Breaking Down
December 10th
Shaw arrived at the new safe house and hung her coat. They had began using it as their main operating center for a few months now. Since they were no longer under the constant watch of Samaritan, the Machine set up several spaces where Thornhill Industries could operate. Shaw was aware of other agents throughout the country, but no others so far in New York. Typically the Machine would summon her and provide her with the details regarding a new number. Shaw thought she could work with the Machine using Root's voice, but the last few months proved especially challenging in that aspect. She requested to be contacted via SMS for the most part now.
Shaw approached the small desk where her laptop was plugged in and sat down. Usually it would be populated with dossiers, but today it was just her home screen. It was a picture of Bear with a very mangled bunny slipper in his mouth.
“So, who's our number?”
“Actually, there isn't one,” the Machine replied through the speakers in the computer.
Shaw took a deep breath before responding. Hearing Root's voice was... not easy. “Why am I here, then?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“You couldn't have sent a message?”
“I needed to be sure I had your undivided attention.”
She could feel her anger bubbling from the pit of her stomach. She may have tolerated these games when Root was alive, but her patience level took a steep fall after that day.
“Go ahead. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can go home.”
If the Machine could sigh, Shaw thinks She would have.“You haven't been sleeping.”
Shaw scoffed and shook her head. It was going to be one of those conversations.
“Perhaps a more worrisome matter is that you haven't been eating as much. I'm not the only one who noticed.”
Who else was there anymore. “Really?” Her words were heavy with sarcasm.
“Even Bear has picked up on your behavior. He's becoming more lethargic as well.”
She leaned forward and put her elbows on the desk. Her fuse was becoming shorter with each passing second.
“I think you should take a few days off. You've been working almost constantly. You haven't even taken time to grieve.”
Shaw looked up and stared into the camera. She hoped her glare was intense enough that the Machine would abandon this train of thought.
“ It's been six months and eleven days since Samantha Groves-- ”
“Stop.” Shaw warned, holding her hand out. “Don't worry about me.”
“I worry because I care about you, Sameen.” Shaw's jaw clenched at the use of her name, “Just like I cared about Harold, John, and Root.”
“Bullshit.” She slammed her fists on the desk and stood up, causing her chair to clatter to the ground behind her. The noise echoed around her, but the silence that followed was even louder.
It was one thing for the Machine to use Root's voice, but Shaw would not stand to hear about how much She 'cared' about her. Shaw hung her head and closed her eyes.
“Sameen, please.”
“Enough,” Shaw squeezed her eyes tighter. There were times the Machine just sounded too much like Root.
A full minute passed. Shaw remained still.
“I loved her, too.” Root said softly. She sounded sad.
Shaw began to feel claustrophobic here with the computer. She tried to steady her breathing.
She shook her head and clenched her fists. How could this have happened? How could the Machine let Root die? Or Reese for that matter.
“Shaw?”
The Machine wouldn't have let Root die. She couldn't have. Root was her analog interface, her loyal follower.
Shaw laughed to herself. Of course. It was almost too obvious now. This was just another one of Greer's simulations. Perhaps the most perverse one yet. Root died alone. Now Shaw was alone and forced to listen while the Machine used the voice of her dead friend (friend?). This was the most unfair circumstance. All that effort to protect Root, escape from the simulations, only to have her killed by some worthless nobody. Shaw didn't even get the chance to...
“Shaw.” Root sounded stern this time.
No.
Not Root.
Root couldn't speak to her anymore.
Shaw felt like something in her chest snapped. This simulation needed to end.
She grabbed the table and flipped it forward with tremendous force. She watched as the items crashed on the ground in front of her. It wasn't enough. The anger she was feeling projected outwards as she brought her boot down on her laptop.
She stopped and looked at the mess she made. Her ears were ringing and her throat felt raw. Had she been yelling too?
“I'm done with this,” she gestured around her. “All of it.”
She stormed towards the door, took her coat from the hanger and tore her earpiece out. She dropped it to the ground and brought her foot down on it over, and over, and over, and over.
After several minutes, she slammed the door shut and left with no intention of ever returning.