Cold Heart
December 10 th
Shaw walked for hours, letting her legs carry her in any direction. She didn't care; she had no place to go. It was snowing, so even though it was close to midnight, the city still seemed bright with all the white flakes around. She keeps walking, trying to concentrate on anything but the conversation the Machine tried to have with her.
I loved her, too.
Love.
Shaw disliked the word; it sounded juvenile, sappy, pathetic. It made her feel weak. What she had felt for Root couldn't be put into words; it was about action. It was about protecting her. Making sure she was safe, that she had ammunition, or proper rest and medical care. It was about racing to another state to back her up. Shooting herself over seven thousand times to keep Samaritan away from her. It was about taking revenge on the bastard who killed her.
Shaw realized she had stopped walking. She looked around. The area was deserted, white powder covered the ground all around her with only the tips of stones peaking out.
She was in Potter's field. At marker 050313.
Shaw looked down at the stone. She didn't speak because there wasn't anything to say. She simply stood still, listening to the hush of the snow falling around her. A gentle sigh carrying the flakes downwards, with the occasional wisp of wind sending them in different directions.
Shaw wasn't sure how long she stood there until her phone rang. She took it out and the display read 01:43 with an unknown name calling. She silenced the ringer and put the device in her coat pocket. After a minute, it vibrated. She took the device out again and it showed a new message.
She didn't bother reading it, and dropped the phone back into her pocket. Shaw wasn't kidding when she told the Machine she was done. Done with Her little missions; done living in a world where Root was lying six feet beneath her. Shaw's gun felt heavy in her waistband.
She sighed and continued to look down at 050313. Her breath created a puff of mist that was carried forward into the night sky.
Her phone vibrated again, but the pulses were more precise. Morse code.
... .- -- . . -. / .--. .-.. . .- ... . / -.-. --- -- . / -... .- -.-.
(Sameen please come bac--)
Before the message was finished, Shaw wrenched the phone from her coat pocket and threw it as hard as she could.
193 days since this happened? She was so fucking done with this simulation.
She draws her gun and waits.