It is unbearable having to wait inside this dismal police station for Lionel. The furniture is built to maximize discomfort, and the pungent odor of corruption still lingers in the air. The residual stench left by HR clogs my sinuses. Between the testosterone and unwanted stares, my patience is wearing thin. I'll give Lionel thirty seconds to appear, but after that, I'm gone. In all honesty, this is the last place Bear and I should be.

I rise to my feet and an exhaustive sigh leaves my lips. As I take a step toward the door, Lionel comes barreling from around the corner. A curly haired obstacle keeping me from a stealthy exit. An accomplished expression comes across his face, and it makes me want to stab him. My desire must be apparent because there's a swift change in his demeanor. A stream of questions bombard my mind as I draw close, then one dire question spills from my mouth.

"Are you aware that you're being sent to protect a Samaritan agent?" I ask, bluntly.
"What are you talking about?" he asks.
I toss the open file on his desk. "Senia Industries," I read aloud, pointing to the documents set before us. "That's one of Samaritan's front facilities. And I would know— I spent two years shutting down their operations."
"Okay— so what? Even more of a reason to keep an eye on this guy," he says.
"So... the Machine didn't tell you—"
He shrugs, "How much does she tell any of us?"
"— this is why I don't do this anymore," I say. I make headway toward the exit.

"You know this is what they would've wanted!" he shouts.
My feet charge back toward him, fueled by indignation. "There is no they... they are gone. There's just you, me, and Bear over here," I say.
"And the Machine," he adds.
"I'm not here for the Machine," I reply. I try for the exit again.
"How about me?" he asks, "I need you to have my back tonight."
I pause before my feet cross the threshold. "I'll show."

Her omniscient presence is always here watching me, even this busy street can't keep me hidden for too long. Thousands of cameras between here and my residence, it's only a matter of time. The cold air blowing through my hoodie chills my hot skin. It's been a while since we've had a long walk. I've gone from running from Samaritan to avoiding the Machine. At least she's not trying to kill me. Unless it's possible to die from extreme annoyance. At times it made me miss dodging bullets.

I observe critically as people go about their day aimlessly. Hopelessly tethered to the pursuit of instant gratification, at the expense of efficacy and knowledge. They'd all be much more productive without all that emotion that comes naturally to them. None of the moral meandering about proper societal behaviors. It would effectively negate the use of divisive propaganda machines. Mindless the whole lot of them. But then who would they be I wonder? Perhaps more like me, but that probably wouldn't be better.

I come upon a flock of sheep blocking the sidewalk. They are huddled in front of an electronics store, engrossed by the breaking news on the television screens: A shoot out at Meridian Hill Park. There was an explosion, one dead, five injured; sounds like my kind of event. Suddenly, the screens go black and the spectators begin to disperse back into obliviousness. "Shaw" appears on the screen in front of me. I should have known.

"What do you want?" I ask.
"How are you?" she asks, replying through the plasma screen.
"Do you care?" I ask.
"I do," she replies.
"Just not when it matters," I say.
"I know you don't want to hear from me, and I understand that you are upset—"
"Upset!" I shout, "what do you want?" I ask.

People stare at me, cautious not to make eye contact as I yell my frustration at an inanimate object. Good thing it's New York, otherwise this might seem suspicious. Yet and still, that doesn't keep two burly NYPD officers from heading my way. No time for that. We tactically dart through crowds of people until we find refuge through the back door of a night club. Bear's heavy panting echoes through the empty hallway while the sound of the police radio passes by outside.

We make our way down the dimly lit hallway, cautious of being discovered by any employees. However, the reverberation of my shoes as they peel off the floor may reveal our presence. I deduce from my sticky boots, that the janitorial staff has not arrived yet. The place smells like it looks, grimy, dusty, with accents of mold sprouting from the crevices of the walls. A strong odor emanates from the women's room. My eyes water and my mouth curls in disgust as the smell attacks my nose. There's a busted up pay phone clinging desperately to the wall that suddenly begins to ring. I try to muster the will to ignore it, but I can't, because I know it's her.

"Yes," I scream into the receiver.
"Please don't hang up." The Machine knows, I can't hang up now. Not with the voice of an apparition on the line, somehow breathing life into every syllable. "We need to talk Sameen."
"Why are you using her voice?" I ask.
"I can change it if you want."
"No—" I push my ear deeper into the receiver. "What do you want to talk about?"
"I did not ask Lionel to ask for your assistance."
"Okay, and now I know so— good bye."
"Wait..." Her plea keeps me engaged.
"What, there's more?" I ask.
"I think it will be better if you stayed away from this case."

For a year and a half she's wanted me back into the fold. Now here she is, using Root's voice to tell me she doesn't want me. If only she were tangible, I could better translate how I felt in this moment. Instead, I settle for the short-term release of slamming the receiver against the metal dock. The violent intensity resounds through the hallway until the assault ceases and silence settles back into the air.

"Better I sit this one out!" I yell, to an imperceptible auditor.
"I'm trying to respect your wishes," she explains, "is that not what you wanted?"
"Why now?" I ask, "my wishes were never taken into consideration before."
"Please. Just understand—"
"You know what!" I exclaim. "That's fine— Lionel's a big boy and can take care of himself."
"Thank you, Sameen."
"You wanna thank me— let's not do this again."

I let the phone fall to the ground and head toward the front of the club. A glimpse of light illuminates the empty bar, and sitting on top of the counter, a bottle of vodka screaming my name. I'm more than happy to answer. Vodka, whiskey, and gin will be my company tonight, just as they've been all the other nights. I grab a few bottles and we slip out the front door just as the bartender appears from the kitchen.