When Reese lifted his head from the pavement, the world was distorted, the buildings towering above him, black and high. The sky was turning green.

He forced himself to his knees. Standing, shakily. An immediate wave of dizziness. He squatted down again, fighting against the nausea.

Shit.

He tapped his ear com.

Nothing.

Rising. A hand on the brick, then pushing off. Walking, unsteadily. Pausing frequently.

The dizziness was getting worse.

Someone was lifting him up. He was in a car, being lifted out. His arm thrown over a shoulder and he was walking. A sign up ahead: Emergency Room.

His head felt loose on his neck. Thirsty. Cold.

He was laying on a padded bed. People were messing with his head. A surgical light overhead was switched on, the sound of rubber gloves being pulled on.

A penlight in his eyes. Checking his pupils.

Something crit. Voices questioning. X-ray. Hematoma.

He felt very tired.

He closed his eyes.

There was a slapping at his face, and he opened his eyes, rolling them up to the figure above him. They were in a hallway. A fluorescent light flickered and he had a distinct feeling he was in a basement.

Propping himself up on an elbow, Reese squinted at her as the headache hit.

White lab coat. Stethoscope around her neck and an annoyed look on her face.

"Shaw." His voice was hoarse.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

A swirl of nausea hit him. He sank his head back for a second.

"You're pale."

"I'm fine." He forced himself to a seated position. He looked around, squinting slightly. It was only Shaw. "Finch?"

"He's fine," she said. "Actually fine."

"Ivanov?"

She gave him a curious look, a tilt of the head. "You wanna fill me in there?"

He tapped at the ear com, not answering the question. Still nothing. She watched him as he dug in a pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

He stared at the cracked remains and remembered.

"Reese?"

He forced himself to his feet as the figure of Shaw in front of him doubled, tripled, then blurred out. She was stepping back, giving him room. He blinked.

"You could have a subdural hematoma," he heard her say. Her voice sounded flat. She came back into focus, an unimpressed look on her face.

"I don't," he said. Repeated it to himself. Subdural hematoma.

A stare.

"That's a good look, doc," he told her softly. He leaned his weight on the bed for just a second longer.

She glared at him and ripped off the stethoscope, tossing it onto the gurney. "You smell," she said in return.

He blinked.

"Seriously." She was eyeing him now, unconvinced at his ungainly stance. She started to reach for his arm but he waved a hand absently.

"Let's go." Moving down the hallway, not waiting for her response.

There was a buzzing in his head. It sounded like a hive of bees.

Angry, angry bees.

They were in the Library. He had the distinct realization of not knowing how they got to be there.

Bear interrupted any try at recollection as he scrambled frantically to greet them with an excited whine, his nails scratching across the hardwood floor. He went straight to Reese and ended at his foot, tail thumping the ground as he spun and sat, nosing at the man's hand.

"Afliggen," Reese said softly, and the shepherd fell to the floor, lying still and waiting, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Shaw shook her head, dropping a duffel bag from her shoulder with a thud.

"You should sit," she told him. She patted her leg and Bear went to her, accepting her pets before going back to Reese's side.

Reese stood motionless. He watched Shaw grab a grease-stained paper bag off the table. A day-old pastry was pulled out, the bag crinkling as she tossed it to the side and took a bite.

Seeing him staring, she held the Danish up with a raised eyebrow.

He shook his head, regretting it immediately. He breathed out, moving into the room, vision blurring. Heaviness swam around him.

Fortunately, he knew the floor by heart.

"John."

It took a long time to answer, he knew. Slow thinking, head throbbing, probably past the point of replying.

"Yeah." He stood by the metal filing cabinet a second, trying to remember what he wanted from it.

"You okay?"

"Fine." His voice sounded hollow to his ears, echoing. A voice in a cave.

He moved to the desk. Bear was following, nosing and sniffing at his pants.

"Are you sure?"

The words repeated, echoing.

Sure, sure, sure.

He sat in his usual chair and shut his eyes. The lids felt heavy, gravelly stars swallowing his vision.

"John."

He opened his eyes. "Stop calling me that."

"It's your name," Shaw said, annoyed now. "Look. Look at me."

Holding his head still, shining a light into his eyes. He pulled away, squinting at her with a pained expression. He tried to rise, but she pushed him back.

"Hold still."

Still, still, still.

The light in his eyes again. She was frowning behind the halo of it. There was a little man with a hammer now, pounding at the back of his eye.

"Hammer," he said.

"What?"

"The hammer," he explained. The word echoed in his head.

He closed his eyes, squinting against the pressure behind them. Something patted at his cheek, not gently.

He grabbed her wrist, opening his eyes again. She wrenched it back but he held on. Glaring at her.

"Let go," she threatened.

He let go.

"What day is it, Reese?"

"Today."

A stare. A mutter. Then, "Count backwards for me. One hundred minus seven."

He gave her a look.

She repeated, "One hundred minus seven."

"Ninety-three."

"Good. Ninety-three minus seven."

A pause. "Eighty-six."

"Keep going."

Silence.

"Eighty-six minus seven."

He stared at her.

"Reese."

"Where's Finch?"

"Eighty-six minus seven, John."

"Eleven,' he said in a flat tone. "Where's Finch?"

She stared at him. He stared back.

"He's with Root," she said finally. She saw his look. "Relax."

"With Root," he repeated. He leaned back in the chair, legs splayed long in front of him. Still staring at her.

Frowning.

"Alone?"

"He's fine."

His frown deepened.

"Where."

"He's fine."

He closed his eyes then, too tired to process it.

"Hey." Shaw flicked his forehead. "Stay awake."

He grunted and swatted away the hand, a few seconds delayed.

Shaw watched him, unmoved, and bit into her pastry. Wiping a hand on her pants. Bear let out a low whine and she glanced at him, expression softening. "Me too, buddy."

The dog was the only sane one around here.

Her phone buzzed. She brought it to her ear, taking another bite and answering through the mouthful. "Yeah."

Her, listening. A glance to Reese, who opened his eyes and gave her an expectant look.

"He is," she said slowly.

Reese was holding his hand out for the phone and she circled away from him, waving a hand dismissively. She tossed the last bite of the donut to the dog.

He couldn't hear the words. He stared at the blinking cursor on one of the computer monitors.

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

With a start, he opened his eyes. Uncertain to when he closed them.

Time had passed. There was a cool hand on the back of his neck and it was too gentle to be Shaw's.

Fingers at the side of his head. He twisted, pushing the hand away.

"Did you do this?" Finch's voice floated past him.

Reese would have answered in his defense, but Shaw spoke first.

"Knock him in the head or stitch him up?"

Finch gave her a look.

"Neither," she said cooly.

"I'm fine." Reese swiveled in the chair to face his employer, noting the thin-lipped expression of worry on the older man's face.

If he squinted just right, Finch was almost in focus.

From behind: "See, he's fine."

"How many fingers?" Finch was holding up two fingers, and Reese pushed them down.

"I can see, Finch."

The two fingers came right back up, an unamused expression behind them.

"Two," he said resignedly.

Finch seemed still unconvinced. He glanced to Shaw, who shrugged. Bear let out a long whine and Reese made a grunt of his own: the little man was back.

"The hammer," he said.

"We know, Rainman." Shaw was tucking a pistol into the waistband of her jeans, sliding her phone into a back pocket.

Finch glanced at Reese, then back to her retreating figure. "Ms. Shaw."

"Finch." Shaw turned and held his stare, then rolled her eyes. "Someone needs to keep an eye on the Russians," she said. "Call me if he gets bad. I can always come back and drill a hole."

"A hole?"

"In his head."

"That's not very funny," Reese murmured, giving her a serious look. Finch looked appalled for a second, then doubtful.

"I'm kidding," Shaw said. "Relax." To Reese, she mouthed the words, "Not kidding," and he squinted at her, frowning. "Stay awake," she said bluntly.

He shut his eyes instead, shifting his weight in the chair. Rocking a leg from side to side, to the beat of the hammer. They were talking, he wasn't listening. There was the rattle of the gate, then silence.

Behind closed lids, little pebbly stars swam in the blackness of his vision. The hammer faded and he could hear a dull humming, deep in his ears, the sound of being underwater.

He felt himself sinking.

He started. Fingers were on him. He opened his eyes again, feeling another swirl of nausea.

"Finch." The tone was cross now. He scrubbed a hand down his face, turning his head away from the touch and closing his eyes.

He wanted to rest, for five minutes, and then he would be back to it. He would meet Shaw out, figure out how the Russians were involved in the tech firm. Figure out if the threat to Ivanov still existed.

Still hovering, Finch eyed him critically, as though taking stock of whether he could be bleeding out under his rumpled shirt. He touched the top of Reese's head lightly and then dropped his hand, stepping back stiffly. "Are you alright everywhere else?"

A mumbled, "Yes." Bruised ribs and a sore shoulder aside, he was fine.

No different than any other number.

Finch moved around the table and sank into his own chair with an absent rub to the back of his neck. Hands resting on the tabletop a second before finding their home at the keyboard. His eyes flicked to Reese one more time and then focused in on one of the screens.

He closed his own eyes.


2009

"Wait."

He stopped, fingers paused over the keyboard at Nathan's single word.

"Do we have a contingency?

Finch frowned, turning from the desk to give his friend a dubious look. "A contingency?"

"Alicia seemed... nervous." Nathan shook his head, lowering his voice. "What do we do if the government decides to abuse this thing?"

Finch paused. "They're your contacts, Nathan," he said finally, shaking his own head. But he felt a cold knot of dread in his stomach.

"They're just people," Nathan shot back. He motioned to the computer. "The power that this thing represents... I mean, who would you trust it with?"

"Besides you? No one." Finch gave him a look. "Which is why the machine has been coded in such a way that it cannot be abused. It cannot even be accessed." He saw Nathan's mouth tighten and his own words grew sharper. "It upgrades itself, maintains itself, patches itself. After tonight, no one can alter it. Ever."

"I used to be a software engineer, Harold. Remember, back before I became your corporate beard?" Nathan gave him a frustrated look. "Any system can be compromised given enough time." He pressed his mouth into a tight line. "We need an off switch. A backdoor. And this is our last chance to build one."

"You are a talented engineer, Nathan." Finch appraised him with a frown of his own, brow furrowed. "So you should remember any exploit is a total exploit. The tiniest crack becomes a flood. If we built a backdoor into this machine and someone else finds out about it?" He raised his eyebrows. "That would be... " He blinked, trying to even imagine the consequences. "Very bad."

Nathan looked like he wanted to say something more, but he didn't.

Finch continued. "We need to trust the machine, exactly as we've built it." He let out a breath, looking at the computer system and then back to his friend. "And then let it go."


Finch stared at the screen, hands paused above the keyboard. He shifted in his chair, eyeing the long-legged figure draped in the old chair next to him. Reese was asleep. Maybe.

Ms. Shaw had recommended waking him every thirty minutes.

Finch reached out, feeling a twinge in his lower back as he did so. Ignoring it, he tapped Reese's knee, the side of his leg.

Blue eyes flew open, the ex-op jerked awake. "Finch."

"Don't growl." Finch met the glare calmly, leaning back in his chair. "What year is it?"

A stare.

"Humor me. Year, please."

"2013," Reese said, leaning back and shutting his eyes.

"Who's the President?"

Reese muttered something. Then, "Harold Finch."

Finch actually chuckled and Reese opened one eye.

"No?"

Finch raised a brow. "No, that's about right."

Reese closed his eye again, a lazy smirk at the corner of his mouth. "Thought so."

Typing. A minute passed.

Eyes still closed, but he was awake now. "Finch."

"Mm."

"What happened with Root?"

The soft tap-tap of the keyboard paused as Finch pinched the bridge of his nose, under the frame of his glasses, and then shook his head.

He was still bothered by the dichotomy of the mission.

"Quite honestly, Mr. Reese, the involvement of Ms. Groves in the particulars of this case is troubling."

He turned stiffly in his seat, studying the figure across from him. There was a slight crease in his otherwise smooth brow, a tenseness in the lazy posture. He waited a moment before continuing.

"I'm afraid she had her own directions for the drive. Its contents, its destination..."

Directions appointed by the Machine itself. She's desperate, Ms. Groves had said.

No- Machines weren't supposed to feel desperation. But, there it was. Finch felt a sharp pang as he found himself thinking back. Realizing. He shook his head, drumming his fingers lightly on the edge of the keyboard.

Continuing to study Reese's profile.

"And then there is the matter of you, Mr. Reese."

Reese's eyes opened at the slowly enunciated words and he turned his head slightly, meeting Finch's gaze.

"The very fact that the Machine was interfering with our path. I'm just …" Finch trailed off.

I'm just not quite comfortable with the Machine directing you, he wanted to say, when I'm not certain where its priorities lie.

Reese remained quiet. With Finch, sometimes silence was the best technique.

"Tell me, Mr. Reese," Finch said finally, "if the Machine directed you to jump from a bridge, would you do it?"

Reese blinked. He was never a fan of hypothetical questions. "Depends," he said finally. Softly.

"Depends," Finch repeated.

"Maybe a window." There was an lilt of humor in his tone.

"John."

A quirk of a smile from Reese, hidden by a rub of his mouth. He shifted in his chair. The world was looking green again. "Where's Root now?"

"She took the drive."

"I imagine that falls under ill-advised, Harold." Looking over to Finch. The older man was unable to hide the faint amusement on his face, and Reese narrowed his eyes. "What."

"You're beginning to sound a bit like me, Mr. Reese."

"The Russians are involved with some intelligence firm," Reese said softly, ignoring the comment, "that wants whatever's on it."

"Decima."

"Maybe."

Finch leaned back in his chair. It could explain the Machine's uncharacteristic power play.

"What was on it?"

"Control," Finch said blandly. "Behind the facade of the everyday workings of a cable communications company there's code re-written to give access to government feeds. Surveillance. Satellites."

He left out their own modifications, creations of new backdoors and pipelines.

Softly. "I guess your Machine wants all that control to itself, Finch."

"Very funny, Mr. Reese." It was, in fact, his fear.

"Better he has it," Reese said, closing his eyes again, "than them." The hammer was back, holding hands with nausea this time. Too much talking.

"He?" Finch repeated.

Reese kept his eyes closed. "She...? It?" The pronouns were mumbled.

A long pause, followed by an even, "I see."

Reese waited, but Finch didn't elaborate.

The typing started up again.

Reese waited, then glanced over out of the corner of his eye. Finch's expression was tight, his mouth pressed in a thin line. He was no stranger to this side of Finch. He knew not to push. It would get him nowhere.

He closed his eyes to the sounds of the keyboard.

When he woke again-time loss unknown-it was with a jerk. Straight out of Fallujah, of his own accord.

Bear glanced at him, Finch did not.

A few even spaced breaths. He shifted in his chair.

He felt thirsty.

Tired.

Restless.

He moved to get up, finding balance in a heavy palm on the edge of the desk. He counted slowly in his head and went to stand.

"Sit...," Finch said. His eyes never left the screen.

Bear tilted his head at the familiar word and let out a low whine.

"Yes, yes, you too." A pause, tapping out a quick string. Finch glanced at Reese then, who was seated again but thinking too hard about it. "John… just sit."

Another whine from Bear. The dog rose from his bed at the command now, sitting expectantly, and Finch's expression shifted.

He gave the shepherd a critical look over the top of his glasses.

"Bear. Did you roll in something?"

"What?"

Finch's eyes flicked to Reese. "There's a certain... odor," he said, shifting his chair away from the desk.

"Oh." Reese followed his employer's line of sight to Bear, who stared back.

The dog blinked, opening his mouth with a happy looking pant and a soft thump of his tail.