Shaw hung the phone up with her hands still shaking - shaking badly enough that Reese noticed it, and carefully removed Bear's leash from the fingers it was wound around in fear that she might actually drop it. She looked nervously from side to side, opening her month as if she wanted to say something but she ended up just closing it again with her bottom lip pulled tightly between her teeth.
Reese opened up a comm link with Finch with his eyes still on his partner, who seemed more shocked about the fact that the Machine had contacted them despite the risk of Samaritan finding out than about what it had actually said. John agreed to task Fusco with getting something to eat for all of them (and Bear) and return to the subway right away, both of them agreeing that they needed to find a way to somehow find Root, and now.
As if the need wasn't pressing enough already.
"Shaw", he said after hastily ending his conversation with a very disgruntled Lionel, who reluctantly agreed to grab some food on his way over after dropping off his son. "Are you okay?"
Without a response, or any type of preface or warning at all, she took off in a jog, fighting against the flow of traffic on the sidewalk to the east and out of Chinatown.
And, Reese noticed when she was too far ahead of him for him to stop her, out of the black out area they were in on the shadow map.
(Once Shaw had ridden a bicycle who knows how many miles to save Root when she wasn't even sure that Root needed saving - she just knew that Root had gone in alone, and that it made her gut feel filled with ice water. So she peddled without stopping, doing whatever she could to keep her mind on the burning in her legs and not her frozen insides.
Now Shaw would ride that bike across the entire country if she thought it would help, would swim any ocean or climb any mountain if she thought for a second that it would save Root from a fate she still felt was entirely her fault.
Only she didn't have anywhere to go. The only thing she had was the fire in her chest that had been burning since she walked in to that apartment building so long ago now, so unlike the freezing she had felt that day. The ice in her gut slowed her down even as it sped her up; the fire she felt now did nothing but make her want shove grenades in the mouth of every person that dared to keep her from getting to Root.)
When he finally caught up to her, out of breath and with Bear still in tow, Shaw was stopped in the middle of the sidewalk more than a mile away from where they had gotten the phone call with angry New Yorkers shouldering rudely by her and muttering to themselves. Her eyes were scanning the buildings for something, and at first Reese wasn't sure what - but then she found her mark and started to walk towards it, fuelled by new purpose, and he understood.
She was looking for a camera.
Again Shaw stopped in the middle of a busy sidewalk, disregarding the people who gave her dirty looks, just below the security camera belonging to the bank on the corner.
(Reese knew he should drag her back to the dark zone, because anything Shaw was saying to the Machine was sure to be heard by Samaritan as well, and therefore by Martine. But he had to believe that the Machine had a plan - if it risked the call to the pay phones to get their attention, it had to know that Shaw would demand more.
Either way, he knew Shaw wouldn't leave without saying what she had come to the Machine to say without a fight, and one solid shot to the face was all he had in him to take today.)
"How the fuck am I supposed to help her if I don't even know where the fuck she is, you stupid fucking robot!"
On any other day Shaw would have felt absolutely ridiculous for yelling at a camera in the middle of a crowd of people. But she was beyond caring about that, or them, or anything at this point.
(She could hear Root in the back of her mind - She's not a robot, Shaw - and it made her want to vomit.)
The fire that had been set was spreading, and Martine and the Machine's call were nothing short of gasoline. Shaw was ready to burn everything down.
"I can't save her if I don't know where to save her from!", she continued. She noticed for the first time today how tired she was, weary down to her bones, and all she wanted in the entire world was to fall asleep in her own apartment knowing that Root was safe and might even be breaking in later. "You've got me to give me something!"
"Please", she added in a frustrated whisper. John wasn't certain that the Machine would even be able to hear it - but there was always the chance that she was offering that particular plea not to Root's God, but to her own.
The camera did little more than flicker it's red light at her, however, as if either of them expected anything else, and she resisted the urge to just sit down on the sidewalk in defeat. John came up behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder, gentle yet grounding, and steered a surprisingly compliant Shaw back to the dark zone and towards the subway.
What Root was instantly aware of when she again regained consciousness was pain - an abhorrent amount, an offensive assault on all of her senses coming from seemingly every direction so wholly that she truly had no idea where it began or where it ended. She cried out in agony, for the tenth of hundredth or thousandth time - she had long ago lost count - which did nothing to ease her discomfort. The poorly-done stitches over the three gunshot wounds in her upper abdomen stretched and pulled uncomfortably, and she knew without a doubt that at least one of them had already torn and that she was bleeding again. Not through her shirt, of course, which had been removed long ago along with her jeans and jacket, leaving her zip-tied tightly to a chair and blindfolded in her underwear and bra and bleeding all over both.
Root trashed violently against her bonds in frustration - but all she earned for her efforts was the zip-ties digging even further into her wrists and ankles, and another message from the Machine through her implant.
Stop, She said. Please.
And Root laughed at that, at the simplicity of it. She laughed because the Machine had said please, and at a time like this - after being bound to a chair and tortured for hours on end - a courtesy as common as the word please seemed so hysterical. Soon, however, her laughter dissolved to sobbing as the Machine sent to her another message.
They will come.
Her sobbing continued as the Machine returned to updating her on her vital signs, as it had been doing for as long as she could recall at the moment - her heart rate and temperature, parts of the body effected by a blow to the temporal lobe, the adverse cardiological effects of a regular regimen of alternating amphetamines and barbiturates (as if it was her choice), the statistics of surviving a single gunshot to center mass, the statistics of surviving three.
Root lost herself in the familiar droning on of the Machine and let her crying taper off. The blindfold prevented her from seeing her surroundings, and other than the statistics buzzing in her implant, there was no sound around her.
She must have lost consciousness again - Substantial blood loss, the Machine chirped, Chance of survival 45.9%, seek medical attention immediately - and when she came to she heard the clicking of heels approaching her from somewhere far off. They echoed all around her until they were close enough to almost feel through her feet firmly planted on the floor, and she knew what was going to happen next before it did; she heard a bag unzip, the top of a syringe pop off, and seconds later she felt the needle as it was inserted none too gently into her arm below the elbow just as the many before it had been.
Amobarbital, the Machine chirped in her ear, 200 milligrams. Fifteenth dose in five hours.
Root clenched her fists and fought against the almost instant wave of exhaustion the injection brought on, doing her best to keep her eyes open even against the blindfold that kept her in darkness regardless. Just as she was beginning to drift off, her chest aching uncomfortably and head sluggish, she felt a needle in her other arm.
Unknown intravenous amphetamine. 40 milligrams. Fifteenth dose in five hours.
Warning, the Machine chirped again, heart rate reaching dangerous levels. Analog interface in immediate danger. Change of survival 41.6%. Seek medical attention immediately.
Gasping for air, with her heart now feeling as if it was going to burst through her ribs and land on her lap, Root again screamed in agony.
"Have you had enough yet?", Martine's lackey asked in a tone that begged her to say no.
"Enough? I'm having a blast", she replied to him through clenched teeth as she tried to focus her eyes. She was doing everything she could to breathe through the pain but couldn't stop sob that overtook her.
They will come, the Machine said again, and Root wished she could believe Her.
"This could all end soon", Martine's cool voice cut through her cries as if they didn't exist - Root imagined that they didn't, not to her. She could hear her set down the syringe that had been in her hand and the running of water somewhere far off. Root would absolutely kill her for a drink of that water, as if she needed any other reasons to do so. "All I need is the location of the Machine. Give me that and I'll pack up all my toys and leave you here for your friends to pick up. I'm almost positive you'll live that long, too."
Without medical attention, analog interface has 41.4% chance of survival. Without a transfusion, analog interface will expire in approximately six hours.
"Lucky me", Root muttered in what Martine assumed was a response to her and not to the Machine.
She felt agile fingers undoing the knot at the back of her head, and carefully the blindfold was lifted from her eyes. The bright lights blinded her, and she blinked defiantly against both them and the tears in her eyes for a moment before she focused on Martine just before her - she smirked, filled with nothing but malice, before raising a perfectly manicured finger and placing it gently at the dip between Root's collarbones.
"I had a nice chat with your friend, Agent Shaw", Martine said with a small faux pout as she dug her nail into the soft flesh - Root's pain was all over and constant at this point, however, so she held Martine's gaze without flinching.
(Just the mention of Shaw's name gave Root move bravery than anything the Machine had whispered in her ear up until this point - a fact that felt both blasphemous and absolute at the same time. She had insisted that they were coming for her, that she should trust Her and Her agents, and that they wouldn't leave her behind. But it was something different to hear that Shaw herself, a skilled ex ISA agent Root would be embarrassed to admit out loud she was enamored by before she even met her, was actually looking for her.
Root thought of Shaw, of her casual apathy and excellent aim. But mostly she thought of her smile, and the way her eyebrows knit together in something that looked like confusion whenever Root leaned in just a little too close.
The Machine will keep her mind occupied, she knew, but Shaw's smile would keep Root going. She swore to herself that if she got out of this, she would always lean in even closer. She might even lean in closer enough to-)
"She's not very nice", Martine interrupted Root's thoughts. Slowly, she dragged the nail harshly down Root's sternum, across the top of her bra along her breast, and finally came to a stop above her erratically beating heart with a thin pink trail left in it's wake. Root noticed the way she tilted her head to the side, and her pout was once again replaced with that vicious smirk - she was admiring her work, Root realized sickeningly, admiring the scratches and burns and bullet holes that would soon scar her from basically head to toe, scars she herself had inflicted on Root's pale skin in the hours since she had her shot down in the apartment building. It made Root's stomach churn. "She took one of my better agents, and burnt down my favorite safe house."
"I wish I could say I was sorry, but I'm actually quite a fan of Shaw's more naughty side."
In lieu of a response Martine's large lackey, a man that would tower over Root even if she was standing and with hands as big as Root's face, stepped forward and smacked her square in her cheek. Her head snapped to the side from the impact and she saw spots in her eyes. She wanted to cry out but bit down on her freshly split lip to stop herself - she didn't want to give him, or Martine, or anyone else the pleasure of hearing any more of her sobbing.
With her arms crossed, Martine just smiled down at her.
"Let me share some information with you. Many of our agents have more... colorful pasts. Decima employs hundreds, if not thousands, of murderers, mercenaries, hitmen, thieves, kidnappers... We have any and every type of criminal here, as you may know, because we are in need of a very particular skill set at times and they are in need of a place to utilize their skills without fear of retribution."
"Retribution?", Root said after spitting a fair amount of blood out of her mouth and, she noticed, a tooth - Cuspid, left side, one tooth of thirty two. Average cost to replace, $4500. The Machine churned out facts on dental implants and it almost made Root want to laugh. "You mean jail?"
Martine simply smirked and turned slightly to nod her head at an agent standing by the door. He left but returned a moment later with none other than Jeremy Lambert in tow. His expensive suit was pressed and crisp, every hair in place, and he looked quite out of place in the dark and dingy room that had housed Root and her torturers for who knows how many hours.
"Don't be so narrow-minded, Ms. Groves." He walked up to her slowly and leaned forward and into her personal space, presumably assessing the damage Martine had inflicted before his arrival. Root kept her face as expressionless as possible as she turned her head to the side slightly and spit more blood out of her mouth, all while keeping her eyes on Jeremy. "A criminal such as yourself must know the importance of being able to ply your trade in the name of something good."
He extended a handkerchief to her from his breast pocket, only to laugh to himself with a shake of his head when he realized that she wouldn't be able to accept it even if she wanted to (which she, of course, did not).
"I'm not sure I would describe anything Samaritan does as good, Jerry."
Reevaluate strategy.
She earned another smack in the face from Martine's lackey for her comment, and spit even more blood out of her mouth - courtesy of a new split in her upper lip this time - before carefully looking her surprise guest up and down as her vision again struggled to focus.
"Jeremy Lambert", she said slowly, and he took it as if she had just now recognized him. She let him think that; in reality she was asking the Machine to help her evaluate her new adversary.
"In the flesh", he replied with a little bow, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, but she wasn't listening to him at all. He walked away shortly thereafter to speak with his blonde counterpart, leaving Root to focus on whatever information she was about to receive.
Jeremy Michael Lambert. 13 September 1978. Born in Dudley, England. Naturalized as a United States citizen on 16 July 2005. No other pertinent information.
Root frowned at the lack of information, hoping that the Machine will run his known aliases without her being able to ask. Of course, She does, and Root wondered not for the first time if the Machine could actually read her mind somehow.
Possible alias: Michael Jeremy Grissom. 13 September 1978. Born in Dudley, England. Reported missing from his home, 12 July 2005. Anomaly: date missing corresponds closely with a social security number issued to Jeremy Michael Lambert; application sponsored by Decima Technologies. Anomaly: photographic identification of Grissom matches photographic identification of Lambert on file 96.689% when run through facial recognition software.
Criminal record, the Machine continued as Jeremy and Martine exchanged hushed words just out of earshot, convicted for five counts of aggravated assault, two counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon, and two counts of attempted murder in 1992. Served nine of ten years, released early on parole for good behavior in 2001. Charged with several crimes in April 2005 but disappeared before trail. Charges: seven counts of rape, seven counts of attempted murder, two counts of first degree murder.
As the Machine finished Lambert's list of charges, Root's face dropped. She suddenly understood what Martine had been talking about when she said Decima gave its more colorful agents the chances to utilize their talents for its own greater good - at the time it seemed pointless, a way to show Root that the company was even more corrupt and powerful than previously thought possible, but now it was coming together in her still cloudy mind.
They let their mercenaries and hitmen kidnap her. They took full advantage of Martine's psychopathic tendencies by letting her torture her to her content. But they still didn't break Root.
So they brought in a murderer and a rapist to see if he could do what they had so far been unable to do in what she could only assume was the one way he knew best.
No longer did the thought of Shaw's smile fill Root with a thin layer of hope, just enough to keep her holding on. Instead it made her chest feel heavy, filling her with a hopelessness and a sense of loss she had thus far been able to avoid. And no longer did the Machine's droning on calm her, but instead made her fear that the last thing she might hear would be statistics and numbers and not so much a single human voice.
All she could do was cry, catching the attention of a seemingly very pleased Martine, who stopped her conversation with Jeremy with a wave of her hand to saunter back over. Root looked up at her with defiance she did not feel, and knew instantly that Martine was fully aware that Root had at least began to piece together their intentions. She dared a look over the Decima agent's shoulder, where Jeremy was removing is suit jacket and grinning at her.
"I knew you would like my plan as much as I do. You've just been so naughty, and I figured Jeremy would have an idea or two of how to deal with you. I wonder", Martine said with a viscous disdain as she slowly ran her thumb across Root's damp cheek where her tears had been falling before sticking it in her mouth with a satisfied hum, "what's your breaking point taste like?"