"Don't worry, they won't be coming in—," a voice calls out from behind us. Lionel and I draw our guns and point in the direction of the monotone voice. There's a large screen anchored to the back wall and four huge computer servers bolted to the ground in front of it. Stationed between the servers is a silver and black mainframe with two black chairs tucked beneath it. We approach from both sides, but our view is obstructed by the long backrest of the chair. Cautiously we draw closer to the chair, when suddenly swivels, "— I called them off," the long legged woman says.
We are greeted by a pair of piercing blue eyes, lips painted like cherry marinated clouds; and a golden mane that cascades down her pronounced bosom. A pair of heels add six inches to the slender stranger; whose physique eclipses my own like a chiseled statue of Athena. She slowly raises her hands to her sides. There's a mindful shadow in her glare as she surveys me, and only me.
"You must be Shaw," she says.
"I am— and who the hell are you?"
A noise erupts from behind her and I swiftly shift my weapon to the left. "I'm Ava," she says, while advancing toward me.
"Well Ava… tell your friend to step out of the shadows," I tell her, "otherwise, I'm gonna have to shoot you."
"I'd take that threat seriously if I were you," Harold interjects. "She's not in a conciliatory mood."
"No—" a voice remarks from behind one of the servers. A dose of adrenaline rushes through my every vein. "— she's definitely not," the voice continues.
Four simple words from a faceless voice manages to drain my energy. My heart seizes underneath the pressure building in my chest. A slender figure steps from behind the server like she stepped out of my dreams into reality. Her long brown hair resting over her black leather jacket. Brown eyes so steady that they could ease anyone into submission. Coupled with a smile so captivating, that even now as it graces her lips, I fall short of breath and am inept of diction.
"Ms. Groves!" Harold proclaims. The surprised intonation in his voice mirrors my inner turmoil.
"Hey Harry," she replies with a tone as smooth as her entry onto the scene.
"Coco puffs," Lionel says. His gun still aimed toward the two women.
"Lionel, so good to see you."
Lionel let his weapon fall to his side. "You were dead. I saw your body," he says.
She doesn't respond, but instead sets her sight on me. "Sameen," she says, firmly.
There is a subtle alteration in her posture; though previously, she appeared untouched by what was transpiring. The utterance of my name seems to have peeled away at her apathetic front. Whether sincere or contrived, her seemingly calm composure kept me tempered. But as her unease surfaces, I feel a surge in confidence.
The shift in dynamics drives me closer to her. My feet make headway since my mind could not. The room goes so silent that I could hear a feather fall. And standing before me, the angel from whose wing it fell. How else could she be standing here? Like time hadn't moved, except it did, and I know because I'd spent much of it dwelling on the past.
We stand beside the luxurious blonde, whose eyes have yet to deviated from me. Her glare becomes more intense and overt as Root and I draw closer without uttering a word. She places her hand on my face and her thumb caresses my cheek gently. I succumbs to her touch, and my lips tenderly graze the inside of her palm. The warmth she emits confirms the validity of her existence and expels my belief that she is the fabrication of a tired mind. An eruption of questions spring to mind to invoke the latent fury within me; and I quickly withdraw from her touch.
"Four years, Root?" I ask.
"Let me explain," she says.
"I'm done—" I brush by Harold and Lionel on my way toward the door. "—I helped you find the Machine. Good luck," I say.
I storm out before I can get an explanation to grant ease of mind; no context, nor concern for what might happen. They don't follow me, and they don't try to stop me.
A small slither of light peeks out as I stare into the horizon. Sun rays make their way through the crevices of the compacted brick structures, providing illumination to the gloomy neighborhood below. From the top of the roof I spot the local paper stand employee. She's setting out her daily delivery while gleefully greeting her next customer. I take a seat at the edge of the roof, allowing my feet to dangle over the edge. My intent is to observe her mundane life until the banality eventually bores me to death.
The serenity of the morning air is unsettled by a whisper of a voice, "I figured you'd be here," she says. I don't bother to turn around. I know her voice, I know her everything. "Shaw, talk to me," she pleads.
"What can I say?" I ask her. There are some things, lots of things, lots of questions. However, there's a refusal to alleviate her conscious, especially after being deprived of my own solace for so long.
"Can you look at me?" she asks. I don't acknowledge the request; but instead, I continue my silent exploration of the city. "You shouldn't have found out this way," she says—she tilts a bit to the side— "you were never supposed to know—"
"That you were alive!" I exclaim— I turn around in my seat to face her— "stop talking now."
"The Machine needed—"
"Oh, the Machine," I interrupt.
"—I couldn't just say no," she continues.
She tries to get closer, but I avoid her by moving away from the ledge. "Of course— because if the Machine asks you must comply," I argue. "Even to the detriment of everyone else."
"That's not true," she says.
"The Machine didn't make you lie— you chose to do it every day. For the past four years."
"It wasn't an easy choice for me to make." She walks to the corner of the roof, then points to a nearby building. "Right there—" she says. "Once a week for that first year— you'd come to this roof, and I'd be over there watching you, dying to tell you the truth."
I rush at her as my indignation pours forth from every step. "So tell me now," I say; standing on the other side of the indelible line at our feet. There is very little that I wouldn't except as reason for her deception, though logic advises otherwise. Any vindication of her actions would suffice. That I might be able to concede into her arms with a semblance of dignity; instead of forfeiting my pride for the sake of having her near me.
Her lips prepare to respond but she is interrupted by the sound of someone accessing the roof entrance. We point our guns at the door just as the leggy blonde makes her way across the threshold. She is frozen by the sight of our weapons. "Ava, what are you doing here?" Root asks. We holster our guns and she makes her way over to us. She places a kiss on Root's lips; a surprise to us both, but even more-so to Root. The color drains from her face and she retracts timidly from Ava's grasp.
"You were taking a long time. I wanted to make sure you were okay," Ava says.
"I'm fi—"
"Fin—ishing the conversation with me," I interrupt.
"Ava, can you excuse us?" Root asks. The blonde stares at us briefly before exiting back through the entrance. Her fiery and confident sashay having been undermined by Root's request.
Anger swells from the core of my gut, my head spins, my fingertips begin to tingle and my heart feels as though it could implode. I sprint toward the door but she grabs me before I make it pass her. "I don't need an explanation," I say, adamantly.
She gives one anyway: "I woke up in private facility about a month after the Machine defeated Samaritan. — I don't know how I got there. I eventually learned that I was dead to the world. Dead to you all—"
I shake my head, "Lionel saw your lifeless body lying on a slab."
"— he saw a dead woman. My height, my weight, with extensive facial work," she says.
"Why would the Machine go through all the trouble?" I ask, "Doesn't makes sense."
"At first, it was just a way for her to keep me safe— but then she won the war. She came back and needed someone to be there for her."
"What about Harold?" I ask, "you know, the guy who created her."
"Harold had already made the decision to be with Grace," she explains. "She didn't want to ruin that for him, not again."
"So instead of letting her between them, you let her between us," I say.
A few short steps and she is drawn into my atmosphere, the air around me is tainted with her fragrance. The frame of her body overshadows mine, encompassing me in the warmth that her energy emits. Her eyes glisten underneath the brightness of the sun, shedding light to the tender expression taking rise in her cheeks. The outline of her chin exudes regret while her lips display an abundance of quiet sorrow."I didn't know there was an us," she replies.
"So, your plan was to keep going on like this?" I ask.
"I figured since you were doing what you were born to do, you'd be fine. Time has a way of turning a gaping wound into a tiny scar. I figured you'd move on," she says.
"Move on," I say, "she didn't tell you—"
"Tell me what?" she asks.
"I don't work with the Machine anymore," I say, "it's been over a year."
Her forehead crinkles with disbelief, "She never told me," she says.
"I thought she left you to die Root."
"She would never do that," she says.
"Are you defending her right now?" — I step back to observe her demeanor— "Does your blind allegiance have no end?" I ask.
"The Machine saved my life—"
"She's keeping things from you," I say.
"—but she has her reasons. Her own way of handling things, even when it comes to me. Most of the time it's for my benefit," she responds.
"More like your detriment," I say. "Honestly, I think you prefer the Machine to make your decisions for you. That way you aren't to blame for the endless bad decisions you make on your own. She gives you an excuse to jump from one life to another without any guilt."
Tears began to well inside the bottom of her eyelid, "You call what we had a life?" she asks. "A life where we chase down bad guys until one, or the both of us ends up like John. There is no happy ending for people like us. You talk about guilt. But you have no point of reference. What life could we have had together when one of us has an emotional impairment? " As the final words leave her lips, she recoils.
Through strained vocal chords, I struggle with my reply. "Maybe you're right— but that didn't stop the memories of you from bombarding me every day. There was no amount of liquor in the world that could fill the emptiness in the bottom of my gut. No refuge for me when I woke up every day and had to reaffirm that you were gone. That you were the reason for the abyss centered inside my chest. So, though I may lack the capacity to feel love, it didn't negate my ability to endure loss."
Though I didn't see her hand draw near me, I could sense the thrall of its presence. Even now as her words trampled through my mind; I could not suspend my desire to indulge in the paradise that lay just at her fingertips. No amount of time or harsh exchange of words could ever change this feeling, but for now I could pretend. I avoid her apologetic gesture by exiting the rooftop. She follows behind me, but we continue on in an introspective silence.
