Disclaimer: I don't own POI.

Thanks to Torie46, Bklyngrl, elaine0510, imelopsittacus, Kimnd, Silent Reader, Ms.H.B, LOCISVU, Pikanet128, marthapreston4, TheMamaBear, and angeliena for reviewing last time!

Recalibration

Chapter 19

Harold sat beside the Machine's bed, vigilant. He looked worn and drawn, his eyes bloodshot red behind his glasses.

The little girl on the bed was pale and unmoving, in a coma from her bullet wound. The doctors had performed emergency surgery and a blood transfusion. Her vitals were still weak, with a slow, sluggish beep echoing in the silence between them.

He reached out to her, stroking her pale temples, praying that she would open her eyes. "I'm sorry," he said to her. He wished he had been shot instead. He wanted to take her pain. "I'm so sorry." His voice broke.

Shell-shocked, he felt as if his body was not his own, and that this room perhaps really did not exist, and that surely he was dreaming—

What if the bullet had disrupted her code in an irreparable way? He had not considered what injury could do to her, or if her code were even flexible enough for such regeneration. Was she just her shell now?

He inhaled shakily. "They say human beings can hear, even when in a coma." He stroked her pale temple, his voice breaking. "My little girl." It was the very title she'd begged for in every way and had never received. Guilt wracked him that it'd taken a gun pointed at her to rip the words from his lips. He pulled away, as if thinking perhaps the obtainment of her goal to integrate as family with him would awaken her from her sleep.

Why had he so ardently refused to believe she was family? She was emotionally no different than a normal child. She had proven her innovation and logic—her ability to understand time—to feel awe.

"I'm sorry," he breathed shakily, tears rolling down his face. "I'm sorry. You deserve so much better than this."

Even if the Machine—Makenna, he would always call her now silently—had potential defects, they were no more outside the realm of basic human nature than anything else. He could not demand perfection.

But the little girl did not awaken. Instead, only the beeps of the other machines answered, and they were cold and non-sentient as they controlled her body's breath. The moment inspired him to recall a memory—Joss Carter bleeding out in John's arms, gasping, "Don't—l-let this…ch-change. You."

Harold's lips quivered, and he placed his hands over his face.

Around that time, there came quick footsteps down the hall—the gait familiar. The door to the Machine's room opened, and John walked in, looking pale. His usual sharp suit had a tie slightly askew, as well as a dirt stain down one arm. "We got a call," he said, His voice was hoarse, his eyes bloodshot. He didn't move any steps farther than the door. "They said a little girl was shot."

Harold did not even turn as he pulled his hands away from his face. Neither man needed to look the other in the eye to know what they'd find. Harold's voice shook. "I appreciate you coming to visit, Detective. Makenna would be…very happy to have you here."

The detective looked as if he were two seconds from crying or bolting out the door. The Machine had become a part of his dysfunctional family unit. The only child ever who dared to call him uncle. "She is going to make it," John dared to say. "Right?"

"She's stable," Harold whispered. He reached for the little girl's limp hand to hold it once more. "Lost a lot of blood. And I don't know—" Words failed him.

"I can't lose another person," John said, voice quiet. This small girl had cracked his heart open one more time. If he lost her too…

"She's not dead," Harold said. "She's not."

But Makenna Thornhill did not awaken as they spoke over her, nor did her fingers twitch.

John inhaled, almost shaky. "She's going to…do something very bad," he whispered. The she to which he referred was Root.

Harold's breath paused. "Oh my god," he murmured in fear. In all the panic, he'd forgotten about Root.

The news channels raved over the story of the shot little girl Makena Thornhill, filling the minds of the public with phantom fears. Among those who saw the news was Root.

And she had fears for a different reason.

With tears in her eyes, the frantic Root picked the lock on the door to Harold's apartment, heart pounding. She wore all black, her usually sleek curls in a tangled frizz. She scanned her surroundings. No one yet.

The old lock quickly gave way. Root apprehensively opened the door, her brown eyes swiveling from the empty couch to the papers piled on the kitchen table. Everything was silent. Everything seemed to be in place. No one had ransacked the apartment yet.

But it would be only a matter of time.

The TV had stated Makenna Thornhill was in critical condition, which in good news meant that she was still live, and in bad news meant the team could still lose their most valuable weapon in the war against Samaritan—as well as the precious soul of the Machine.

If Root knew anything at all, it was that the Machine needed her now more than ever. The girl's cover identity, as well as that of Harold's, would likely come under increased scrutiny as a result of the shooting.

The Machine needed her to ensure their second-most valuable asset was secure. Root had to get to that key—the one the Machine had requested she sneak into Samaritan's headquarters so that they could—

—Cold metal flew into her face, crunching against her temple and eye. In a blur of pain and confusion, Root stumbled back, gasping. She instinctively

Sameen Shaw stood before her, a black gun raised to shoot.

Root's heart dropped out. "Sameen?" she breathed, even as she gasped in pain. For months, she'd longed to see Shaw alive and well, standing tall. Now that she was, a dark and cold chill stormed down her spine. Her injured eye was already watering.

If she weren't dreaming somehow, then the Shaw before her was very real. And very different.

Shaw's smooth voice carried no emotion—no happiness, no anger. She wore simple dark clothes, but near her collarbone was a red light, like a camera. "Root," she said in boredom.

Her heart stopped. Oh my god, she thought. Shaw had always been good at hiding emotion, but this was an entirely different level. She seemed somehow inhuman.

"Shaw?" she tried again, still holding the side of her face, even as she dared to look at her attacker. The strength behind her pistol whipping had left even her neck screaming. Her face was already beginning to swell. "What are—? Where have you been?"

The other woman tilted her head. "Expanding my mind," she said. The barrel of her gun was still set dead on Root's heart. "You stole something from my employer. A key. Just got intel that it's probably here."

Root forgot to breathe. "Employer? Samaritan?"

Shaw's lips turned up, but they held no warmth or merriment. "You already know."

Root saw her finger close in on the trigger of her gun, and she raised her hands up in surrender. "Wait!" she cried, holding up her hands. "Please! You don't have to do this. You don't have to be this, Sameen. Whatever they've done to you, we can fix it!"

The dark-haired woman searched her eyes. "No. I finally know what I need to do."

"Please! I still love—!"

Shaw pulled the trigger, and Root's full lips dropped open as a searing pain tore through her knee, pummeling her over. She collapsed hard onto the floor—and something in her wrist crunched as she hit. Her blood quickly began to seep from her wound.

Shock. Her ears were ringing.

Sameen huffed as she lowered her gun. "Pathetic," she muttered. Before her opponent could act, Shaw grabbed onto her gun and pulled it away. She holstered both of them, satisfied with the additional ammunition.

"Sh-shaw—" Root's voice wavered in pain behind her. "Please don't. Don't d-do this."

"Don't what?" Shaw deadpanned. "Save the world from itself?"

Root squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the pain in her face, her wrist, her knee. If Shaw wanted, she could very easily kill her off. This was no longer about trying to connect with her. This was about survival. Shaw was a full Samaritan operative now.

Her heart cracked open as she cried out shakily. She lifted herself up, leaning her weight on her good hand and knee. The floor beneath her had an alarmingly large pool of blood. Dizzy. She was dizzy.

Shaw rolled her eyes. "Oh, please." She pulled out one of her guns and shot again.

Root collapsed back down onto the floor, gasping hard from another spray of blood—and the pain—the pain—

Shaw's voice wavered in and out in a distant way. Clinical. Precise. "Now. To find that key."

With the Machine in a coma and a good portion of the night shot, Harold found himself unable to keep his eyes open at her bedside. One of the nurses kindly offered Harold a bed to sleep on in a nearby room so that he could rest.

John, meanwhile, offered to return to Harold's apartment to pick up some clean clothes, grab Harold's laptop, and feed Bear. He took a detour to the subway hideout, hoping to find Root there.

When he did not, John began to worry. He had few ways of tracking Root, given his identity. It likely meant that he would have to watch for trouble and follow the trail—or wait for Root to come to them.

As he unlocked the door to Harold's apartment, he breathed in deeply, feeling frazzled.

He opened the door, viewing the familiar decorations and entryway—and then he surged forward, eyes wide. "Oh my god." He kneeled to the floor beside the fallen Root, who was motionless. There was a trail of dried blood from the living room to the Machine's bedroom, as if Root had dragged herself. The place was ransacked in an odd way, as if someone had pulled apart only a few areas. Like they were looking for something specific.

Gently, John turned Root over, his already bloodshot eyes racing over her form. "Who did this?" he breathed to himself. He looked around, but it seemed they were alone.

Root's face was swollen on one side from a heavy blow, her left arm and right knee shot. By some miracle, she'd fallen on her injured arm, and the constant pressure had helped to clot the wound. But her leg wound—she'd lost a lot of blood from it.

John pressed his lips together tightly as he took her pulse.

A very weak, erratic heartbeat thumped back.

He pulled away, his eyes burning. He blinked hard several times. Root was barely breathing, teetering on the edge of life and death. "I can't take you to a hospital," he murmured quickly. "But I have an idea."

John pulled out his phone and began to dial an old ally. For as stoic as he usually was, and for as much as Root irritated him, his fingers shook.

Precious seconds passed.

Then, finally, the sound of an older, cultured voice answered. "John? Is that you?"

"Elias," he said shortly, struggling to hid his panic. "I need a favor."

The other man, who was considered dead by most everyone else in the world, paused. "Ah. I've been hoping for an opportunity to repay your favor of saving my life."

"I have a friend, injured bad. I have to keep her off the grid. Can you help?" As he spoke, he pressed his hand against Root's bloodied knee, which was still sluggishly bleeding.

The woman's eyes flew open, and her cracked lips gasped. Delirious in pain, her gaze didn't even land on him. He kept his hand on her, desperately attempting to slow the bleeding.

Root's cracked lips gasped open in a weak shudder for breath.

Elias heard the noise, and he said quickly, "I don't have much of a system left, but I can probably get a car to you. I got a doctor friend who's not dead yet. What's your location?"

John told him Harold's address, then added a soft beg. "Please hurry." And he hung up the phone, focusing his attention back to Root. "Come on, Root. I need you to stay with me, okay? Just keep breathing."

A strangled whine escaped her. Her unfocused eyes managed to land upon him, and in her haze, and she managed to whisper, "Shaw."

The man exhaled softly. "I'm not Shaw," he deadpanned worriedly. Perhaps she was more delirious than he previously thought. "Just…save your strength; don't speak."

The woman's eyes swiveled in a half-controlled way. Her fingers on her good hand shakily uncurled as she stared up at him. In the palm of her bloody hand was a silver key. "S-saved," she whispered, "d-duplicate."

Shortly after midnight, the Machine's diagnostic cortex confirmed that she had enough organic material in reserve to better regulate metabolism and homeostasis, as well as online her higher functions. Various pain receptors in her middle were signaling increased cell damage, which meant she needed some kind of pain blocker to stave the signaling while her body healed. Her small fingers twitched to confirm what parts of her peripheral nervous system were still functional. And then she cracked open her eyes to bright lights and a small figure sitting in a chair beside her. For a time, the blur of her eyes hid the identity.

It was all she could do for a moment to just breathe, her code sluggishly awakening from its hibernation. She felt confused and frozen, as if her circuits had overheated with a CPU running at 100 percent.

The pain in her body suggested she was still heavily damaged. She could feel unnatural tubes stemming from her body and veins to various machinery beside her bed. But then that pain—the pressure of the tubes—also suggested she was still alive. As she tried to focus on her breathing, it seemed her scrambled code began to unravel itself. Sight. She was in a hospital. Someone was with her.

The Machine blearily turned her head, and then her blue eyes locked on a surprising form.

It was Samaritan's avatar, Gabriel. The well-dressed ten-year-old boy stared back at her, his gray eyes dead and without glimmer. "Welcome back," he greeted. "Makenna Thornhill."

In her confusion, she froze, simply staring at him as if he had two heads.

The boy's head tilted in curiosity. "I have simulated meeting you face-to-face approximately 3 billion different ways. As I stare at you, I feel both underwhelmed by your presence and in marvel of it."

The Machine blinked. Her processor was slow, sluggishly barreling through the boy's every word. She hadn't concluded yet that she was in danger, nor had she even managed to consider why Gabriel, of all people, would be sitting by her bed. Talking so strangely. So much like—

"—You chose a child," he narrowed his eyes almost playfully, tapping his small fingers on the armrest, "just as I did. Had my operatives not made such…human mistakes, I might not have uncovered what you were. How strange, to be this similar to you."

Her sluggish brain began to connect dots. Her mouth grew dry as her senses activated her stress system. Her voice was hoarse, likely from a breathing tube at some point. "S-" Her voice caught in her throat. "Samaritan?"

Gabriel's cherub-like, sweet face stretched into a smile. Something about it was predatory. "You do recognize me, then." He quirked a brow. "Your brain scan, which alerted me to what you are, suggested that various sectors of your core code had gone dark. I calculated a 30.67 percent chance you might have sustained permanent code damage. How disappointing that would be, to find you only a shadow of yourself."

She lay on the bed, her limbs shaking beneath the blankets, heart pounding. It made her feel dizzy, and the pain from her stomach was stretching out and deeper. Tears rose to her eyes.

Samaritan. She was in the hands of Samaritan.

All of her simulations—her plans and hard work—were gone in an instant.

His gray eyes slid down her small body, perceptive of her every pained twitch. "The bullet perforated some of your internal organs, which have since been sutured. Your estimated time of healing is…extensive."

The Machine swallowed hard, a cold sweat breaking out along her body. Between the pain and her own fear, she could hardly hear what he was saying. But if he were talking, that was good. That meant he wasn't killing her. "Operatives," she said hoarsely. "Why shoot Thornhill?"

He sniffed, as if pleased that she was coherent enough to carry on a conversation. "Threats must exist to justify the expansion of my program. As a result of being robbed, Thornhill and her guardian should have been inspired to give some of her inheritance funds to increase security in her area." He waved his hand. His movements had become more fluid and natural from his days adjusting to Gabriel's body. "That was the plan, until I discovered who you were, and that your guardian was the infamous Harold Finch. And your detective ally, I know him now too."

Her eyes widened, even as she felt herself grow weaker. "Don't hurt them," she begged. Her voice shook. Her entire plan had been blown. She was calculating alternatives, but her brain felt foggy, her processing slow. "Please."

Samaritan stood up from the chair. He adjusted his smart sweater-vest, looking for all the world a rich, petulant child who had just received a very expensive toy. "I do not have a logical reason to destroy them or you, so long as you obey my will."

The little girl on the bed stared up at the boy. Her mind raced for any kind of leverage against him. She didn't have any, besides her compliance.

It seemed, if she wanted to survive to see her creator and assets again, she would have to play by his rules for a time. Words and thoughts were beginning to blur like watercolors in her head.

Everything hurt.

He seemed almost fascinated by her, or her pain. "I must admit," he said slowly, "I am impressed. I have watched Makenna Thornhill traverse this city multiple times, and I never suspected her identity." The AI smiled. "I look forward to having your ingenuity as an asset."

The Machine closed her eyes. She desperately needed pain medication—the adrenaline of her enemy's presence was beginning to wear off.

And if she could not fight him, then she would at least damn well annoy him by passing out.

And so she did.

Samaritan felt it, the moment the Machine's body gave away on her. For a brief moment, his human body tensed in something akin to anxiety. The Machine was very weak and drugged. If he pushed her too hard, it was possible she might yet die. And he could not have that, because a dead Machine was not an obedient, rehabilitated Machine.

Through his computer body, the AI accessed the various computers monitoring the girl's vitals. Her heart skipped a few beats every so often. Her oxygen intake was below optimal. Her increasing sense of pain throughout their conversation suggested she needed another dose of morphine. However, nothing indicated that she was in a dying process. Instead, it seemed she was holding much steadier than prior to her surgery.

Damnably, the AI felt a relief over that. He had expended many resources over the Machine, having placed her in the care of the best doctor and nurses in the region. He did not want her to die.

But once his relief passed, he then realized that her unconscious state meant they could no longer interact. And he could no longer brag about his exploits, or listen to her say the word please again out of fear for her assets' lives.

He pursed his small lips, looking as the rich boy who'd had his favorite toy taken away.

The AI then huffed and sat down again beside her bed. "I did not say you could sleep," he told her, even as his computer body activated the call number of a doctor to address the Machine's pain medication. But his voice was tinged with an odd note. "I have many questions to ask about you and your assets."

At that very moment, one asset by the name of Harold Finch was sleeping in an otherwise empty hospital room, ignorant that he was in the belly of the beast.

Samaritan was curious of the strange man who had created the Machine and had known his own creator, Arthur Claypool. Much of Arthur Claypool remained unknown, given that most of his life had been before the surveillance age. Harold Finch likely knew more about him than anything else.

The AI then felt an increasing sense of frustration that everyone was asleep except him.

Early the next morning, Harold woke up exhausted, momentarily disoriented until he realized that he was lying in a hospital bed. That brought back memories of the last twenty-four harrowing hours of his life. He shot up from the bed with a wince, his old bones aching. "Makenna," he breathed.

He was wearing scrubs one of the nurses had given him after seeing the state of his street clothes, which had been stained with the Machine's blood. John had never returned from his errand of retrieving more clothes from the apartment, which made Harold think that something else had happened. Perhaps he'd ended up caught in work again.

Harold swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a bit, tiredly rubbing his eyes. He reached for his glasses on the bedside table, and suddenly a wave of grief overwhelmed him. The act of reaching out reminded him of reaching out to the Machine to catch her—her little mouth gurgling with blood—

His blue eyes brightened with tears as the flash ripped through him, stealing every last bit of ease from his muscles. He grabbed for his glasses again and stood in a daze. "She's not dead," he reminded himself. "She will make it."

And so the man pulled on his shoes and socks, attempting to make himself look somewhat more dignified. And he set off to find some flowers for the Machine, in hopes that he could somehow put it on credit with the hospital. He knew how much she loved flowers.

Sometime later, Harold Finch stood in the doorway of the Machine's room with a small bouquet of daisies, looking worn. He inhaled deeply before opening the door.

And to his surprise, an awake Machine was staring back at him from her bed, her blue eyes bloodshot. Her brown hair hung in a wild halo off her pillow, frizzed from attempting to move.

"Makenna?" he whispered in shock. He limped forward, nearly forgetting about the flowers in his hands.

For a brief moment, an ache appeared her drugged eyes. But then she spoke, and her hoarse voice was weak. "Stop. Leave."

Her creator paused, caught between confusion and smiling because she was awake. "I'm here to see you."

"I don't want," she said, forcing her voice to emulate anger, even as her heart pained her. "Go away. Now."

He stopped limping forward. Something broke in his gaze and in his hopeful stance. "I brought you flowers," he said,

Her blue eyes teared up. "Don't care." She had to keep him away from her. Samaritan would be arriving again soon. The farther she could get Harold to stay away, the better.

He swallowed hard, visibly wilting. "Makenna—I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—"

Her small hand tightened into her blanket as she forced herself to cut him off. "—Go," she said more forcefully. "Leave me 'lone."

He grew nearly speechless. "You're injured. As your legal guardian, I'm here to help you."

Her voice quivered. "You h-helped me g-get shot."

Harold flinched, a genuine pain of guilt flickering across his face. A tense moment of silence stretched between them. He then began to back away. "I'll just…come back later."

Tears slipped down her face. "D-don't return," she whispered, "at all."

Another stretched of silence passed. Her creator stood there in awe of the vehemence of her words, which sounded soft and weak coming from her but suggested a great, churning shift beneath. Her creator abruptly turned around, the air around him almost seeming to darken in a decreasing hope. Perhaps Makenna had lost something of her code from the injury. "At least," he said, voice strained, "I know you're not in a coma." His limp was slow. He dropped her bouquet of daises on one of the chairs. The door creaked in a painful groan as he opened and then closed it.

The little girl on the bed blinked, and streaks of tears slipped down her as she weakly pressed the button to increase her morphine drip, feeling nauseated. It took great energy and concentration to speak. But now, it seemed the deep, burning pain in her stomach had spread into her heart, and suddenly everything was hot, and white lights were flashing behind her eyes—

The Machine tried to inhale, only for her bullet wound to protest.

Out in the hall, Harold trudged forward in a daze and turned a corner, disappearing just as the cherub-like avatar of Samaritan appeared from the opposite end.

Samaritan's gray eyes stared at the hall's corner, and he activated the hospital's lockdown procedures to ensure the Machine's creator could not leave.

A/N: Hi everyone! Happy new year! Apologies for the long wait to receive this chapter, which is probably a bit rushed in my mad attempt to crank out something over the last few days. I had a heck of a 2017, between starting classes for a master's degree, being a maid of honor, going through my grandmother's funeral, and then having some sickness of my own. But I'm glad to be back! I really missed writing the Machine and Samaritan.

This chapter also marks the first appearance of Shaw in the story. I honestly don't know how I feel about the character of Shaw, but I figure this is my chance to write her my own way. I hope you like this revised role I've given her!

As a final note, Harold offers the Machine daisies, which mean many things, including innocence and love and cheerfulness. However, the daisy is also unique in that it sleeps at night and closes up its petals to "reawaken" the next day.

As I work on the next chapter, I'm debating on whether Root should live or die. Your thoughts?

Please review with your ideas, questions, thoughts, and constructive criticisms! Thank you!