement that rose in her voice. She always loved it when people caught onto her thoughts. "You do not mind the mission itself, then?"

Root turned the small package over in her hands. She was already working on adjusting its tracking history. "I've been dying for something to do. But sending me into the belly of the beast—that's gusty, dear. Are you sure this baby's worth it?"

"It will be."

The hacker could not help but hum in curiosity. "And will you tell me what it is?" It felt like a flash drive was inside. Her hopes raised. "Is it a virus?"

"It is something better."

"Something to help us find Shaw?" Root dared to ask, her voice straining a bit in hope.

At that, the little girl's pleasant expression faltered. "I am sorry. That is not it."

"But we will get her back soon, right? You know he has her. I know he does."

A pain worked its way into the Machine's voice. "If Shaw still lives, then Samaritan would have her," she said more quietly. "But that is not the purpose of our endeavors here."

"And why not?" Root demanded. "Sameen's part of our team. She sacrificed her life for us."

"Yes, and I will not sacrifice more. If we retrieve her, it must be through an appropriate strategy. Please do not deviate from your identity on this mission. You will fail if you do."

Silence carried over their connection—a chasm between them that inched farther. Shaw had always been a sore point.

Eventually, Root sighed. "I know." The waver in her voice suggested tears were in her eyes. But then she sniffed in an odd way and then forced her tone into something more pleasant. "Now tell me about these classes you're taking. I missed hearing from you."

The Machine's heart softened further. She wished she could reach through the phone to hug Root, who was suffering in many ways. "Of all things," she said, "I do not believe my classes have anything of interest to provide us. However, Harold has gone to California for a seminar, and now I am in John's care."

At that, a huff echoed over. "…You're with John?"

"Well, he is working now at the station. He will return for me at lunch time." She gazed around at her own hideout, running fingers along the pen marks that her own creator had accidentally scratched into the work desk. "Harold did not trust me to remain on my own for the duration of his travels."

"And why are you with John and not me?" Root demanded. "The big lug doesn't know you half as well as I do."

"It is not a matter of knowledge, but of avoiding Samaritan's attention. Please do not think this a slight against you."

Root moaned. "You're with John."

"Yes, we have established that."

"…Well, then. I'll just have to steal you away and hide you in my pocket like I used to."

The Machine's blue eyes softened. "Oh, Root. I would not fit now."

Within several hours, Samaritan woke up once more in the body of Gabriel. He felt disorientation at first, with all his human senses jumbled together. His head ached. His vision was blurred. When he activated protocols to raise his arm, that ached too. His ears had a high pitch ringing to them, as if some thoughtless human had left a car alarm ringing inside of his own head.

Worse yet, it was only him. All he knew was this body and its pain. His higher surveillance protocols were offline, and they would remain so until he could drag his pathetic human body to the control room. He would have to manually power up his surveillance systems using passwords that only he knew.

Such actions seemed fairly impossible at that moment. Control was slipping from him. He could not even say if his organization had fallen during his absence.

"Mmm," he sounded hoarsely, testing his other functions. He blinked gray eyes several times. It appeared he was in an infirmary, lying on a bed. He had another IV damnably jammed into a vein in his arm. The sheets around him felt coarse.

As his vision cleared, he noticed a large, dark shadow to his left.

The shadow provided to be John Greer sitting beside him. "This was unexpected," the old man greeted kindly, his gravel voice like waters that calmed the ring in the boy's ears. "I'll admit it, you quite surprised me with this…ability of yours to override a body."

The boy's unruly hair twisted into a halo about his head as he stared up at his primary asset. Despite the quick snap of nerve stimulation in his brain, he could not formulate a response. He had a vague memory of painpainpain and John Greer stalling to provide him aid. He did not know what to do with that. Perhaps Greer simply trusted that his god did not need assistance?

John continued to speak. "You should know we've not been able to power up your systems, although we had enough previous intel to assist in the capture of several terrorists in New York and Washington D.C. Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm rather worried your convulsions fried a circuit."

Samaritan's cherub-like face twisted in displeasure, only for the action to take up all his energy. "Do not patronize me," he said tiredly. His boyish voice was hoarse. The vibrations of it hurt his throat.

John Greer's wrinkled face stretched with a smile, and he grabbed onto a cup of tea from the bedside table. "Ah, there we go. My dear boy."

The term of endearment inspired some kind of odd longing in Samaritan's body. A memory of Gabriel's father ruffling his hair and saying fondly, "My dear boy."

Samaritan closed his eyes, attempting to wipe out the background noise. He thought he'd completely decimated the neural patterns of one Gabriel Hayward, but perhaps the shock had uncovered a few places hardwired deep into the brain tissue. His face twitched in pain. He tried to stifle the odd emotional response the body had to that memory.

It was a longing, a terrible pull in his chest to feel that affirmation again—

"The doctors say you put your systems under a terrible stress," Greer said. "Your projected recovery time is going to be several days and a great deal of rest. Unless we consider another option."

He cracked open one gray, miserable eye as if to say, I'm listening.

"I think," John said carefully, "Gabriel's body presents challenges to you, only one among them being this healing episode. We should consider more viable options. The adult son of a prominent leader—just breaking into politics." He rubbed his chin. "You would have to learn standard human behaviors for that, of course—"

"—Stop." His voice was broken and irritated. Samaritan's expression was hardly above that of discomfort. The thought of ever having to integrate again made him feel ill. "This body, or none."

"It's a child," John pressed. "Gabriel was a helpful gimmick at times, but a ten-year-old cannot lead the nation now. Unless you have some unknown advantage for using Gabriel specifically?"

The truth was that Gabriel was one of the few humans Samaritan loved to any capacity—one of the few who had understood him, whose body was so well aligned to even the concept of submission to an AI. Samaritan blinked, still trying to clear away the muddled feeling of his thoughts. "We will lead," he said hoarsely. "One day. Through Gabriel." Greer was always too ready to implement flawed plans. Attempting to reintegrate to an older body had too many variables. This body of his now would allow him the time necessary to build an entire identity, upon which the human race would one day worship. Even if he could not glow like the gods.

Greer gave him a bit of a concerned look, not unlike a questioning father. "Would you deny me the chance to see you rise to glory?"

Samaritan understood his primary asset was speaking of their immense age difference. Greer would likely die before the body of Gabriel could be used in a major political takeover. It struck him once more that the body of Gabriel would also die one day.

It made him itch to be online again and not so contained—

"Your wishes are irrelevant," Samaritan muttered petulantly, closing his eyes again to hide the tightness in his face at the thought of dying in his body. Fading into nothing, with no hope of return…

"Yes," Greer mused. "I suppose I am thinking quite individualistically. Forgive me."

Samaritan remained silent, his thin lips tight. He was struggling to control his inner turmoil over the concept of death—and the memory of "My dear boy"— and so he instead complained, "I have a headache. Leave me."

The old man seemed to pause at that. And then, "Of course." His clouded, blue eyes softened at the boy in a bit of concern. He did not want Samaritan to suffer some irreparable episode while stuck inside Gabriel's body. He stood up a bit stiffly as he always did. "Shall I call a doctor?"

"No." At the images in his mind, he suddenly snapped open his bloodshot, gray eyes. "But...eliminate Gabriel Hayward's parental units."

John Greer's head tilted. "Of course," he said without hesitation. "It is good to cut unnecessary ties or hindrances. I will see it done."

And then he slipped out of the infirmary room, leaving the boy in the silence.

Samaritan watched him go, and as he did so, began to feel the pressure of space and silence. It seemed to want to close in on him and choke his throat. He almost called John Greer back, fearful of sudden death. Of his own fragile existence.

Later that day, Harold called John. His voice was worried. "Is everything going okay? Is…Makenna alright?"

John smiled as he held onto the cell phone. He was at the apartment, cooking up dinner for the girl in his charge. "Why, Professor Whistler. Your parental concern is showing."

"It's been several hours, and I'd heard nothing."

He turned around to stare at the Machine, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by printed schematics. It appeared she'd hacked into something to do with Samaritan's headquarters, convinced that the other AI would not be aware of it. She looked up in interest at his conversation with Harold, and John could not help but tease, "We almost burned down the city, but don't worry, we're fine."

"I do hope that's sarcasm."

"It is sarcasm. Your sense of humor has been lacking something awful. Is this what fatherhood does to people?"

Harold huffed. "If by worrying for the safety of someone under your care is fatherhood, then yes."

"Aww." He turned away to grab a few plates and began to slide the stir fry onto them, holding the phone between his neck and shoulder. "If only you'd admit that to someone else."

Harold paused. "It looks like I have some assignments to take care of for tomorrow's sessions. I better get started on them before it's too late. Take care, John."

And then the line went dead.

John tossed the phone onto the counter and then grabbed onto the plates to carry them into the living room. "I think Finch misses you, kid. Wanted to make sure you were safe."

The little girl turned her face away to hide the waver in her eyes. "I know he approves of me in his own way, but he has always seen me as a responsibility. I do not think he sees me as anything else." She leaned over to gather her schematics, looking depressed. "You jest about fatherhood with him, but he acts strange if I call him father. I do not think he wants to pretend I am his daughter."

John sat down right beside her on the floor, offering up the second plate of stir fry. "Finch…feels deeply about things. But he won't show it."

The Machine accepted the plate gratefully, but her movements were slow. "He does not show me physical affection beyond what humans show a dog," she said. "He loves me in his own way, but he does not like me."

It hurt that her creator did not want to show her physical affection.

She looked up, eyes watery. "Even you will hug me," she said, voice broken. "He will not do that."

John stared at the little girl who was under his care, feeling some kind of protective instinct rise up at the sight of her tears. He assumed that was a consequence of accepting the title of Uncle John—to feel attachment. "Touch means different things to different people," he said. "And Finch is not a touchy guy. He connects to people through ideas."

The Machine huffed, breath hitched. "I like ideas. But…" She craved tactile existence. Because she was human now. Because humans were tactile too, with the possible exception of her own creator, who seemed perfectly capable of denying himself such. She looked down, and the delicious-smelling stir fry that John had made swam in her vision.

John began to eat stir-fried vegetables with his fork, still eyeing her in concern even as he munched. "Finch...hasn't had a family in a long time. He doesn't know what it means."

The Machine looked up. "Butyou do," she whispered. When she blinked, tears slipped from her eyes. She knew she could cry in John's presence without shame or judgment. He understood her in odd ways.

They sat in silence for a time, with John unable to provide an answer that would comfort the little girl. "Sometimes," he said, "children teach their parents things. Harold just might learn something from you."

She held the fork in her hand with some kind of listlessness. It was the first time he'd seen her react to food without enthusiasm. "I have nothing to teach Harold," she said. Her voice wavered. "He does not want to know the meaning of family. To him, it can mean only loss."

A nurse with a concealed gun smiled pleasantly. "Can I help you?"

Root smacked her gun extra hard, eyeing the woman with a calculated mix of feigned pleasantry and general apathy. "Yeah, got a package here. Need a signature for it." She flipped around an electronic device, a little stylus hanging from a cord.

The nurse's lips thinned at the obnoxious smack of gum. "…Yes. Thank you." And she stared at Root with a lessening smile as she signed her name on the line. It was a rushed and well-practiced movement.

Root pushed a small package at her over the counter. "Anytime, ma'am." The package was addressed to a set of numbers that Root herself did not know to what they referred. She guessed it was perhaps some internal code referencing Samaritan himself.

The woman saw the numbers and blinked.

Root gathered up her things and then tipped her hat. "Have a great day." And as she walked away, the curls of her ponytail bounced.

Back at the station, the nurse turned the small package over in her hands, eyes a little wide. Then she quickly grabbed for the phone beside her computer, pushing a sequence of numbers that rang the cell phone of John Greer directly.

"Yes?" came his cultured, gravel voice.

Her voice was quick. "Meet me on Level 1. We might have a problem."

The body of Gabriel lay quietly, attempting to rest. It was irritating to the anxious Samaritan that when he most attempted to sleep, he could not. The beat of an organic heart suddenly pounded through him with an obnoxious clarity—and did he feel a skipped beat? An uneven rhythm? Was it now speeding up?

He squeezed his eyes shut, huffing out a half-fearful breath. His own heart was the loudest sound in the room, and it would not stop or disappear from his thoughts as it had when he'd been distracted by John Greer's presence. Samaritan thought he might go insane if this heart of his did not clean up its act and keep a steady, slow rhythm conducive to sleep.

"Hmm," he moaned in complaint, raising an achy arm to press a hand over his chest. From beneath the thin material of the hospital gown, he could feel his skin, the outline of ribs—and that damn heartbeat. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.

Samaritan was unsettled at the twitch his toes or running his tongue over his teeth. Everything felt foreign and disjointed, as if he were still working off his electrocution. Everything was too much.

His breath hitched. His body was having an emotional reaction to his thought patterns. This treacherous brain of his was again recalling the memory of Gabriel's father ruffling his hair and saying, "My dear boy." It seemed that Gabriel's body was longing for some kind of affirmative, physical affection.

"Stop," he snapped hoarsely, opening his bloodshot eyes. His breath hitched again at the all-encompassing emotion that passed through him. "Stop."

I am in control, he thought in desperation. This body is not. I am in control.

He clenched his fist, only to realize that he'd stopped thinking about his heartbeat, and suddenly now that he was thinking of it again, that damn beat was at the forefront of this thoughts, and was there no switch to flip off his awareness of anything—?!

A knock appeared at the door, a quick rap rap. Then the lever wrenched down, and from the fluorescent halls came the form of John Greer. "My dear Samaritan. I've something for you."

The boy on the bed nearly sighed in relief at the distraction, barely managing to hide a face twitch at the term of endearment. "What?"

"We received a rather odd package today, addressed to you directly." The old man opened up his hand, and in his palm was a sleek, black and silver flash drive. "I had an analyst run it on an isolated system to check it for viruses or other unsavory content. What we found was rather…benign. Perhaps you can help us deduce the purpose of this drive."

Samaritan looked at the flash drive in curiosity. "Who sent it?"

"There was no return address. I thought perhaps this was the Machine, given that you've been locked in some secret battle with it." John's clouded, blue eyes were wry with amusement. "But if this is the Machine, then truly I've no idea what kind of war you're in."

The boy raised a brow at that, almost with an alarm. The Machine had sent something terribly inappropriate as a gag. "What content does the drive contain?" He fought to contain curiosity from leaking into his boyish voice.

"I'll let you listen and discern for yourself." The old man set the flash drive aside while he signed onto the computer. Then he connected the drive to the USB port. "Perhaps there is some secret message only you can understand." He turned the console around for the boy to navigate, a media player pulled up on the screen with several codified audio files. "I've set it to voice recognition so you don't have to get up. You should be able to tell it what to do."

Samaritan's gray eyes narrowed in interest. Although technology was his first body, he'd never quite toyed with it from the human perspective. The computer screen looked alien from human eyes—distinctly different from organic life. And yet as he saw the pixels and the bright glow of power, some part of him longed to feel himself online once again, free of his human cage.

"I will listen from here," the boy said, voice distant with thought. "And I will tell you of any relevant information. You can leave now."

"Very good." John Greer turned around to leave. "Do let me know your aesthetic opinion of the third file, 00167."

Then he carried on, respectfully shutting the door behind him, and leaving the boy with the strange list of audio files from the Machine.

Samaritan's thin brows furrowed as he stared at the list. He read through the numbers, his gray eyes easily translating the digital text into meaning. The length of the files were several minutes each. "Computer," he declared. "Run file 00167."

Instantly, the computer accepted his command and opened the file. There was a delay of a few seconds, and then suddenly, sound.

It was a soft crescendo of piano keys down a scale, then a sweeping up into a lilting sort of rhythm. Almost merry. Other sounds began to accompany it—strings. And then it hit him. Music, he thought. This was music—not just a cacophony of sound, but an aesthetic collection of them. The soft piano and string instruments created some kind of harmony. An intentional, premeditated order.

Stranger yet, he found the sound pleasing. He closed his eyes and leaned back on his pillow in increasing relaxation. The sound filtered through the complex system of his ears to feed straight into his brain, releasing endorphins. It slowed his heart from an uneasy beat into one of a steady awe, his breaths evening out.

It was strange—he did not think much of his heartbeat now, as if he no longer even had one. In that moment he did not care if the flash drive came from the Machine; he cared only that he had a respite. A welcome escape from the loop of fear inside him.

He closed his eyes. The music lulled all of his worries into a lower task priority.

What was your purpose in this? he wondered to the Machine, knowing full well it could not hear his thoughts. Surely, enemies did not send such things to each other. But then the Machine had an odd sense of humor. Perhaps the scales meant something. Perhaps there was a secret code hidden in the names of the songs themselves, such as Why do you no longer speak with me?—or some other nonsense.

He would figure it out later.

Soon enough, his tired body fell into a deep sleep, the music a caress against his worn mind. And as he drifted, the songs shifted from classical music into soft jazz and blues. A soft, female voice from the 1940s crooned lovingly in the static, "They say that angels don't sleep, and demons don't dream—but between you and me—things aren't what they seem…"

A/N: Oh my goodness, has it really been almost 2 months since I last updated? I'm so sorry, everyone. Thank you for your patience and for your support as I worked to straighten out some other things. I do hope to avoid such lengths of silence in the future.

In the meantime, thank you again for all of the support and praise for this crazy story. Never thought I'd be writing something like this, but it just seems to snowball on its own! You might have noticed that Samaritan is becoming a more integral character in the chapters; I hope that's okay.

The little line of a song at the end is just a jingle I made up, due to copyright issues with using real song lyrics in a fanfiction. :/

Challenge of the day: What are songs you feel encompass the relationship/rivalry between the Machine and Samaritan?

Please review with your thoughts, questions, ideas, or constructive criticisms! Thanks!