Time for a little action!

Stab the bastard. Rip into his flesh and taste his blood. You know you want to. He chained you up like a goddamn animal. He deserves it, deserves to be butchered like the dog he is...what are you waiting for, you bitch? DO IT! DO IT NOW!

"Ms. Groves?" asked a man's voice from very far away. "Ms. Groves, are you all right?"

Root blinked a couple of times and then focused on his face. The level of concern she saw there served to disquiet herself.

"Harold? What happened?"

His eyes darted to the fork in her hand. She was gripping it so tightly that her palm ached.

"You were muttering to yourself again," he replied, obviously very alarmed.

For all of his annoying righteousness, she did value him as a person and even cared for him a bit (if only because he created her God, the being currently acting as her salvation). Root didn't want to hurt him unnecessarily, especially without her consent.

"Harold, I-"

Suddenly the world was on fire, skull in flames - almost as if an aneurism could induce infernos, instead of instant death - and she clutched her head, wincing, trying not to scream along with the demented voices doing their damnedest to consume her.

"Ms. Groves?!"

Thanks to Her, the agony left just as suddenly as it arrived, immediately replaced with determination and drive.

"Is Root okay? Does Root need further assistance?"

"I'm fine," she said shakily, her voice strangely small in her ringing ear. She reached across the table and grabbed hold of a startled Harold's arms. "Let's go. Before it's too late."

He didn't need further inducement.

"Cheque please!"

"Have you come to a decision then?" enquired John Greer as they were led back into the control room.

As if you don't already know.

Reese and Fusco shared a look. "We're in."

"Excellent," replied Greer, a slight twinkle in his eye. He gestured to one of the analysts and the young Indian man hurried over with an odd, kinda futuristic looking helmet.

Muscles tensing, Reese unconsciously strained at the plastic tie binding his wrists together like iron. Someone from behind, probably Shaw, forced him into one of the chairs he had refused earlier. The pressure never left as the man placed the surprisingly light helmet on his head and hurried back to his fellow computer nerds.

"What are you doing to him?!" demanded his loyal follower, one of the nameless agents holding on to his arm to keep him in place.

"No need to fear, Mr. Fusco, your companion will not be harmed. But as I'm sure you are well aware, certain precautions need to be taken in order to ensure your sincere devotion to Samaritan." Greer smiled at him faintly through the increasingly opaque visor. "I've been told this procedure is quite painless."

The panic began to take hold and he instinctively tried to rise out of his seat. The pressure to his shoulder became even more vice like.

Definitely Shaw. The bitch.

The visor's screen flashed a couple of times, words blurring past almost faster than he could read them. And then, just like that, it was finished and the helmet was promptly removed.

What the hell?

Greer looked to his analysts. "Well?"

They shook their heads. "Sorry, sir, the subject was lying."

Did that thing just read my mind? he thought incredulously, staring at the enormous screen.

"Hardly surprising," said Greer, focusing back on him. "Samaritan calculated the odds of your sincere defection at less than two percent." He looked slightly passed him. "A number significantly lower than our agent Shaw here." Reese stiffened against her traitorous touch. "And yet, Samaritan thought you valuable enough to afford you one last chance to come to your senses, improbable as it seemed."

Greer turned to Fusco. "I dare say there is little point in repeating the analysis with you as well, detective, is there?"

Lionel looked between him and their evil overlord and then cast his eyes downward.

"I thought so."

There was a tense silence, at least on his part. He decided to break it. "Get on with it, Greer. We all know what comes next." He almost grinned, "Just spare me the speech."

Greer observed him quietly for several moments. Was that pity he saw? Or regret?

"As you wish, Mr. Reese."

The old man signalled to someone behind him and he felt the pressure removed from his shoulder. Next came the sound of a gun being unholstered.

"Hey, hey, wait a minute!" yelled Lionel, doing his best to break free...and what? Come to his aid while still handcuffed in a room full of unfriendly fire?

No, this is over my friend, he thought, with a pang of despair. Our struggle is at an end.

"Let's just talk about this for a second! You don't have to do this!"

"I'm afraid I do, Mr. Fusco, I'm afraid I really do."

The next second alarms were going off all over the place from the various computers, startling a great number of the agents and analysts alike...oh and Lionel. Greer seemed unperturbed, as if he were expecting this. His next words confirmed it.

"They're late," he said. "Martine, please deal with our guests."

Guests? As in plural? Finch, you idiot, did you bring that psychopath with you?

Reese barely paid attention as the blonde devil and a group of agents left the premises, guns drawn. All of the despair from the previous moment vanished and he became his stony, military self again. He needed to figure a way out of this mess, and fast, so he could go save his team, demented as it may be. It seemed Lionel shared his intent and after a second of nonverbal cues, his partner headbutted the guy holding him, eliciting a loud yelp. In the same instant Reese smashed his plastic ties against the back of his chair and whirled around to face his destroyers. Five guns were trained on him but he only took notice of one.

Without batting an eye Shaw fired into his left thigh, but it had no effect whatsoever on him, his movements not slowed in the slightest. Sure the pain seared like a bitch, but no worse than the one before him.

"No, leave him! Agent Shaw must prove her worth."

She got another shot off into his lower abdomen before he reached her, grabbing hold of her scrawny wrist and wrenching it sideways. In the moment after he disarmed her, she socked him a good one across the jaw, and he staggered back onto his bad leg. The pain pushed his adrenaline through the roof and as she attempted to retrieve her gun, he threw himself at her, heavily knocking her fragile frame to the ground.

Before he had a chance to pummel her stupid face too much she kicked him in the back with a heavy boot, and instinctively he reached behind himself to prevent the next spine tingling blow. That's when she slammed an open fist into his nose. Blood gushed out everywhere, and nearly blinded by the pain, he was unable to stop her when she landed another bone cracking jab to the exact same spot on his jaw.

Reese fell off of her, clutching his face, and she launched herself into a crouched position, like a panther, awaiting its injured prey's next move, eager to make the kill.

"That the best you got?" she taunted, with a smug smile, her face gruesomely covered in his own blood. "Told you you've gotten sloppy."

Yeah, 'cause this was totally a fair fight.

Beginning to feel sluggish from blood lose, he knew he had to finish this battle sooner rather than later. The fastest way would of course be to shoot her...but unfortunately there were no guns to be had. During this quick survey, he noticed Lionel lying unconscious, still handcuffed, a few feet away. At least, he assumed this because there were no bullet holes in him.

Fearing more for Lionel's life than his own - he had a son after all - Reese forced himself to his feet, Shaw matching his ascent exactly, deadly serious eyes never leaving his.

"Ready for round two? Or do you need a moment, pumpkin?"

"You're going down this time, Shaw." The words came out thickly, like he had a bad cold.

"Cracking jokes too, Reese?" she replied. "My guess is you've got a minute tops before you pass out from shock." She smirked, "Or my fist. No way you're taking me down that fast."

We'll see about that.

He threw a punch that she easily blocked, and in the same motion socked him in the side, just inches away from the oozing wound there. While her arms were otherwise occupied, he returned the favour and whammed her in the stomach with as much mustard as his good knee could give. To his satisfaction she groaned and glared at him (well more so than usual). And so began a back and forth struggle for power - some blows making contact, most blocked, and doubly returned - until his head was spinning and he could hardly keep to his feet.

"Nighty night, darling," she said with a final uppercut to the chin, putting him out of his misery.

I wonder if we'll ever get a Shaw/Reese confrontation in the show? That'd be pretty epic I bet!

Edit: Well I guess I don't need to wonder since it DID already happen in S2. :p