Sharp winds stopped their keening and dwindled down to soft spring breezes, though the concrete body of the city barely noticed. The snow piles melted, spread, and shrank away to dryness; smatterings of green struggled their way to the forefront of city parks and nervously edged swanky avenues, hoping to escape the swatting notice of the stone and brick beings that ruled New York.
On a morning in the midst of this yearly ritual, Caroline Turing passed the urban battle of trees and concrete without a sideways glance. She rounded the sharp brick corner of the bank onto a bustling Broadway and dug in her large leather handbag for the key to her shiny new P.O. box as she approached the post office. The carefully-appointed interior merited only a glance; all her attention was fixed on fitting the key into the lock. And there it was.
She closed and locked the box absently while turning the envelope back and forth in her hand, admiring it with interested regard, as if it were expected and welcome. The door swung shut behind the pronounced tapping of high heels on cement, but Caroline Turing's eyes never left the envelope as she deftly slit it open with a clear-coated nail.
There was something about a brand new Social Security card, something sharp and full of promise. Root rose to the surface for a moment to brush her finger over the raised blue print and stamped red number. 271-43-5219. The code to life contained in ten numbers, in a manner of speaking. Caroline Turing's life, anyway.
The real thing had not been much of a comparison, in any case. Root had honed in on her best options, searching first for women about her age, deceased, with college loans on the books. Bonus points for few digital records, even more for few personal connections, and triple score for those who had also originated in a small town. She carved away at hundreds of women, crossing them off with sharp taps of her capable fingers. In the end, there were a half-dozen golden opportunities; when she glimpsed the name Turing, though, she quirked an eyebrow. If she had ever believed in a higher power than herself, she would have known then that God had a sense of humor.
A few miles away and days later, an older man shifted slightly. His hands pushed the pockets of his leather jacket forward in an aggressive indicator of his boredom. His legs braced wide in scuffed boots on concrete and gravel, but the younger man's gloved hand never trembled as he held out his delivery. The cop rocked back, chin raised, and regarded the envelope being extended toward him. Finally, he breathed heavily, quickly from his nose and grabbed at the papers.
"Just dead, or you want information?" he asked briefly. He scanned his eyes over the documents and photos.
"Just dead."
"When?"
His contact tilted his head, eyes unreadable behind mirrored lenses.
"What's your usual?"
The cop thought for a moment, tucking his tongue behind sharp teeth and tapping his forefinger along the edge of the largest photo.
"Gimme two weeks."
"One."
Simmons looked up sharply.
"Ten days."
"We've already done the surveillance." The younger man's quiet tone belied his argumentative words.
Simmons laughed, a hard, harsh sound.
"You think this is good surveillance?" he asked mockingly. "This," he continued, shaking the papers, "is barely worth the paper it's printed on. I'm going to have to have my guys tailing her for a couple days, off and on, 'fore we can do anything. Ten days minimum."
"Fine."
"Half now, half after," Simmons demanded.
"Ten percent now," the younger man drawled.
Simmons thrust the papers back into his hands.
"Tell your boss I ain't gonna work under these conditions," he ordered sardonically. "And don't think I don't know which Councilman you work for."
The man appeared suitably chagrined. He pulled another envelope from inside his jacket, this one soft around the edges and fat with cash.
"I only have ten percent now."
"Then I guess you'll have to drop the rest before I can guarantee anything, huh?" Simmons raised his arms in a wide shrug as he stepped away. "Nice talking to you."
The shorter man watched him stride away and turn the corner before he fished an old phone from his pocket and pressed one on speed dial.
"Yeah. It's done. Ten days."
He did not even hang up, just tossed the phone further into the alley behind him before he sauntered away. On the other end, Root heard the clatter as it skittered to a halt on the uneven concrete, and she grinned. All the pieces were nearly in place.
Just after that phone call, Root stepped out of her new apartment into the thrum of New York. Her gaze was fixed on an invisible point somewhere ahead of her, a point that perhaps did not exactly exist in the physical world. So little of her did, really; just a body, not a bad one, but with all the limitations presented therein. To be Caroline Turing, though, she had to ground herself, and that meant paying attention.
So she looked; she absorbed; she engaged. Stopping at coffee shops and waiting in line, glancing at her phone in boredom, passing the time eating or reading in public places: all were foreign practice to Root's life, but this was Caroline Turing, who made a habit of venturing out to drive away the mocking isolation that gleamed off the perfectly polished surfaces in her trendy apartment.
As Caroline Turing lived, Root observed. She had not done this for years; generally speaking, her attentions in a public place were directed towards her computer, or an unsuspecting victim. This, this was low-quality entertainment; this was boundless boredom in an ever-moving parade of predictability.
There was the dowdy professional in an ill-fitting suit, probably a lawyer, sitting at the cafe table across the courtyard, who did not make eye contact with anyone for the full hour that she sat there. Then there was the college student who gallantly waved Dr. Turing ahead of him in line at the coffee shop with a bowing incline of his home-cropped head. Each one briefly flickered into focus out of the thousands of nameless, faceless, useless people that passed her by everyday, dusted in shades of grey and navy straight out of a blues-tracked depressive daydream. Root's nightmare, Caroline Turing's everyday life.
Caroline Turing looked everyone in the eye, not to make them uncomfortable, but to reassure them that she was paying attention. She stopped to pick up the change dropped by that old man when she was walking past the park, and smiled beautifully when he called her 'sweetheart.' She sat with legs crossed at the ankle and always leaned forward a little, said 'thank you' and 'please' at regular intervals whether they were warranted by the conversation or not.
The one thing Caroline Turing did not do was have friends. At that Root drew the line. And there was something mysterious, wasn't there, about a woman so completely alone in the world? Even intriguing, perhaps, to a man like Harold Finch. A kindred spirit. From the glimpses of his sidekick that she began to catch around the city, trailing behind her like a lollopping puppy with a vigilante's demeanor, Harold was alone too. If that was his closest companion, he had to be yearning for real conversation. It was not likely that Harold would become involved with her number directly, although a few wrenches thrown into the works would quickly complicate things past the point of his non-involvement. Root held her hand there. Meeting Harold would be so much more rewarding as herself.
And so, for now, she remained alone. Dead drops and directions left in untraceable and above all non-digital envelopes arranged Dr. Turing's 'clients,' and those directions in turn resulted in a clear message on anonymous posts dotted through the internet. Caroline Turing was treating the rich and powerful of New York for their minor peccadilloes. She provided the best security for secrets that money could buy: a friend, bought and paid for. Her secretary, a middle-aged temp named Joan, looked perplexed when Dr. Turing instructed her not to take in any new clients.
"Don't you want- I mean, you have some clients but if this is a new practice-"
"It is," Dr. Turing interjected softly. "I'm just working on a special project, so I can't take on many new clients right now."
"But-" The older woman lowered her voice as if the spacious office contained a throng of nosy people. "Councilwoman Stewart's office called yesterday!"
Root placed a reassuring hand over Joan's.
"It's sweet of you to worry." She smiled and patted Joan's hand. "Let me know when my ten o'clock arrives."
She stepped back into her office, closing her door quietly as she went. Just Caroline Turing here, occupying just a little less space than everyone else, making just a little less noise. And as one, Caroline Turing and Root sat down to wait.
It took extra care to ensure that she was untraceable, but Root had some errands to run. Far away from Caroline Turing's insular life, she strode into an anonymous-looking self-storage facility. Fluorescent lights buzzed and popped over the clicking of her heels on the smooth cement floor. Shining tracks of light reflected off the industrial metal roll doors as she passed, ushering her further and further into the cheap geometric maze. The man that tread on before her slid his head around to check that she was still behind him. She gave him the hard smile of an uncaring higher power, one that might spare him a slow death only because she could not be bothered to waste her more elaborate torture techniques on him. His eyes jerked to the floor beside her, as if he had really been interested in the shiny Yale lock adorning the bottom of the door at which he had stopped.
"It's, uh, it's this one." He indicated the door with a pale finger swung out in a vain attempt to direct her gaze away from himself. He smeared his sweaty palms down his canvas shorts, then nearly dropped the ring of keys he pulled out of his pocket. The keys clanged noisily against the corrugated metal door when he caught at the dirty navy lanyard on which they swung.
"What did you say the problem was?" he inquired nervously, nearly running into one of the metal shelving units. He caught himself on a metal bar and brushed past, rasping his hand across a cardboard box. "I mean, I thought it turned out okay, you know? Was it the photo? 'Cause no one looks good in those, you know?" He coughed out a nervous laugh and shrugged to a stop by the jumble-topped desk. "I dunno, just-"
"It was fine, Owen," Root assured him. She put a hand up and leaned against a metal shelf, the picture of a predator feigning rest. "Just one minor problem." She frowned sympathetically.
"I can fix it!" he rushed to tell her. "I mean, did you bring it? If you have the card I can-"
"I'd prefer to take care of it myself." Root smiled indulgently. "It's better that way."
Owen's anxious smile twitched away.
"Okay, then- I'm sorry, but- so what do you need?" he asked desperately.
"Did you get the payment I sent?" Her solicitous inquiry confused him.
"Um, yeah- I guess? Yeah, I did," he answered certainly, as soon as his mind caught up to his mouth. "Yeah, it's all good." He made a sweeping motion with his hands. "We're good."
"Could you check for me?" Root asked sweetly. "I just want to make sure everything's-" She paused, as if thinking about the right word to use. "-settled."
"Um, yeah." Owen nodded emphatically. "Just let me-" He gestured behind him and swung the chair around to pull his computer open.
Though Root's shoes had made plenty of ominous noise on her way in, they were silent now. Any faint noise she made was covered by Owen's enthusiastic typing.
"Yeah, it's all here," he informed her. "We're all-"
The stun gun cut off his words sharply. His hands came up an inch off the table, shaking in midair as his body took on more amperage than it was meant to. Root kept the gun pressed against the underside of his jaw a few seconds longer than was technically necessary.
When she pulled her hand away, she ignored Owen's body slumping to the desktop, his hand smacking down hard on the keyboard. Instead, she inspected the stun gun carefully. Her confidence in her home-engineered modifications could not be shaken, but it never hurt to be sure. And there was always the risk of overheating, even with new wiring. A self-satisfied half-smile grew on her face, and she tucked the taser back into her jacket pocket. Much better than a gun; no bloody patterns on her clothes to give her away. She liked that jacket too much to burn it, and the smoke always attracted too much attention for her taste.
Wide-drawn curtains framed a grey-blue stage upon which the day's psychological drama unraveled. Dr. Turing's eyes followed Hans as he paced around the room, practically ranting about her lack of confidentiality. The man seemed genuinely angry, an impressive feat for a scripted emotion. She held herself carefully, as if intensely aware that she should be standing her ground while not quite resisting the instinct to shrink away from the potential source of pain. Her face crumpled in concern, both for herself and for her patient.
"I'm sorry, but in order to help you, I have to have your trust. Clearly I don't. I'm referring you to another therapist." Her back was to the window. She straightened her shoulders visibly, although they slowly relaxed back into themselves a moment later. Dr. Turing was not completely passive, but physical assertion was also not her strong suit. Her fingers curled around her pen in fear as Hans reacted.
"You're firing me?" He exploded around to face her. Inside, Root applauded. Outwardly, Dr. Turing shrank back a stuttered step behind her desk.
"No, I- I'm admitting failure. I'm firing myself. You have issues to resolve, and you need to be able to speak freely."
"And I'm just supposed to take that lying down?" he exploded.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she pressed. At the press of a button under her desk, Joan appeared stolidly at the door.
"Sir?" she inquired. "Would you come with me?"
"Now you're calling back-up? How long has she been listening?" Hans spat.
"Hans..." Dr. Turing sighed. "Please. It's for the best."
She sank into her chair as Joan supervised Hans's stomping out of the office. She remained there until Joan returned with a soft knock, staring at the scribbled initials on her desk calendar.
"Are you all right, Dr. Turing?" Joan asked. Her kind voice was laced through with concern.
"Yes," Dr. Turing answered decidedly, flicking her eyes up to meet Joan's. "I think I'll take an early day, though."
"Of course," Joan emphathized. "I'll lock up, if you want to leave now."
Dr. Turing shook her head. "No, that's kind, but you go first," she offered. "I want to collect my thoughts."
Her eyes followed Joan's back as she exited, and she sank deep into her office chair. Her gaze fixed itself just past the corner of her desk, her eyes unfocused, and a slight frown froze on her face.
Tense muscles hid a body that wanted to expand, to claim the space around her, to look out the window at directly into the small black lenses that had watche the whole thing. Her skin was the most minimal of barriers, barely holding onto Caroline Turing as Root rejoiced underneath.
Her mind whirred even as her body remained motionless; her posture still resembled a soft-spoken and currently somewhat defeated doctor, but her mind screamed to know if Harold had seen, if he pitied Caroline, if he could see himself in her vacant life and hear himself in her quiet tone.
Dr. Turing stood beside her office door, watching John Rooney's broad back retreat down the hallway to the elevator. He turned to look at her when he reached the doors, and she smiled before shutting her own door and walking slowly back into her office.
The session had gone well, in Root's opinion. She depressed the button that controlled the window-shades and waited for them to whir all the way down before sinking into her desk chair to consider her next moves. The camera John had undoubtedly planted, if that was even his real name, was likely directed toward the couch. After all, a threat to a meek psychiatrist who treated New York's upper echelons most likely came from her clients. There was no reason to see how she sat behind her desk, how her smirk grew to reveal dangerous teeth and a savagely sweet gaze.
Root tipped her head back to smile at the ceiling, her head light with energy that had no outlet but frenetic thought. That idiot was so accustomed to slipping in and out of aliases that he had forgotten other people could do it too. But a woman, without physical strength? Impossible to visualize in the dim corners of his mind, apparently. There had been others just as stupid, and most likely would be many more, but it seemed a pity that Harold's brilliantly dangerous mind should be accompanied by an unimaginative musclebound flunky.
He had been fun to taunt, though. She'd have to be careful of that. Each comment was painfully low-hanging fruit, as it were, but still, even if John did not realize, Harold was listening, and Harold might.
Root raised her wrist to glance at Caroline's dainty watch. Nearly seven; time for Dr. Turing to walk to the subway station alone in the dark.
The next hour rushed by in a blur of excitement and the satisfaction of perfectly orchestrated chaos. Root allowed herself to be rescued and led around as if she were helpless, but she could hardly keep a smirk from lighting up her face. It was not until they reached the hotel room that she had time to think, but by then, there was very little that had not already been planned down to the smallest contingency.
Root sat on the couch and appeared suitably shocked and confused as John barked into his earpiece, but her face quickly relaxed to mere alertness. She felt like a child on Christmas Eve, and chafed at the assumed identity keeping her from embodying her excitement. It was hardly even worth being Caroline anymore; John's idiotic comment about the chocolate proved that.
She stared at John as if in mild shock, but her mind went speeding on. It was clear just from his side of the conversation that two fronts were colliding, the FBI she had noticed trailing far behind Harold and his pet and HR. The only remaining question was how destructive the coming storm was to be. This was even better than the minimum Root had counted on; it was so convenient, though, that in addition to the danger she had provided in the form of HR, the Man in the Suit had finally been tracked down. It was lucky they'd never met him, Root thought dispassionately. Then they'd be much less keen to track him down.
Finally, finally, as the FBI and HR moved in, she had her chance to leave him behind.
"John, thank you." The large man smiled a little, simply happy to be shielding an innocent with his own body. Root did not need to put Caroline on for even a moment in those last moments; her gratitude was genuine. It was not every day she was given clear instructions to find her waiting target.
Root's muscles sang with exertion and perhaps stress as she clambered down the ladder. She rested her hands after her feet reached the ground and peered up, encouraged by the gunshots still echoing down. She could only wait a moment before impatience spurred her on down the tunnel, out to the tempting light and what she knew waited there.
"This comes out to a water treatment plant by the river. Keep going till you find my friend." His words matched what she already expected, having memorized the plans to several of Harold's safe-houses in the area to prepare. She'd also arranged to have sets of clothing stashed in various convenient places, as she anticipated wanting to be as far from Caroline Turing as possible while meeting Harold. Wasteful, perhaps; she'd never get the other clothes back. She quickly stripped off the last of Caroline's cloying professional wear and donned her own jacket. One last tug on the pins securing her hair and the psychiatrist ebbed away, leaving Root with her phone in her hand. It was freeing to have the use of her technology again; at this point, there was nothing the Machine could do to warn Harold about her, not with the way he'd chained it.
That had been particularly galling, even though it had helped her immeasurably. If Harold only knew that the numbers were either victim or criminal, he could never see around the dim clues and mirrors to the fact that Caroline Turing was the threat. Root had been careful, certainly, but nothing escaped the eye of God. Only the box placed around the Machine at birth kept Root safe, but that would end; she'd be speaking to Harold about that.
Soon. Now, in fact. She emerged from the tunnel and onto the concrete bordering the water. A car sat parked yards away, and inside, two people. Harold and... someone else. Root hung back for a moment to observe a stunned Harold arguing with an increasingly disturbed woman. She considered them, but against the pantheic backdrop of an all-seeing God in a cage, no one could be that important. Without hesitation, Root strode forward, pulled the silenced gun she'd tucked into her waistband, aimed, and pulled.
She caught the tail-end of Harold's horrified stare as she slid into the car, but then he had an inexplicable fondness for people. It might make him less inclined to listen to her at first, but he was too perfectly rational to do so forever. She grinned her excitement.
"I thought she'd never shut up." Harold looked even more sick, if that were possible. Root's Cheshire grin grew wider. "So nice to finally meet you, Harold."