[ Root gets settled in Etraya, takes some time to reacquaint herself with Shaw and Harry and even the big lug, makes sure she introduces herself to the resident A.I. and ask a series of pertinent questions. Of course she trusts Harry's judgment, but if she's going to be freely talking to whoever contacts her, Root isn't going to turn up the opportunity.
After a few days she moves onto introducing herself to their more extended circle of contacts, and Carver comes up quickly. Shaw brought a friend home, huh? That's so cute. She has to get to know him.
She's actually not thinking that as she goes down into the subway hideout, though. She has no idea he's living here and was just morbidly curious about finding a very familiar vending machine. If it's here, she might as well pick up some things of hers... black nail polish, a taser, you know. Whatever she'd left behind. She definitely wants the bunny slippers.
But she's not an idiot, so she has a gun held comfortably in her hands as she trots down the final stairway. ]
[ It’s not his place, Carver knows, not entirely. Harold’s crew all know the code and there’s no way to change or prevent them from sharing it with anyone else. Even so, it’s safer than the alternative and Carver set to work immediately to trap the fuck out of the place. He doesn’t have access to land mines or much in the way of gunpowder, but he laid out tripwires and several bell traps.
The bells are harmless. The tripwires aren’t. And it occurs to him only after he hears the metal drag of the vending machine opening that he didn’t actually tell anyone he’d set them.
So, that might be a problem.
He draws his one and only pistol, hurrying up the stairs. ]
[ Root stops where she is obediently, her pistol held loosely and pointed down, and she gazes down the stairs at Carver. She tilts her head a little. ]
Shaw didn't tell me she put you up in here, [ she says with palpable interest. Of course she knows what he looks like by now; she'd hardly been sitting around for the past few days. ] She must really like you.
[ Carver gives her a narrow look, assessing. There aren’t many people that Shaw would tell about him, far as Carver knows. At first blush, this woman doesn’t read as a threat. She’s small, slight. But the way she stands and watches him in turn says things as well. ]
You’re Shaw’s girl, huh?
[ That’s not how Shaw described the person who became her center, the woman who remade herself under an AI’s teaching. But he throws it out blandly to provoke a reaction, see what it gets him. ]
Don’t step on the tripwire. I’m not in the mood to clean you off the stairs.
Oh, I know that's not how she put it, [ Root says with a light laugh. What she has with Shaw is beyond words; Shaw could say anything, absolutely anything, about her to a third party and Root wouldn't be ruffled in the slightest.
Given his stated intent to not let her get blown up, she flicks the safety on her gun and tucks it into her belt at the small of her back. ]
But sure, I'm her girl. It'd be a shame to ruin all this hard work you did when I'd just come back anyway.
[ Missing a memory, apparently, but whatever. Root isn't totally sanguine about that but it absolutely does change the math for her in what kind of risks she takes, which she was already pretty cavalier about. ]
[ Quick on the uptake, then. And confident enough not to get shaken by that. Carver cocks his head, watching a moment longer, then holsters the pistol so he can disable the tripwire. It's not hooked to explosives, no matter what he implied, but she doesn't need to know that.
It would, however, have messed her up real good with the razor wire. Such is life. ]
I want to meet my new teammate, of course, [ she says perkily.
Root watches keenly how he disables the tripwire and then starts hopping neatly over the rest of them on her way down without waiting. ]
Actually, I was curious to see a familiar vending machine and wondering if I could get some of my stuff, but I'd love to get to know you while I'm here. [ She is, apparently, utterly sincere. ]
[ There are other traps. Carver eyes her, not bothering to hide the suspicion, and just exhales. He'll disable them or redirect her away from the ones liable to tear her up. It'd make a bad impression if he maimed a teammate on the first meeting. ]
Shaw already boxed your shit up. Go get it from her.
[ Most of it. Probably. He doesn't particularly want anyone in his space right now, but Root doesn't seem like the type to leave without someone forcing her. He probably could, but not without cost. ]
[ That actually stops her short again. She had a pithy comment ready about how he better keep an eye on her so she doesn't get blasted or whatever, but hearing Shaw took her stuff already really gets to her. She generally doesn't make any assumptions about how Shaw chooses to deal with things, hadn't put much thought into how Shaw would cope with her death -- but this is a more overt sign of grieving than she'd have expected.
Some of her devil-may-care assertive whimsy drains out of her, replaced with a more honest, slight smile. ]
I guess she really did miss me, [ she muses. Then her smile widens. ] Now I have to see what she took. You better keep an eye on me so I don't get hurt, or she'll be so annoyed. At both of us.
[ And she starts making her way back down once more, a lightness in her step. ]
[ That got more of a reaction than any of his previous needling. Carver tilts his head, doglike, and considers it carefully. There are a whole lot of ways that could be read. The way that Root goes still for a breath, almost serious.
Almost.
Carver doesn’t smile back at her. Just scowls. ]
Not my fault if you can’t spot security measures, [ he complains, but he’ll stop her before she actually triggers any; Shaw would get pissed. ]
I considered shooting them out, [ she quips, ] but I thought that might get us off on the wrong foot.
[ Root really is playing nice and polite here. She's pretty confident she can spot and avoid most of them now that she knows they're there, but the safest option would be to shoot them ahead of her to trigger them, and that just seems rude.
Presumably they do get to the bottom of the stairs and the subway station proper, and Root looks around with evident curiosity at what Carver's done with the place. ]
[ There’s a chance she’s saying shit just to say it, playing reckless to gauge his reaction. Equally possible is that she’s serious and a good enough shot to avoid the obvious damage of a ricochet in a place that’s all metal and angles. Carver gives her a narrow look, calculating, but he doesn’t stop her.
He does what he said, though, and either disarms or motions her away from the traps he’s set; there are a number of them, in varying degrees of severity and paranoia. And then they’re at the bottom and in the space proper.
Overall, it looks almost the same—just cleaner. He’s found a cot and a corner in one of the side rooms, the bed neatly made like he actually sleeps there. In truth he’s selected a closet and he sleeps with his space guns on the floor, where it’ll take a second for the enemy to find him.
There are no humanizing touches. Everything remains rigidly ordered, and cleaned within an inch of its life. He even scrubbed the windows on the subway car. ]
Like I said. I don’t like surprises. And Shaw’d be pissed if I had to scrape you off the floor.
[ For once, this is actually a test, and Carver passes. He's committed enough to the team to make sure she doesn't get injured, and the way he passes it off with a disgruntled I don't want to deal with it makes her amused. ]
I can see why Shaw likes you. [ That's exactly her kind of sensibility.
It's sort of funny to see the subway station so clean, sort of bizarre to see it at all. It feels like she's living out a strange afterlife and then a piece of her real life got plopped down right in the middle. Root doesn't totally know yet how she feels about being dead, apart from thinking that she had a good death, but she does know she's going to miss some things.
She walks right past Carver and into the subway car until she gets to the darkened, inoperable server racks, all the blue coolant cables sprouting down like vines. Root rests a hand on one of them with a soft expression. ]
Hey, [ she says over her shoulder, ] if you promise to tell me if any of these ever light up, I won't come down here to check on it all the time.
[ It's probably easier for him if she phrases it like a threat instead of a favor he'd be doing her. ]
[ Carver just gives her a pointed look, too tired to pretend he's actually happy to have her in his space. There's always an angle, always a game to be played out or a threat to be dealt with. Regardless, she's here for a reason. Maybe it's only to do recon and a threat assessment, but maybe not. Time will tell. He follows behind her silently, careful to leave space between them.
It's rude to loom, he's been told. ]
I like Shaw. [ He hopes they don't have to kill each other, but doesn't say that. He tilts his head, eying the server racks. ] The AI?
[ What a coincidence -- Root also hopes she doesn't have to kill Carver. That would be so inconvenient and messy. Interpersonally, mostly; she doesn't care about the literal mess. People coming back changes the game, makes it so that killing someone should be used to prove a point, not serve as a solution. ]
Yes, [ she answers, withdrawing her hand and turning around to face him, composure reestablished. ] This is where she used to live. I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it makes me a little sentimental.
[ Root sounds wistful but even. She's not someone who stands around much, so she's immediately moving again, personally uncaring about how much personal space is left between her and Carver as she slides past to find her old room. ]
[ It's a good mask she's got, Carver notes. He wonders if she's practiced. People look at a small, pretty woman, and they tend to draw certain conclusions when she smiles. That probably makes Root's work easier. He watches her silently and resolves never to make that mistake. For now, he marks what she says and how, notes how she moves, how quick she'll be if she draws a weapon. You have to know these things, son, the commander murmurs in his ear. Otherwise it's your fault if they catch you.
He twitches, forcing himself to hold still and not pivot out of the way or shoulder check her out of reflex as she brushes past. Forcing into personal space - that's usually his trick.
Oh, this one's going to be dangerous, isn't she? ]
She, [ he echoes. The AI has a gender. Okay. ] What's she like?
What's she like? That's like trying to explain the sky to someone who lives underground.
[ Is that too flowery? Grandiose? Absolutely not. The Machine deserves it and more. Root isn't blind in her devotion, but her devotion is total and unrelenting. If the Machine somehow comes online here in Etraya, she'll be her number one follower again without missing a beat.
It's nice not to be underestimated, in the meantime. But then again, she wants Carver to take her seriously. Root isn't here putting on any more of a mask than she uses to get through her real life, her actual assignments. It could be much more than this, a whole persona crafted and deliberate to get her to her ends. Instead, she'll humor Shaw that he should be on the team, but he needs to prove a few things. She doesn't take access to Harold lightly. ]
[ Root halts in the doorway to her room and pivots on her heel to face him, head tilting as she assesses him. Carver bothering to ask, to be curious and wonder about the Machine, gets him some points, but she's still going to study his reaction. ]
I saw her code and it was perfect, [ she says frankly. There's awe there, but a prosaic understanding of the nuts and bolts, too. A devotee who has had her hands deep in the guts of those servers in the subway car. ] Utterly rational, beyond human fallacy. She sees everything, understands everything, but she still cares about us.
She would save you every time she could, Brandon Carver. No matter what you'd done. Whether you deserve it or not.
[ He knew going into this that there'd be gaps in his knowledge. This sort of technology is beyond him, and he was never much of a tech. An engineer like Anchetta would be better at pulling the crazy away from the scaffolding of what Root's built, would know what bleeds true even if it's fantastic and how to pry it away from the broken. All Carver has are his instincts and his own faith.
And in the end, he was standing at the commander's shoulder when Pope first saw God in the blood and the bones as they sank into Korengal's sand. All he had to do was remark on them and Carver saw them too; a singular, brutal truth suddenly laid bare to him.
He watches Root for a long time, unblinking. Unwavering. ]
[ Oh, he does get it. The magnitude of what she means, how beautiful and beyond the scope of human possibility. Truly what God is meant to be. He gets it or he wouldn't be skeptical, immovable as a cliff wall. ]
Why indeed? [ she muses, softening palpably at his sincere question. ] It's funny, isn't it, for a machine to love humanity? And to love all the individual humans, not just the concept. We're all such flawed, ugly, terrible creatures. But she does love us.
That's the part I can't explain. That's the sky. [ She shrugs, finding a helpless smile, someone talking about something impossibly precious. ]
[ How strange to see her soften. Carver tilts his head, doglike, but doesn't pounce to exploit the opening. Of all the things he could read into her words, he doesn't attack the sincerity. She believes with the sincerity of the faithful, so convinced of the beauty that she can't do a thing except live to honor it.
That, he understands just fine. ]
Most people are ugly, evil shits. They're not worth saving.
[ A truth of his own. But not necessarily a contradiction to hers. ]
[ Root doesn't demand anyone else understand her faith. She doesn't need anyone else to share it, though she finds it annoying and tiresome when others can't keep up with the immutable truth that the Machine is trustworthy. But even with Harold she's gotten more patient over time at his lack of trust in his own creation, come to see that his caution with her is what had made her how she is. She can't blame Harold and worship his child at the same time, not when one led to the other.
That doesn't mean she won't push him along in the right direction, of course. He's so easily stagnant. And the Machine, and they all, deserve more.
Root doesn't take her own softening as a weakness; she offers it up without shame because there's nothing that can puncture it, nothing that can make her regret it. There's an unshakeable confidence to her that's absolutely palpable. Root isn't looking for approval, she isn't looking for debate. She's just willing to explain her perspective if someone asks. ]
I'm not worth saving, [ she says with total equanimity, ] but she did save me. She gave me a good death.
Well-- [ Root huffs a little in exasperation suddenly, like she's talking about an annoying habit a housemate has. ] I'm sure she wanted me to live, but we got past that little disagreement. Some things are worth dying for.
[ He watches her for a long moment, considering that. Death is a core of his faith, as inevitable as gravity and the fire that tested them. Everyone will die. He prayed to fall in battle instead of wasting away in the dark and in that, God was kind. He remembers a blade punched through his chest, the enemy's grim face staring down at him. God was kind to allow him to go quickly, but God still saw him fail the commander. He wonders if God watched Root die. If He was pleased with her showing. ]
Did you go out fighting?
[ This is the only thing that matters, in the end. ]
Is that what counts as a good death to you? [ Root asks in honest curiosity, processing what this assumption says about him. ]
I did, actually. Saving Harry's life. That's what makes it good to me-- a pure good. You see, Harold is one of those few people who does deserve to be saved.
[ They're vanishingly rare, but Root believes they exist. First Hanna, then Harold... Shaw and John and even Fusco. That's what she learned from the Machine, not easily or quickly, but over time. ]
[ He says it simply. There are a thousand ugly ways to die and he's seen most of them in his time. Inflicted more than his fair share upon the unworthy. God didn't love them. But maybe God forgave Carver for his sins at the end.
Oh, I did. That's one of her things: we all get to make our own decisions.
[ Cheekily, ] That's how I won the argument. She loves everyone equally, but I don't. And that's my decision.
[ That's also how she'd saved Shaw in the end, but Root doesn't need to go spilling all her personal history. She doesn't expect to get anything out of it. She just doesn't have any self-consciousness whatsoever about the actions she's taken after finding the Machine's guidance, sees no reason to withhold them when they're such a useful yardstick to measure Carver by.
In itself -- this comment is a veiled threat: there's limits to Root's devotion, and those limits are named Harold and Sameen. ]
[ Carver just watches her for a long moment, unblinking. Then he gives her a single, short nod. Acknowledgement. She fell in battle; that makes her worthy, even if it won't ever make her a Reaper. Perhaps God smiled on her for a moment. ]
I hope the commander doesn't mark you, [ he says after a moment. ] But if she does, I'll kill you quickly.
[ Root smiles at him, touched, genuinely emotional. That's so sweet. ] Thank you. [ And she's absolutely not extending him the same courtesy. ]
But you should know-- if you hurt any of the people I love, I won't kill you quickly. I'll tie you up here and drill holes into you until you sincerely regret it.
Just so we understand one another.
[ This was also on her to do list for this visit, so might as well cross it off. ]
Then we could really have some fun, [ she says, winking, before she turns to duck into her old living quarters.
Threat made, she doesn't need to ham it up. That just makes the threat so much cheaper. Either Carver believes her or he doesn't, but he'll make his own decisions, like the Machine respects in everyone. Root will just follow through if he does.
Root flounces over to her dresser and starts looking through it in curiosity. She had wanted to get some of her stuff originally if it was still here, but now she's far more interested in whatever it is Shaw thought was worth taking. ]
[ He snorts at that. About as close to laughter as he feels like getting right now. Maybe God loves Root and maybe He doesn't, but she'll be a dangerous enemy if it turns that way. In the end, he can see why Shaw had to circle her. There's a force to her, a clarity of purpose.
A rare thing, that. It reminds him of Pope's better days.
He follows silently, hands loose at his sides as she begins looking through her dresser. He's cleaned in here; he searched through everything that Shaw didn't take, of course. It was the practical move. He didn't take any of it for himself. ]
[ That he can take it well, with a sense of humor... She likes him. That's a little bit of a surprise in that he'd seemed like another unthinking, unquestioning thug at first glance, but Root is getting the sense there's more beneath that, just squashed and buried for survival. She's never lived that way, but she's known a lot of people who have. And she can see why Shaw would feel just a little protective of him.
He's trying to care about people he thinks he can't care about, isn't he? That's just like her.
After their heart-to-heart and exchanged threats, she's more open with him, letting herself stare into her empty drawers. ]
I really wasn't expecting that. ... Wait, [ she muses, ] that was my jacket she was wearing, wasn't it? Huh.
I bet she didn't tell you she played hard to get with me for years, [ she explains as an afterthought. Root does not sound upset about it; she sounds a little rueful, but mostly appreciative, enjoying the challenge and what it means for Shaw to finally relent. ]
[ There's an opening here, Carver realizes as he watches Root. The others might consider him a physical threat, but only John knows enough about the operations Carver and the others ran to recognize the threat of a trained interrogator. Even then, Carver kept his stories brief. He emphasized his role as a door kicker first, and best.
Better they look at him and see an idiot grunt, useful for heavy lifting and not much else. And now Root's musing, swinging honest. He could use that against her. He might have to, one day. ]
Didn't mention that part, nope. [ His eyebrows lift. ] Hmm. You pursued her?
[ Is there anything left that can be used against Root that isn't patently obvious? She doesn't think so. That's why she was threatening; the weak points are too obvious not to defend preemptively. So it's not carelessness that makes her free with information here -- it's self-assurance. They're not impenetrable, she hardly thinks they can withstand anything or confront any foe. But Root does think she's through living her life in fear for what others can do to her. She is who she is. Carver can try it if he wants and see how it goes. They can see who comes out better for it. ]
I mean, have you seen her? She's incredible. I wasn't going to let someone like that go without saying something.
And then she kept... you know. [ Root waves a hand in the air. ]
She thought I wasn't serious. Didn't know what I was asking. Do I strike you as someone who doesn't know what I'm doing? Honestly. [ Root loves Shaw as she is but really, did they have to spend that long doing this dance that Root couldn't know what she was asking for? It really was ridiculous. ]
True believers aren't known for relationships. Historically.
[ The faith demands more and so they give more and more of themselves until the world either breaks them or buckles under their force. He knows. His brothers and sisters believed just the same. They understood and so he was allowed to keep them.
Riley didn't. And so Riley became a ghost that Carver's carried for years, one secret he never even gave Pope. ]
[ He didn't pick up what she was putting down at all. How funny. Root's head swings around to look at him, expression curious and gaze laser-precise. ]
The Machine wants us to be happy, [ she notes. ] What's the point in saving us if we're miserable? [ What's the point, indeed. ]
[ Then one day the world became a grave and that clarity burned its way to the surface. It couldn’t be denied anymore. ]
No, ma’am, [ he adds politely, flicking his hands out. His sap gloves never leave him unless he’s on his rest hours or conducting an interrogation. And he doesn’t like the idea of anyone touching his hands. That, far more than the perspective of nail polish and whatever that implies, bothers him at his core. Root’s already gotten with Shaw; even if she’s to guess at the fact Carver’s not entirely straight, it’s doubtful she’d make a thing of it. But playing to get a rise out of him seems entirely up her alley and Carver’s not inclined to give her an easy one without reason. ]
[ Root shrugs. She hardly thinks that's the real reason, but he was so polite about it -- ma'am and everything. ] Suit yourself.
[ She's absolutely willing to do things to get a rise out of him, but this thing is not one of those things. Part of what makes Root unnerving is that her messing with people always come across as sincere. There's almost no difference between her interactions sourced from true human connection, and those sourced from her willingness to use others.
She walks over to the closet and opens the doors to ponder it, half empty of clothes. ]
I used to think everyone else was just noise, too. The universe trends toward entropy, we're all going to die, coldness is intrinsic and inevitable.
But I did die and someone cared enough to save my clothes. It's more than I thought I'd get, you know? [ Maybe being dead makes her more melancholy or more forthcoming, she doesn't know. But she thinks this might be something someone like him could stand to hear. ]
[ He watches her close, for once not tempted to fidget or pace. This truth is intrinsic to his soul. A necessary component of the world. Most people are evil, ugly things, but not all of them. A few have fought hard enough and long enough to prove themselves worthy. And maybe one or two, like Matthew, always were. ]
[ Swings on a dime, doesn't she? Carver tilts his head, considering the distance between them idly. He has a feeling that Root's fast. That she thinks about how to position herself before striking. Up close, he'll have the height and weight advantage, but she'll have tricks. Women like her always do, survivors to the bitter end. ]
Pope was our first commander, [ he says after a moment, tone flat. The grief is still raw. ] He led us through the Valley of Death.
[ This is not a metaphor, but a very real place on the map. He has dreams, even now, about Korengal's dust and the dead they carried off the killing fields. ]
[ Root doesn't try to play fair in the slightest. The bad guys never will, so why should she? That cynicism is born from deep skepticism in even the supposed good guys, like the U.S. military. She's from the right time period and done more than enough illegal snooping to know what the Valley of Death refers to. It helps that she knows Carver's one of Reese and Shaw's military buddies, one of the few personal facts they did pass along.
She doesn't bat an eyelash at news that he'd gone through that or that his first commander died. There's no trace of sympathy in Root for that. She respects his depth of emotion, but it doesn't touch her. ]
Okay. What's she like? [ Root asks patiently. ] Fair's fair. I told you mine.
[ He's quiet for a long moment, just watching Root. Waiting for any hint of mockery or disrespect to the dead, or his sister. The wounds are still raw, perhaps always will be. He feels their loss in him like a phantom limb, twisting through his soul.
Then: ]
She's kind. Brutal when she needs to be. Stone cold in the field. [ He nods just once, firm. ] She taught me how to survive when I was nothing but a green idiot. But she still shows mercy, sometimes. It always costs her.
[ Right now she's on a mission of discovery, which means Root doesn't want to alienate Carver. She wants to poke and prod him and see how he reacts, but she knows where the real lines are that would cross over into true offense. That wouldn't be productive right now. ]
Mercy would be cheap if it didn't, [ she agrees, something more complex behind her easy words. ]
And who're you in this arrangement? What role do you play?
[ He nods slowly. Mercy’s a mistake more often than it’s not, but he doesn’t begrudge Leah for how she’s reached for it. She couldn’t have raised Matthew otherwise. ]
She’s the commander now. And I’m her second. Whatever she orders, I make it work. Just like she did for Pope.
[ Mercy isn't something Root is inclined to, but the Machine absolutely is. Every time. Despite herself she's come to see the value in that the more she exercises it on the Machine's behalf. If nothing else, it contributes to a certain lightness of soul that she never believed was possible before finding her and Harold. ]
Second in command, [ she repeats, imagining it and guessing at how large his whole group must be. ] So you're not just a pretty face. [ He can't be just a simple-minded thug if he's that trusted, which follows with the impression she was getting earlier. ]
We're not nearly so organized. That must be an adjustment for you.
[ That gets a very thin smile and a deliberate flick of his hands. The human's eyes attracted to motion beyond the conscious level; unless they're trained not to, people tend to focus on movement and if they're watching Carver's hands, by God, they're not watching the rest of him. Leah taught him that, too.
Sometimes it's useful playing the grunt. Sometimes it solves a whole lot of problems. ]
You're a smaller group. More nimble.
[ Sometimes that's an advantage. Not always, though. ]
And, [ he adds ] you didn't have to think about where your next meal was coming from.
True. Though I wouldn't say we got past safety on Maslow's hierarchy very often, [ Root responds dryly.
She's not ashamed of them being better off than the veritable hellscape Carver had come from, but she's not going to pretend they were living large, either. Root found it bearable in living conditions but constantly terrifying in possible consequences.
Root isn't too surprised he didn't respond to her obvious fishing, but since he didn't, her curiosity remains. ]
It's an adjustment being here for me, too. [ Maybe her frankness will lure out some honesty in return. ] I keep thinking there will be enemy agents around every corner. Even the missions don't sound that exciting.
[ Talk about pessimism. Root isn't exactly an optimist but she does like to think she ascribes to staunch realism. Sometimes things do go well, even though the universe is a shithole that inevitably tends toward entropy. True randomness includes repeats, includes positives -- it can't all be bad all the time, relentlessly, always.
But that probably isn't a productive conversation to get into at the moment. ]
You worried about me? [ she teases instead with open amusement. ] Gonna be the one to watch my back -- or Shaw's back?
[ Root seems all kinds of capable. She’ll be a rough enemy to face if it swings that way. But Carver’s practical, in the end. He knows his role in this game. ]
But I’ll watch your back, and hers, [ he adds. ] Like I agreed.
[ Root's confident and capable, sure, but she's not an idiot. And she's already died once. ]
Everyone needs someone to watch their back, [ she informs him with a smile, like being comfortable with that hadn't taken her years of slow warm acceptance among the team. But by now she thoroughly understands loyalty. ]
Root assumes she's dead at first. There's quite a few reasons to draw this conclusion: her clothes are bloody but the wounds under them are closed up, scarring nicely already; the sky is cascading colors across the night, not just an aurora but a whole spectacle of the universe; and she's stuck in a frozen hellscape with the wind whistling past her. She finds Bear just as her fingertips start to fully freeze and the two things together convince her she is not, in fact, dead, or at least not in any way that matters.
She spends the next few days getting to grips with her surroundings, thankful she has Bear to talk to as she keeps up an occasional murmured stream of chatter. Root is a city girl but she grew up in a small town and she knows at least a few things. She has a knife and that lovely tactical shotgun she'd stolen off the police officer ages ago, though she quickly realizes she's going to need to conserve ammo, bad.
There's a tiny cabin nearby that's structurally sound enough to provide protection from the weather, and Root makes that her temporary base of operations as she scrounges around the area for supplies. She gets some better clothing for herself -- looking fairly comical bundled up in all these men's layers, but it keeps her alive, four pairs of socks on to make her feet fit into the work boots she found -- and she used her knife to cut up a the outer shell of a half-destroyed parka. She took the strips and some duct tape and made little booties for Bear. She has to make new ones every couple days, but his poor little paws need protection from the snow and ice.
Her cochlear implant isn't working the whole time. More than once she's intensely grateful to have Bear, who has far more acute hearing than her even when both of her ears are working, and warns her of nearby threats. His presence seems to act as a decent deterrent to the wolves, too, at least for now. As the light show in the sky starts to settle, though, her implant crackles back to life, making her wince in surprise. Some quick math makes Root realize how much she needs to conserve its battery life even more than the ammo, so with some reluctance she turns it off shortly after it becomes active.
Eventually she feels well equipped enough to leave her temporary base, and she suits up herself and Bear -- who's wearing a child's tattered down vest as well as his makeshift booties -- as she heads out, shotgun at the ready. It's slow going through the snow, and she really has no idea where she's going or where there even is to go to, but she can't stay here forever. There's very little food, for one thing.
She can't believe she was grateful to find a can of beans yesterday.
Root muses on her devastatingly low current standards and the theological nature of purgatory as she tromps through the snow drifts, and then Bear starts to bark and she springs into alertness, lifting the gun cautiously.
She knows that bark, and as soon as she hears it, she's sure that it's a trick of the woods - and though that suspicion isn't in any way dispelled by seeing him in the flesh just a few seconds after she hears him, that doesn't stop her from dropping to her knees and opening her arms, inviting him to bound right into them.
"Hey, buddy," she murmurs, rubbing his ears and nuzzling her frost-nipped nose into his fur. "Where'd you come from, huh?"
His saliva freezes to her face where he licks her cheek, and she does not fucking care. Bear.
More human-sized footsteps sound off in the woods to her left, boots crunching on snow and fallen branches, and she looks up - not immediately suspecting danger (it hadn't sounded nearly large enough to be the other bear), but alert regardless.
Root trusts that Bear would be acting a lot differently if it were a threat, so she lowers her gun and trudges her way through the snow and past some trees until she sees Shaw.
Oh. Of course Bear ran off.
"Sameen," she breathes, aware she looks like a minor disaster and not caring. She's all haphazard layers of moth-eaten men's clothes and her hair is messily pushed into a toque, she's stepping a little unsteadily in her borrowed shoes, and her face is flushed with cold sweat from the exertion. But her eyes are wide as the realization sinks in and then she starts to laugh in joyous incredulity.
The emotions are pushing up and crowding her, but Root passes them off with her usual flippancy.
"Maybe this is Dante's ninth circle of hell after all. With Bear here I thought it couldn't be, but seeing you, I'm starting to reconsider."
Of course Root has the capacity to make quippy little jokes right now. Shaw, on the other hand, has to settle for gaping in mute shock, fingers still curled in Bear's fur. She's of course known for a while that people from home popping up was a possibility, even if she's been conflicted on whether or not it's something to properly hope for. But Root, Root who'd died--
In a place filled with impossible possibilities, that's an entirely new layer to grapple with.
"You aren't real," she says, because after everything she's seen, of course she has to consider the idea (over and over and over again). But even as she says it, she's pulling herself to her feet and walking towards her.
Her expression softens as she sees how affected Shaw is. Root knows she's still going through it in questioning things, and she does sincerely care about that, even if she shows it through exposition about speculative physics or quippy little jokes.
"Real enough."
It could be another quip, but it's not; it's reassurance. She takes a few steps forward to meet her halfway.
Shaw claps both gloved hands onto Root's shoulders - not the most tender of gestures, maybe, but it serves its purpose. Root is, at the very least, solid. She leaves her hands where they are, but her grip softens a bit, her palms resting on Root's shoulders rather than squeezing them.
Okay, that one she couldn't resist, but she really is smiling helplessly at Shaw as the snow whips around them and Bear keeps watch. She can be practical, she can focus.
"I wasn't kidding, I was seriously considering the possibility that this is one of those ice versions of religious hell. You have any idea how we got here?" It's all weird enough that she's not discounting religious hell, is what she's saying; she's prepared to accept more or less anything Shaw tells her.
"No. All we know is that it wasn't supposed to happen."
And even that is intel from the Darkwalker, who doesn't exactly engender trust. Still, Shaw is inclined to believe it; she certainly doesn't feel like any of this is a part of nature's design.
"So, what, you think I died, too?" she asks, her tone as matter-of-fact as always. That initial period of shock may have passed quickly, but her hands are still on Root, and she hasn't looked away from her once. Bear is understanding of this, and contents himself with leaning against her legs.
"You have to die eventually," she says with attempted equanimity, but there's something tight around her eyes belying her real feelings. "It wasn't an unlikely outcome."
But it sounds like she hadn't. Like the Machine took care of her. Root reaches up and settles her own gloved hands on top of Shaw's on her shoulders, gently prompting without pressing her.
"Think we could catch up out of the wind? I don't like to keep Bear out here too long, and it's been a while already." Root will put up with whatever conditions she reasonably has to, but expecting that of their loving, loyal dog is another story.
No, absolutely not, because hunting for shelter means tearing her eyes away from Root, and she absolutely does not want to do that.
She doesn't say that, of course. She doesn't even contemplate saying it: when it comes to making the practical choice, Shaw very rarely flinches. But finding it easy to make a particular choice isn't the same as wanting to make it.
"Sure," she says, letting go of Root's shoulders and dropping her hands back to her sides, giving Bear's ears another rub. "We're about a mile from town, and about a quarter-mile from the mines. Dealer's choice."
Root wants the safety and space to have a proper reunion with Shaw, and out in this weather surrounded by potential predators isn't it, but she'll take whatever's quickest. Having Shaw here changes everything. She needs information and she needs to recalibrate toward whatever Shaw needs from her.
In the meantime, she can be as unerringly dedicated to her task as ever, which right now is seeking shelter. She's treating this as a potentially hostile situation.
But her gaze is fixed on Shaw, too. "Lead the way. I'm conserving battery on my implant, so I'm deaf on my right side."
Say no more: Shaw immediately moves to Root's left, flanking her bad ear.
"Has anybody told you about the Auroras yet?" she asks, her eyes forward as they walk. Sappy sustained eye contact can make its return later; for now, safety is her priority. "Electricity powers back up, but sometimes things go haywire; that might be dangerous for you."
Sappy sustained eye contact and/or saucy flirting, in Root's opinion. She's already waiting for the right moment to make the obvious joke about keeping warm together.
"The intermittent static shrieking wasn't fun," she agrees. "You're the first person I've seen. Who is 'anybody'?"
Root's potential scope of hypothetical possibilities for where she is and what's going on is vast, and there would be a strange kind of sense in it just being her and Shaw. Maybe this is a simulation. How would she differentiate her perceived reality from any other version and even know? To Root, that's not a rhetorical question; she's genuinely thinking about strategies to test it.
"It doesn't look like it, but there's a population here. Not a big one, but - thirty, forty people."
It's a low-ball guess; she's underestimating the number of people who live in buildings and settlements away from Milton's town center. This is a place where it's very easy to miss people.
"A real group of oddballs, if you ask me. But, uh-- I guess we're both used to that."
"That's more than I'd expect from what I've seen," Root comments with palpable interest. "You mean we might actually fit in? How long have you been here?"
If this isn't a simulation it's some inexplicable dimensional nonsense, which means in any case all bets about time as a dimension are off. Root wants to know everything about what Shaw's been up to more or less immediately.
"They're not our kind of oddballs," Shaw says wryly - or more accurately, they're not either of their kind of oddball, because as far as she's concerned, she and Root are two distinct oddball types that just happened to end up jiving well together. "Don't count on finding too many kindred spirits. Some of them are okay, though. I've been here for, uh..."
She has to pause to think; calendars aren't so much a thing, and she hasn't bothered keeping track manually. The length of the days is really the best time indicator, so--
Root would agree; they're complementary but opposing, like two electrons orbiting the same proton but never making direct contact with one another. They're always facing the same direction but going a different way.
What Shaw says about the others makes her think that she's been fairly solitary. Root is prone to loneliness herself and she doesn't assume Shaw would be suffering from the same, but she notes it as something to consider. Especially with what else she says.
"You made it through winter here?" she asks, trudging through snow. "That must have been tough if this counts as spring."
"You ever see that thriller movie where a flash freeze spreads across the east coast, turning everyone and everything in its path to ice? That happened here a couple months ago. Then the storm passed."
Which is to say that yes, it had been no mean feat, and the mundanity of wilderness survival has been the least of it.
"There's a bear that was an intangible ghost until it suddenly wasn't. I'll show you my scars sometime. Things that happen here don't make sense. I don't know how to prepare you for it. You just have to go along for the ride and see where it takes you."
There's an edge of frustration to her voice, though it's not directed at Root, or even at her own inadequacies at explaining the mind-bending situation. It's just that regardless of whether or not she believes that it's real, life here reminds her too much of being in Decima's hands: where opportunities to take control of her own life hadn't been entirely nonexistent, but had still been few and far between.
"I think you're going to have a harder time with that one than me, honey," Root says wryly.
She'd like answers, of course, but it isn't going to break her fundamental conception of reality to have things be kooky. She won't just passively accept whatever's going on -- she'll try to reach an explanation, try to understand -- but it won't slow her down any in the meantime.
"As long as you're here, I know where I'm going and what I'm doing."
"We should try to stick together. Come up with prearranged meeting places if we separate."
It's not their usual MO, but considering the circumstances - the extreme environment, the practical dangers of solo wilderness travel, the lack of communication options - it seems like the best choice available to them.
"I've got some friends in Lakeside - that's through the mines. You should meet them."
Maybe it wasn't their usual MO, but it is what Root greatly prefers after spending nearly a year desperately trying to find Shaw. There's no Machine here (pity) which means she can't just ask for Shaw's location at any given time. That means...
"Until and unless I can put a tracker on you, I'm not going anywhere without you," Root declares. She hesitates and then begrudgingly adds, "Unless we have to."
She's willing to be practical if she has to be, but she's not going to like it. Forcible separation is definitely possible, though, so coming up with prearranged meeting places seems wise. But they can sort all that out later -- there's something far more interesting for her to catch up on as they travel.
"You made friends?" she asks with muted delight. "Tell me about them."
Calling someone eccentric the way she is implies a whole lot despite Shaw's brief description, and she's used to reading between the lines when it comes to Shaw. Respect Michonne, see how far she can get teasing the Doctor.
"Can't wait to meet him." She's genuinely excited with a description like that. "We almost there? I think I'll need some help warming up."
Root can't resist the obvious invitation, though she isn't expecting anything to come of it necessarily. She's just never going to stop trying when Shaw keeps signaling she's receptive to it. And if they're going to have a second chance like this, she'd be a fool not to take advantage of it to the maximum extent possible.
"It takes all day to walk there; we'll go tomorrow. How do you feel about spending the night in the mines? They're on the way; you go through them to get to Lakeside."
Technically there's nothing stopping them from taking their planned rest in the mines, hiking back to Milton for the night, and then heading back out to the mines the next morning; it's completely doable physically. But energy and resource conservation are constantly on Shaw's mind here - and generally, if she can consolidate travel time, she will.
"That's what I assumed we were doing, silly. You think I'm waiting a whole day to cuddle up to you after my tragic untimely demise?"
It's hard to sound flirty while she's exhausted, freezing, and lost, and she can't exactly flutter her eyelashes at Shaw right now, but Root isn't about to stop flirting at the most awkward times now. And that includes making fun of her own death. Black humor is a coping mechanism she's leaned on her whole life, and she can tell she's going to need to do some serious coping around here. Better get started.
Silly, ill-timed flirting or no, Shaw can't deny the appeal of the idea; she kind of does want to flop down somewhere away from the wind and rest her head on Root's shoulder.
"You see it up there?" she asks, and sure enough, they're zeroing in on what looks to be a stereotypical early 20th century mine shaft opening: a hole carved into the mountain, framed by sturdy wooden planks. "I'll race you."
She will absolutely not be doing that, and neither should Root.
The absurd proposal gets a surprised laugh out of Root, and though she doesn't try to take her up on the race, she does lurch close enough to Shaw to give her a playful shove.
"You wish. I bet nobody here gets your sense of humor, do they?"
Maybe she's flattering herself with that comment, but Root likes to think she has a leg up on everyone else in terms of appreciating how special Shaw is.
She sidesteps and digs her shoulder against Root's in a lazy half-shove, but it's a sluggish, tired move. Now that they're nearing the mine entrance, she looks around to make sure that Bear is nearby, calling him to heel with a "Bear, volg."
God, it feels so natural. Falling back into old patterns is the easiest thing in the world.
Root notices the delay, the way her steps are slower and heavier than her normal blind bulldozer pace. She'd been distracted with her own exhaustion and hunger and just so relieved to see Shaw, she hadn't quite noticed and processed before.
She lets the previous thread of conversation drop, lets the silence rest for a few moments as the snow swirls around them, before she speaks again.
She doesn't expect Root to buy it. In fact, she expects her not to: Root will see past the surface-level answer and get to the I'm alive and I'm functional, but I don't know how to put what's wrong with me into words underneath. As they enter the mouth of the mine, she clears her throat, adding, "I'm not sleeping too good."
Root doesn't buy it, and she's relieved Shaw follows up with a real admission. She can't help until she knows what the issue is, but she's sensitive to the fact that Shaw probably doesn't want any sympathy.
Stumbling into the darkened overhang, Root gratefully sheds the pack she'd been carrying and lets it slump to the ground.
"Not sleeping good like you need someone to keep watch, or you need someone to hold you?"
This isn't flirtatious -- it's a matter-of-fact question she asks while crouching down to unload a tin bowl and some salvaged water she offers out for Bear.
That, at least, is an easy answer; Shaw can't really wrap her head around the idea of loneliness keeping her awake. That's not at all the same as not wanting Root to hold her, though, so she sticks close, and when Root is done with Bear's routine, she motions her over to the area along the rocky wall where she's moved both their bags.
"C'mere."
She doesn't have much in the way of bedding in her pack, but she keeps an emergency blanket on hand, and it can cover two.
Was that her unintentionally revealing how much loneliness can plague her? Oh well.
"I can stay up for a while," Root offers immediately. It's been a rough few days, but she's nowhere close to the end of her rope. She's used to gauging her relative level of tiredness vs. functioning and she's confident she can stay awake and keep watch for a bit, give both Shaw and Bear a break.
"Let's build a fire first, or we're both going to regret it in a few hours."
Once she sits down and has her arms around Shaw, she's not going to want to get up again, and she knows it.
Shaw gives her a quick nod, moving towards the mouth of the mine entrance; she'll gather brush from there, as well as scope out a good spot to place the fire that'll be sheltered but will still allow for good air flow. Bear follows, flanking her left, and she rests a fond hand on his back for a moment.
"You don't have to stay awake," Shaw says over her shoulder. "Honestly, I don't even know how much it'll help. But, uh-- we had an issue not too long ago with people who were alone being picked off in the night. It was some supernatural thing."
She says this last part grudgingly - as far as she's concerned, supernatural is a lazy explanation on its own - but how else to explain it?
Root isn't nearly as practiced as Shaw at starting fires, but she's figured out some basics over the last few days and she drops seamlessly into assisting as they set up a warm, defensible camp. She read through the disgruntled tone and empathizes with the imprecision of the word supernatural as an explanation. It's not like she has any better ideas.
"You think I could bear to close my eyes once I finally have my arms around you?" she asks playfully. Back to being flirty. She assumes it goes unsaid that anything trying to threaten them would be met with her shotgun; Root is more than willing to shoot first, ask questions later, especially without the Machine around to guilt trip her. Moreover, Shaw only has to say something once and Root is ready to tackle the problem as best she can.
"And we've got the world's best guard dog on hand. We'll be fine."
The tinder catches, and Shaw scoots back from it, feeling out a good distance for them to settle. Not so close that they'll sweat or be in danger of catching sparks, but not so far that the fire won't be felt at all...
She makes another grab for Root, trying again to reel her in.
This time she accedes, curling in on her readily. She laughs a little as she settles on the cold ground and tries to find a comfortable position with Shaw.
"Needy, aren't you?" Root teases. "We can try it with Bear, but wake me up if you need to."
One of the things she really loves about Shaw is how straightforward and simple an exchange like this can be. Root wants to make sure she's able to get some sleep, and she can expect her to take her offer seriously.
Despite her grabby-hands, Shaw settles with her back to Root, facing the fire - though she still scootches backwards until she's pressed against her, reaching out to rest her fingertips on Root's arm.
She contemplates turning around and kissing her. She doesn't yet, but it's on her mind; now that there's no snow or walk or fire to distract her, how could it not be?
"I wondered sometimes if someone from home would show up," she says, quietly. "But I didn't think it would actually happen. I didn't think it would be you."
"Because I should be dead?" she asks frankly, not having missed that little detail.
Root has no such compunctions about holding back; no snow or walk or fire, Shaw settled back against her facing the fire and holding her arm, she nestles in and presses a chaste kiss to whatever skin she can find exposed on her neck.
She whispers, "You can't get rid of me that easily."
"The Machine kept telling me the odds were too long on finding you," Root murmurs against her ear, "but I kept trying anyway."
She doesn't mean that as an article of blind faith, that either of them should face any odds and they'll come out the other side. Root was well aware of the dangers, of the unlikelihood that she'd succeed, just as she understands Shaw had a tiny chance to ever see her again and had to find ways to keep going, knowing that. But pursuing Shaw, loving her, has always been about holding on to the smallest possibility, clinging with her fingertips to any bare purchase she could find.
Maybe they won't have long here, either, but she'll take every moment she can.
"Do you think this is weird?" she asks, in the way of someone who genuinely wants to know the answer. She certainly thinks it is, in a way that's a mix of both good and bad. It's off-kilter and unexpected, just like Root herself is; Root, who has made life exciting since the day that they met. Of course she'd show up out of nowhere like this.
But it's also off-kilter and unexpected in the way that the simulations had been - in the way of something that's designed to tire her out and make her question everything she thinks she knows and, eventually, destroy her. She doesn't particularly like that both things are true at the same time, that the conflicting feelings are all wrapped up in each other, but it is what it is.
She's not sure she totally gets the meaning behind the question, but Root does her best to answer honestly. With Shaw, she's abandoned trying to manipulate her long ago, certainly since her disappearance. She just treasures her being in her arms at all. Whether they're fighting or snuggling, she's just glad she's there.
"I've always been weird," she confesses. "And I'm still not convinced I'm not dead. Which is annoying, honestly, because I don't believe in the afterlife."
Logically, she should be dead, and this should be the afterlife. But there's nothing logical about life after death at all, so Root is being forced to question every basic tenant of reality as it is. Probably similar to what Shaw's going through with questioning whether this is a simulation.
"But so long as you're here, I won't take the chance that you're not real. Not my Sameen."
Her arms squeeze tightly around her, bracing, enough to suffocate. She couldn't live with believing the alternative, and betting wrong. Thinking Shaw was real -- real being a sentient, separate consciousness, an independent entity with a continuity to who Root had fallen for -- and being mistaken... that she could live with.
Ultimately, grudgingly, Shaw feels the same way: as much as both options would suck, she won't pick the one that risks actually hurting Root. The circumstances are different and so is the outcome, but to her, the decision not to assume she's a trick of the woods and walk away from her doesn't feel all that different from the choice to hold a gun to her head and pull the trigger. It's harm reduction, pure and simple.
"It's just annoying, being the only one that's weirded out by something," Shaw says - wriggling fussily in Root's grip, but pressing a palm to her arm to keep it mostly in place. "A lot of the people here are completely blasé about 'magic'."
Root knows what she means, but it's hard to articulate how to say it in response. She's sure Shaw is talking about the surrealness of constantly doubting whether she's experiencing reality or a simulation, but to Root it means something more, an intrinsic alienation from everyone else around her.
"Everything about this is weird, sweetheart," she answers, twisting so she pushes back against Shaw's fussing, pinning her half beneath her instead of spooning. "That doesn't mean it has to be all bad. Most people don't see it, don't know what they're looking at. But when we find something good, we have to hold onto it. Like I'm holding onto you."
Finding Shaw was magic. The existence of the Machine was magic. Root doesn't believe blindly, she thinks there's a rational explanation, but she believes.
She was pretty sure she read her correctly, so even though she's prepared to be wrong and genuinely checking in, there's more than a subtle note of teasing to her delivery. She knows Shaw is twice as strong as her and could flip her over any time.
"Sure, I love my ribs cracked and bruised." But she hears the genuine question underneath the teasing, so she adds, "You're fine. Might kick you off by accident in my sleep, though."
She generally prefers to sleep with her arms free and her frontal visibility unencumbered, but it's a lot easier to throw weight off her back in an emergency situation, so her conscious self is unbothered. Still, that doesn't necessarily mean that her unconscious self will agree.
She relents nonetheless, tugging them back to their original position with her as the big spoon. Something in her is calming, settling... a coiled-up part of her easing slowly into relaxation. Root isn't hypervigilant but she is normally vigilant, and it's been a wild few days preceded by immense stress.
"Fun later. I want you well-rested and awake when I pin you down."
It's flirtatious, teasing, but she's well aware they haven't crossed that line yet for real and she isn't taking it for granted. She presses her nose into Shaw's hair, eyes closing, but refrains from kissing.
When or if that moment happens, she's not going to waste it.
"I'm glad you're here," Shaw says quietly, so quietly that she's almost whispering the words. She reaches a hand out, fingers searching in the low light until they land on Bear's flank; he wiggles around to lick them. "You, too."
Shaw goes silent and still for a long time, after that: she twitches and shifts a little occasionally, but not in the way of someone who's truly uncomfortable. Her breathing is steady, like a sleeper's.
"I think there's something wrong with me," she says after a good half-hour has passed. She swallows. "Even more wrong with me than before, I mean. I'm being... changed."
Root's already drifted into dozing, exhausted and relieved; it takes a bit for her brain to kick into gear, process what she heard Shaw say. It's only thanks to her habit of sleeping with hair-trigger alertness that lets her catch it.
"Changed how?" she asks simply, waiting for more information before trying to reassure or address the problem.
Even though she's literally just chosen to voice the thought allowed, Shaw still hesitates. The change is still nothing more than a half-formed suspicion, and she's fully aware of how ridiculous this might sound.
"I'm stronger than I should be." Another swallow. "And anger... feels different. Like it's not my anger, but someone else's inside of me."
Root's been forced to accept a lot of ridiculous things already, and doubting Shaw isn't high on her list of options in any situation. She shifts, waking up a little more, drawing her arm up to trace her fingertips lightly up and down Shaw's arm where it's exposed on her side. She can be physically reassuring even if verbally she remains in threat-assessment mode.
"Are you worried about what you'll do?"
Stronger is something that can be proven empirically. The anger... is that what's bothering Shaw, or that she's changing at all?
And that's the thing: some of this change should be a good thing. Shaw, already in excellent shape even before she got here, has also been noticing a natural increase in her endurance levels and muscle tone, and the type of exercise she's been getting here is a very different sort from the type she'd gotten during soldier work. That's fine. That's great, in fact. But this is different.
She rolls over in Root's arms, expression dead serious as she faces her.
"If there's something inside me, how long until there's nothing left of me at all?"
How long until this unnamed thing makes her hurt people?
It's a legitimate question, and Root isn't going to brush it aside. But she can't form her own opinion yet until she learns more, and she's not the type to blindly agree with Shaw's perspective. Her loyalty is clear-eyed, and she likes to know the possible consequences.
"Slow down," she says, equally serious, mind fully jolting to awakeness now. The fire cracks and pops behind them. "Tell me what it's like. Start from the beginning."
She can't begin to handle the problem if she doesn't understand the full scope of what it is, and she guesses Shaw really isn't looking for empty reassurances here.
"Anger is the emotion I'm best at. But it's always been..."
She pauses, casting around for the most suitable adjective.
"Cold, hard, tight. I feel it, but it's still small and contained. Easy to control." She shifts restlessly in Root's arms, her brow furrowing. "Lately it feels hotter and bigger, like something burning inside me. It feel like if it got strong enough, I might not be able to control it. I might do things based on what the anger wants, not because of what I want."
The concept is familiar enough: she's well aware of how common it is for people to lash out, to let anger get the best of them, to act rashly because of it and then regret it later. But all the same, the idea of experiencing that herself is both strange and disquieting.
Maybe this seems obvious to Shaw, but it's new information for Root about how a person very precious to her works, and she holds it close inside. So she does feel anger, if distantly. More like a piece of information than a driving force, and maybe now she's feeling it that way for the first time, a pressure she can't ignore.
Root thinks this over, delicately and tenderly pushes some stray hair out of Shaw's face, tucks it behind the shell of her ear.
"You said I'm your safe place. That you couldn't hurt me. Is that still true?"
She's not looking for reassurance with this, either; she's going somewhere else.
It's said without hesitation - but since Shaw thinks she knows where she's going, it doesn't come without caveats.
"For now. But, Root-- I don't know if that'll always be true. There were simulations where I pointed a gun at you; where I told you I was going to kill you. I held out for a long, long time. But who's to say they won't get me there eventually?"
Her voice is quiet and controlled, but still tense. The way she mixes up the past and present tenses is the strongest sign of her being worked up.
"Oh, sweetie. I love that you don't want to hurt me."
It's very endearing, honestly. Both of them without speaking on it understand the difference between real harm and kinky fun; even when Shaw shot her in the shoulder early on, Root understood that as a leniency. Shaw's always gone soft on her compared to what she could do. Root, though...
She gently strokes the line of her cheekbone with a single fingertip, gaze piercing and direct and words so sweet it hurts her to speak. This is the most reassuring thing she can think of to say, to answer her real concerns rather than wash them over with platitudes.
"But I can hurt you if I need to. If you point a gun at me, I'm not going to just stand there like a weepy damsel. If I think you're losing control, I'll take care of it. I just need that one moment of hesitation where you're second-guessing whether you'll really take me out."
In a fair fight it's a real toss up who would come out on top, but Root never intends to fight fair. Shaw's skin is so soft against her fingers, hand cupping her jaw.
"The last time I had a gun out when I was losing control, you pointed your gun at yourself, not me," Shaw points out, grinding her chin down against Root's palm. Which, no, she doesn't actually think that Root would do that in every situation regardless of the context. But on the whole, she still wishes she'd gone for a takedown instead of brazenly offering to go all-in in a double suicide.
Root rolls her eyes. "Don't be petulant. Pointing it at you wouldn't have helped."
She'd made a read of the situation and in the heat of the moment made a decision. It'd worked, so she doesn't regret it. Not that it had been a bluff -- it wasn't -- but Root's not going to repeat it unless it's necessary.
"My point is, if I think you're not acting like yourself, I'll do something."
Shaw runs through a slow inhale-exhale cycle, taking the time to let the words and the sentiments behind them sink in. Root is a realist. Root isn't incompetent. Root gets things done. Root cares about her, and that means not letting her be controlled by some outside force. Would you kill me? she wants to ask, but she suspects that doing so might be cruel.
"Okay," she says instead, finding Root's hand with her own and pressing their fingertips together.
It would be a real cruelty to ask Root if she could kill Shaw, because she genuinely doesn't know. She thinks the answer is no, though. Root feels her own kind of moral absolute, and if she doesn't apply it to everyone, there's a few individuals it feels cuttingly, piercingly obvious for: Shaw can't die, Harold can't die, the Machine can't die. The circumstances don't matter.
She presses her fingertips against hers, the overall effect sure and strong but each individual finger weak in its isolation.
"You're the most important thing here to me," Root whispers. "You don't know what it's like to be overcome with rage, how to handle it. I'll handle it for you. Trust me."
Any gap, any weakness, Root will fill in. That's what she's been doing for Harold and for the Machine all this time Shaw was gone, and it's a profound relief, sweet and harsh, to find a new direction to put that certainty and commitment amid the bewildering disorientation of this place. What Shaw needs, she can be.
[ Let's say they're having a post-mission drink together. It's all very civil, sitting down in Carver's boobytrapped version of the subway station, pulled up on scavenged furniture around a scavenged table, bottle of decent but not great whiskey set up with shot glasses. Root is nursing hers rather than shooting -- it's just the glasses they have on hand -- and leaning back with all the leisurely satisfaction of a cat who did what they wanted and ignored all shouts to the contrary.
It was a good mission. They achieved their objectives and they worked well together, and watching Carver and Shaw relax afterwards like they don't have any other post-mission plans makes Root feel like now's the right time. It's not reckless; it's not impulsive.
She's been waiting. ]
So have you two done it yet? [ Maybe they were talking about something else, but now they're not. Root sounds interested, amused; she doesn't assume Shaw shares everything with her, wouldn't expect her to. ] Because I could cut this sexual tension with a knife.
[ He spent too much time in the infantry to spit his drink out when Root says that, but it sure does snap the conversation to a halt. They were just shooting the shit, not talking about anything important. Post-op comedown, the sort of thing he'd do with Leah and the others after a job back home. Or a raid after the world ended. He's nursing some bruises but nothing serious, nothing worth remembering once they fade. The alcohol's welcome, a reward for survival. And the company's good.
Little by little, day by day, he's found patterns with all of them. They make sense, this group. He has a place inside it.
Still, Carver's eyebrows go up. He lowers his glass. ]
[Shaw also does not spit-take: she just slooooooowly swivels her head to face Root, a very clear Why are you like this expression on her face.]
We are.
[But she says it like it's an aside; like the fact that they're together is completely irrelevant to the question that's just been posed. Exclusivity is not something that they've ever discussed, or even hinted at discussing, and somewhere along the line that lack of discussion had started to feel like a deliberate choice rather than an oversight. Shaw knows where she stands on the issue (she's capable of exclusivity, especially with someone who keeps her on her toes as much as Root does, but she also doesn't feel the need for it), and she trusts that if Root felt any particular way about it, she would have brought it up by now. So. They're together, and they'd still be just as together even if Shaw had fucked Carver.
Which she very emphatically has not.]
Sorry about her. I guess she's not holding the social skills ball today.
Don't be a stick in the mud, you know that ball is in my permanent possession.
[ There's a bit of a drawl to her tone, though, and a smirk to her lips. She knows exactly what she's doing; it's not lack of social skills at play here. And true to Shaw's thinking, the omission on discussing exclusivity was because Root didn't care in the slightest. She's not easily threatened that way. Sex is just an expression of physicality, and ultimately physical forms are ephemeral, easily betrayed, scarcely tangible. Nothing that truly matters happens in the physical realm; it's just for fun.
Case in point, she can tell there's something here, and maybe it's not happening in deference to her, which just means she's in the best possible position to stir up trouble. And give Shaw something she wants at she same time -- win/win. ]
I'll take that as a no. [ She slings one leg over the other, casual. ] Seems like a missed opportunity to me.
Carver considers that for a moment and then just finishes his drink with a philosophical shrug. It's not his business what they do on their off hours, not really, not unless it impacts unit cohesion. And even if it did, he's got no standing to call them on it. He looked the other way sometimes when some of the other Reapers paired off in the quieter moments. Pope wouldn't have liked it, but they were lonely, and the world was gone.
Shit happens. You survive how you can. ]
Don't make a habit of hooking up with my teammates, [ he points out softly. He outranked most of the Reapers; it wouldn't have been fair back home. ]
[Shaw sprawls out a leg to nudge Root's knee with her own.]
He's not interested.
[Which means she's just going to keep having to oogle at his muscles when he wears t-shirts and salivate over his handling of weaponry all by her lonesome. That's fine!]
[ Even with just this much, she's accomplished the goal of putting it on the table, making sure her existence and devotion to Shaw isn't a barrier to the two of them having sex. But Root will find an inch and push it to a full mile. ]
Please, Sameen. That's not what he said. [ There's a scolding tone, like she expects better from Shaw. This is why she holds the social skills ball in her permanent possession, honestly. ]
He's looking for reassurance that we won't make it weird. Don't worry, Brandon. [ She switches to meeting Carver's eyes on a dime, gaze utterly sincere and almost doting. ] We don't do this normally, either, but Shaw thinks you're really, really hot.
[ She's lucky Root cares about her enough to arrange her hookups. This isn't a service she offers to anyone else. ]
Carver, [ he corrects, rubbing his thumb along the rim of his glass. It's not said with malice, just a statement of fact. Only Leah ever calls him Brandon these days, a line he doesn't care to cross no matter how much he likes Shaw and Root. They make sense to him in a way the rest of this place often doesn't. And that, Carver knows, is a precious thing.
Still.
He tilts his head a little, watching both of them curiously. Wondering if this is Root playing a game just for the Hell of it, tossing out an offer to spin them both up just so she can laugh at the resulting chaos. If there is, indeed, resulting chaos.
They're both beautiful, Carver acknowledges. He has eyes. But it's rare that he allows himself to look at other people that way, for any reason. Why risk it, when so often strangers simply become targets?
These two haven't yet. They are, he realizes suddenly, the closest thing he has to friends right now.
He hums a little. Flicking his nail against the glass. ]
I am very pretty, [ he agrees solemnly. All these things are true. ]
[Shaw, who has up to this point been shooting Root the most exasperated series of looks, lolls her head to the side to eye Carver. Up and down. Slowly. As you do.]
You're too rugged to be pretty. I think you're hot. The right terminology is important.
[And then she goes back to glaring at Root. Just glaring, it should be noted; there are zero attempts made to actually do anything to stop this line of conversation.]
[ She was using his first name to tweak him, but Root won't keep doing it senselessly, just to be annoying. She'll save it for when being annoying serves her ends, like it did a moment ago. First she had to rile them up; now she has to get them talking. ]
And Shaw is, obviously, smoking, [ Root answers for him, though maybe a little impatiently. ] We're all attractive, we all know how to keep our lanes clear. We should at least discuss it. To stave off boredom if nothing else.
[ She's really very easily bored, and there's way too much downtime in Etraya.
To Carver, deliberately challenging: ] You wouldn't make things weird, either -- right?
[ Carver tilts his head back, watching them both. He almost starts to make a joke, something crude, something infantry, but he holds back. It doesn't have to mean anything, he supposes. He had his share of mostly anonymous hookups back in the day. Most of them were drunken. Some of them he regrets, but not all.
Perhaps most importantly, Shaw and Root aren't Reapers. There's a hierarchy still, but they're above him in it and don't seem inclined to abuse that fact. It could be simple. Maybe.
He doesn't say that it's been years since he's been with anyone at all. That he doesn't like touching people these days. ]
I wouldn't make it weird, [ he agrees, because that much is true. He's not a home wrecker. Whatever they've got going on, they can handle that on their end. ]
[Shaw makes a quiet sound in the back of her throat and slouches further in her chair, her eyes rolling up to study the ceiling. He won't make it weird, and as annoying as Root is being about the idea, it's not a bad idea. It's not necessarily something she would have proposed herself, but she can't deny that it's interesting. No, more than interesting - intriguing.
She licks her lips, then drops her gaze back down to the two of them.]
[ Root loves being annoying about good ideas. She realizes it makes her somewhat insufferable, but hey, that's part of the fun. As for whether it will mean something -- she's truthfully open to it either way. Root is an anarchist at heart, and she doesn't particularly care about labels. Carver can be a good time, and a team mate, and important-but-not-as-important as Shaw. Many things can be true at once. ]
Great, glad we established that, [ she says, still a bit impatient. She often feels like she's waiting for everyone else to catch up with her, and now's no different.
To Carver: ] To answer your earlier implied question, I don't mind if Shaw sleeps with whoever she wants, but sometimes her taste is... [ a delicate pause ] unfortunate. You, I like.
[ He tilts his head toward Shaw, assessing, then to Root. Wondering if this is all a grand joke they're having at his expense and whether he wants to be a good sport about it. There's nothing he gains from snapping at them, Carver supposes. He likes their company, both of them. They make sense and that's a precious thing in this world, easily lost, easily broken. ]
So. [ His tone is bland. He lifts his eyebrows in Root's direction. ] You wanna watch?
[ This is a joke if they laugh. Perhaps something more if they don't. He's deciding as they go. ]
[Shaw had been about to retort that her taste is great, actually, thank you very much; she has slept with some impeccable specimens. But then Carver asks his question, and squabbling with Root takes a backseat to sorting through the mental images that this suggestion has drummed up. She's not laughing. She is definitely not laughing. Give her a second.]
Hush, sweetie, we already know where you stand in this conversation.
[ She loves Shaw for many reasons, but really, there's just not a lot of people who would put up with Root's vaguely condescending and dismissive way of flirting. And she trusts Shaw loves her in whatever capacity she does, because frankly, who else would go to all this trouble to make the sexual scenario of her dreams? Root is such a considerate girlfriend. She knows what Shaw probably wants out of this and she's the one doing the negotiation.
Root smirks at Carver, stretching her legs out and leaning back leisurely in her chair. She sips her whiskey. ]
I won't even heckle, [ she says by way of answer, tone earnest. ] Might give some pointers, though, if you're open to it. I know how to read my girl.
[ Root, as she often does, seems perfectly content to arrange things. She’s got a tendency sometimes to say things seemingly to gauge the reactions or possibly just for the fun of it, a habit Carver shares and thus finds amusing when it’s aimed elsewhere. It makes things slightly more complicated in moments like this.
Even so, this doesn’t feel like a joke. Just a conversation they’re having.
He hums a little, considering them both. ]
It’s been a while, for me.
[ He’s not in any particular mood to explain why. But it ought to be said before this turns into something. ]
[Shaw punctuates this with a point in Root's direction, an exasperated look plastering itself across her face.]
No... sex commentary allowed, from anyone. Actually, you know what, never mind; I'm pulling out of this half-baked idea.
[This is absolutely not a serious threat. If it were, she'd leave the room. But instead, she stays put, and nothing about her body language or facial expression indicates anything but the most mild level of annoyance. Can you put up with their push-and-pull banter, Carver? Because that might actually be a prerequesite.]
[ That's practically a dare. Root pouts at her exaggeratedly, though of course on Root it's quite a believable expression until you know better. ]
I said I wouldn't heckle. You sure you're not interested? We can test that.
[ She places her glass of whiskey down, pushes her chair back, and climbs to her feet. She walks around the table not toward Shaw but toward Carver, expression open and mildly challenging, with a wicked edge like she's inviting him to pull a prank with her. ]
May I?
[ She's looking for a kiss, but is respectful enough to stop a foot away, not touching without permission. Root leans her hip against the table, facing him sideways. ]
[ This is the part, Carver supposes, where he ought to tap out if he’s going to tap out. They’re teasing the way he’d tease his brothers and sisters back when they were all playing infantry games, a familiar back and forth. If he’s going to flinch, best to do it now. They might tease but he doubts they’d push if he said no.
He watches Root move closer. Bright eyed and focused, as she always is. He takes in her expression, the jut of her hip, the way Shaw sasses back at her but doesn’t shut it down. Thinks, why not?
Really, why not?
He takes another drink, then sets his glass down with a definitive click and motions her closer with a jerk of his chin. ]
[Shaw has never considered herself to be interested in voyeurism. She's been in situations where someone made out with another person in front of her, with the aim of either titallating her or making her jealous or both; in every single one of those situations, it only ever bored her, annoyed her, or made her feel nothing at all.
This is different. Maybe it's because of who's involved, or maybe it's down to the intentions (Root clearly isn't trying to make her jealous, but Shaw also gets the feeling that turning her on isn't the only goal, either). She sits up straighter and scoots forward an inch or two on her chair, leaning in just a little. Continue, please.]
[ She's not trying to make her jealous in the traditional sense. More like she's relying on Shaw's sense of FOMO to kick in and get annoyed that she's being left out of the fun.
Carver's such a good sport, too, which gives him points in Root's book. She hadn't been totally sure how he'd take this -- the conversation itself or this direct request -- but so far she likes how easy it is, that he promised not to make it a big deal and then doesn't.
Permission granted, Root doesn't hesitate. She deliberately places one knee on the seat of the chair between Carver's legs, her hands settle on his shoulders, and she leans down and in. Root isn't deliberately commanding, but her unhesitating decisiveness almost demands everyone else come along with her or be swept away in her wake. You're either along for the ride or she's leaving you behind.
Their lips meet, hers supple from colored lip balm, and Root doesn't rush. She arches over him in what should be an awkward pose but instead comes across as coaxing, patient, a little teasing, fingers curling over his shoulders. How much does he want? She's good at reading physical signals. ]
[ This is uncharted territory for Carver, the sort of game he never played even before the world ended and certainly never this close to sober. In those days he’d either been with Riley or still in love with Riley after that door slammed shut and made him the kind of lonely that hung out in dive bars for a fight or somebody to yank him into the back alley; either way, the only kind of collision he could stand. He fears, quietly, that he’s got no talent for this sort of thing anymore. That he’ll only ever be a wound to other people and the least courtesy he can do to the ones in his orbit is not to infect them with his bullshit.
The thought is there. So are others, chief among them that he likes Root’s smile and the way she walks with her feet firmly planted in front of her, how every step is certain and she means to hold her ground against all challengers. And then her hands are on his shoulders, small but strong, and she kisses him almost gently. Not the way he’d expected, or maybe been braced for. Not with teeth.
Funny, that.
He’s still for a moment, considering that, and then his hands settle on her hips, squeezing faintly. It doesn’t feel awkward, not like he’d thought it would. He kisses her back because he can, because it feels good, and so little does these days. Well aware that Shaw’s watching and this both is and isn’t a game, so they might as well give it a good showing. ]
[Shaw wants to kiss him with teeth. Even more than that, she wants him to kiss her with teeth; she wants him to leave bruises on her skin with his mouth and his fingertips. She wants to run her hands over his chest, the way she sometimes imagines doing when she spars with him or watches him train with his whip - and the way that, she can't help but notice, Root is not doing. Yeah, sure, his shoulders are nice too, but not giving his chest even a little bit of attention is a damn tragedy. What a wasted opportunity.
She makes a small sound in the back of her throat - impatience, discontent, and okay, yes, a tinge of interest too - and paces closer, approaching from the side and circling them like a panther. Once she's gone about three-quarters of the way around, facing Root's back and Carver's front, she worms her way in a little more, bumping Carver's knee with hers and digging an elbow into Root's side. Move it. Let her in.]
[ Carver is also much sweeter than she's expecting, in a way that makes Root a little tender. Awww. Tough macho guy who could put her on the ground in a split second, and he likes her being sweet with him? That's definitely appealing in a way men usually aren't.
She feels Shaw ungracefully elbowing her and breaks off the kiss with an exhalation of laughter. ]
Don't look now, [ she murmurs, purposefully ignoring Shaw as she maintains eye contact with Carver and smirks. ] Sameen thinks I'm not kissing you right.
[ That's easy enough to tell in the impatience, and Root's assumption that Shaw is not out there looking for fuck buddies to have tender merciful sex with. ]
She wants to mark you up, [ Root whispers like it's a secret. ]
[ He can feel Shaw's movement like a physical weight settling over the room, even though she's quiet with how she places her feet. Deliberate about it. A good soldier, he thinks, even with Root pressing close and distracting him. He grins as Root breaks and Shaw comes in, her knee pressed against his. In a different moment it'd feel crowding, he thinks, uneasy, but it doesn't here.
Funny, that.
He squeezes Root's hips again, one eyebrow cocked. ] Not where people can see, [ is all he says. He doesn't mind carrying bruises. It's a reminder of the real.
Then he reaches out a hand, risking it, and touches Shaw's elbow. Tugging her closer. ]
[Stop reading her for filth, Root; it's annoying. She very deliberately gives Root her back, but in a way that's only meant to be a caricature of a rebuff; she'll play at ignoring her to make a point, but only because she trusts that Root won't actually feel rejected.
And maybe also because experience tells her that Root can do some very interesting things with her back, when she has the opportunity.
Carver, on the other hand, gets her full front as she lets him reel her in with that brief touch. Running her fingers lightly over the collar of his shirt, she wonders out loud:]
[ Root does not feel rejected. Root feels the self-satisfied amusement of someone whose ploy has worked perfectly, and now she gets to reap the rewards.
She steps back to let them have their first encounter without her muddling things up too much, wants to let them have a chance to find their physical dynamic on their own. Although she's more than happy to direct things or harass either of them, she does actually want them to enjoy themselves, which means she needs to pay attention first. Sex isn't something she does just to pass the time, despite what she'd said earlier -- and it isn't something she approaches lightly.
That doesn't mean Root is investing emotion into it, it means she's investing skill. Why do something if you're not going to do it well?
For now she presses up close against Shaw from behind and slides the fingers of one hand beneath her shirt at her hip, fingertips burrowing into skin over the iliac crest. ]
[ And now Shaw’s in front of him, all coiled strength and dark hair, her eyes watchful and focused. He’s always liked that about her, Carver thinks, but he never let it drift further than that. Sometimes he let his gaze linger for a moment but never any longer. Professionalism matters. Those lines, drawn ever so carefully in the metaphorical sand, matter. You have to know what you are. What your role demands and denies in turn.
But it’s been a long time since he’s let himself touch anyone like this, longer than he’d care to admit even if asked, and it feels good to reach for Shaw in turn. To know that Root’s gaze is on both of them now too, catlike and satisfied. He hadn’t realized he’d like that.
He watches Root’s hands on Shaw, holding her close, and thinks, all right. He hums and leans in to kiss Shaw briefly, testing the waters more than not, and then he leans back to shrug out of his jacket and then his shirt. Letting both fall. ]
[Maybe he's aiming for a brief kiss. When he starts to pull back, Shaw chases after him, stealing a few more kisses as he works his way out of his jacket and shirt. She's not particularly soft or gentle about it - her fingertips press into his skin, her mouth is hot and insistent against his - but she goes slow, savoring the experience. And once his chest is bare, she presses her palms flat against it, giving him a little push to tilt him back.
[ Root has never seen a line she didn't want to joyously, callously smudge into oblivion. Why do people keep limiting themselves? They only live once, and they're putting boundaries on it. It's a waste of time.
Being dead, Root can't stand to waste time, now more than ever. ]
Uh-uh, [ she whispers. ] Whatever you do to him, I'm going to do to you.
[ Maybe not in a perfect symmetry, but close enough. Root starts pushing her hands up, aiming to peel Shaw's shirt off of her, toss it to the side carelessly and set her teeth at her neck in tantalizing warning and promise. The tall line of her body curves over her like a vulture waiting for a chance.
[ Okay, then. Carver hesitates a moment, wary, but he liked kissing back in the day and he thinks he might still like it now. There are stakes here, but they aren't so high. You have to think of unit cohesion, how the group fits together and in what configurations. Jealousy's a poison best bled out early. But in the end, he doesn't think these two care about that. Their focus lies elsewhere.
This can just be a collusion. Momentary, pleasant, nothing much deeper. But Root's moving again, biting at Shaw's neck. It makes a nice picture. He presses into Shaw's hands, humming a little. Getting used to the sensation again. He used to like this part, too. A long time ago. And there's no reason not to try again, is there?
His hands find Shaw's hips, dragging up to cup her breasts. Why not, right? They can just be people for a little while. They can be bodies, all three of them. ]
[Root's whispered little promise pulls a moan out of Shaw, equal to the one that Carver elicits when he palms her chest (and this particular symmetry she likes, thank you very much). In other circumstances, with other people, it might have been embarrassing - but she knows that Carver is probably too busy reading too much into his own actions to give her shit for hers, she's long since moved past the point of embarrassment with Root. As long as she doesn't get too unbearably smug about how easily she can get Shaw to roll over for her, it's all good.
Someone less good at multitasking might put all her attention into doing to Carver what she wants done to her - or, alternately, would lose track of Root's intentions and focus solely on the man under her hands. Shaw doesn't have that problem. She leans her back into Root, but cranes her neck up, not breaking the liplock with Carver. She hooks a hand around his neck, holding him in place firmly enough to convey intentionality, but not so firmly that he couldn't easily break away if he chose to. Her shirt's off, his shirt's off-- and her other hand slooooowly trails its way down his chest and stomach, her fingers tracing the waistline of his pants. Just thinking ahead.]
[ Jealousy is the furthest thing from her mind -- if anything, she's thinking the opposite, about how to make sure this goes well. It's so easy for others to miss that Shaw doesn't actually want to be in charge all the time, and Root assumes most of her prior lovers have required training or otherwise been profoundly unsatisfying.
They haven't talked about it explicitly, but Root puts a tremendous amount of thought and energy into understanding Shaw, and she has a natural facility for human connection besides. She usually finds people tedious, but she wouldn't be such a good manipulator and identity chameleon if she didn't have a base aptitude for them. So although they've had sex comparatively few times, Root is confident she has an accurate read on Shaw's sexual tastes. Therefore, she's being quite deliberate in making sure Carver notices how Shaw likes things. He said it had been a while for him and he was open to direction; Shaw is amusingly bad at communicating; Root sees a perfect place to step in.
Mirroring what she's doing exactly would make for awkward body mechanics, which just gives Root an excuse to remove her mouth from Shaw's neck and replace it with a hand, arm wrapping around her and palm settling over her throat. She gives only a subtle squeeze, meant to tease and not take over the scene.
Her other hand slides down to tease lower, fingers slipping past waistline just as hers search out Carver's. ]
[ Okay, Carver thinks, smiling at that noise Shaw makes. He likes the way she cups his skull with her hand, holding him there. Not pinning, but directing him. And it's easy to follow; he's good at that. Easy, too, to watch how Root moves. To take note of how she and Root fit together, the ways they bend. The hand Root puts around Shaw's throat like a promise.
His stomach tightens but he squeezes Shaw's breasts again, figuring out what pressure she likes. Maybe she likes to be contained the same way he does, sometimes. There'd be symmetry in that.
He doesn't flinch at Root's hand. Just lifts his hip and undoes his belt to help her, because that's easy. ]
Don't touch my scars, [ he murmurs, because he knows they're ugly - that dappling of keloid tissue over his hip, the knife and gunshot scarring on his back. He can still feel things there, just muted. He leans forward and sucks a mark into Shaw's throat, just because. ]
[Don't touch the incredibly sexy scars. Okay. It's a little disappointing, because she's itching to explore them, but she can rein in the impulse.]
You can touch mine.
[She tells him, low in his ear, as she guides one of his hands to her lower back. Her own scars aren't so dramatic - there are a few burn marks back there, as well as the bumpy aftermath of several stitch-jobs done in the field - and they're all easily covered up by clothing. But she can mentally match each one to a past job, most of them years old.
His hand on her chest is nice. But it's his hand here that makes her pulse quicken.]
[ Root isn't in a hurry; Carver undoes his belt and she flicks the top button open with a teasing nudge against the hollow part of his navel, then pulls her hand back and does the same to Shaw, leaving their flies open but unexplored. ]
If she can't mark you where people can see, you should mark her, [ she suggests helpfully. Her hand on Shaw's throat squeezes once, playful. ]
Don't be nice. She likes it with an edge -- and we don't need to hide you.
[ Ah. That gets a reaction, muted though it is. But this close, their hands all caught up in each other, Carver marks the way Shaw's breathing changes when she guides his hands to her back. He smooths his palms over her skin, feeling out the change in textures. The topography of scars even as Root squeezes Shaw's throat.
Don't be nice, Root advises, and Carver grins at her. There have to be rules, he knows. There have to be rules when people touch each other because otherwise it turns into something else. But it's not so hard to figure out here. He hums a little and digs his fingers into the line of an old burn scar just to see what it makes Shaw do. ]
Heard, [ he replies, teasing a little. Eyes bright as he watches them, brighter still as he leans in and presses a biting kiss to Shaw's throat. ]
[ Root is a good enough hacker that almost no one knows she exists, and those that do know were willing to pay a premium price for her services when they were for sale. So there's really no call to have this meeting in person, except she's curious, and still debating whether she wants to go along on this job herself. With the life she leads, she figures she doesn't have a lot of years left until she dies somehow, and that sharpness lends a clarity of purpose that makes her utterly unflinching.
Die now, die tomorrow, die next year -- who cares, as long as she makes sure it's worth something. She wants to enjoy what time she has.
She's not going to pass up an opportunity to meet Deadpool. His whole reputation is ludicrous and wildly conflicting. Having access to dark web conversations just makes the whole thing even more confusing, because it's not like they're reliable sources, and they often contradict one another -- and the Machine, who of course knows everything there is to know about everything, doesn't give her info just for the hell of it. She's meticulous in her ethics that way, Root thinks fondly. Like father, like daughter. No, the Machine gives her just enough to do what she needs to do and nothing more.
So here's Root swanning into a dive bar like she owns the place. She'd given him a location and time to meet and said she'd find him, but nothing more. She's a tall spindly woman in fashionable yet unremarkable black, and she has two pistols tucked into the small of her back under her jacket, a knife handle sticking out of her boot, and a cochlear implant subtly visible through her hair over her right ear.
There's a bright, interested air about her like she's going on a fun jaunt, and she strides right up to Deadpool without an ounce of hesitation. ]
Are we having a drink first or right to business?
[ She's down with either one, but she's at least going to ask -- Root is highly social but also hates most of humanity, meaning when she comes across a novelty she just wants to dig in. ]
[It’s not completely unheard of for a client to request to meet in person, but it’s not necessarily typical either. The type of clients that Wade attracts (people with special needs) garner a certain level of discretion by nature. He’s sometimes done entire jobs without ever seeing a client’s face or even knowing their real name. Risky, yes, but the payoff is usually proportional.
Wade is admittedly more particular about the jobs he takes these days than he’s been in the past. There are reasons for that. Nothing’s ever completely off the table though.
New York City is one of Wade’s old haunts. Even if he doesn’t live here anymore, he finds himself drawn back often. He’s already built up a reputation here, for one. It’s also the territory of several people of interest— heroes, villains, goons, you name it. He’s familiar with the little dive bar his client pinned as their meeting point, and he’s actually a little glad to settle into a dim corner and wait. There aren’t many bars that accommodate guests like him, and thankfully this is one of them.
The woman that eventually approaches him is beautiful, yes— Wade has eyes and they work, thank you very much— but she’s also got an air of confidence that piques his interest.]
Hey, sweetheart. Not that I think just anyone’s gonna come strolling up to a heavily armed masked man sitting in a dark corner alone— kinda cliché, now I think about it— but you mind identifying yourself first? Think of it as a formality.
[He cocks his head slightly, clearly taking notice of the pistols she’s packing herself.]
Then I’ll buy you a drink, promise. Got my customer service face on and everything.
[ Root's never really lived in New York City, but she keeps coming back here, too. At first just because it's a population nexus, so there's a lot of jobs here and it's a convenient place to get lost in and restock -- but now because Harold is here, and that also means Shaw is here, and Root has to stop back in and check on her people every so often.
It's strange, having people. Strange and precious, something she'd walk off a roof rather than betray.
Her confidence isn't arrogance; it's someone who knows exactly who they are, where they're going, and what they're willing to do to get there. Root isn't fearless, she's determined. And she's determined she's going to follow the Machine to the end of her days. The Machine wants her here right now, so she's here. That the Machine approved this meeting also means the Machine thinks Deadpool wouldn't really be a threat to her at the moment, whatever his reputation.
And isn't that interesting?
She gives an easy smile that has the same insouciant edge as batting her eyelashes would. ] Most people aren't any fun that way, it's true. I'm Root. [ She'd identified herself that way online when reaching out to hire him, and she has a reputation of her own inasmuch as no one anywhere is willing to admit to knowing who she is. One of her personal costs of doing business. ]
Make it something with whiskey.
[ And she sits herself down at his table, apparently content to let him handle ordering, buying, and waiting on her. ]
[Identity checks out, so Wade doesn’t protest when she slides into the seat adjacent to him at the table. He’s not sure he would have regardless. Again, she’s interesting— enough that he likely would have entertained her even if she had nothing to do with the job. He’s maybe a little too enthusiastic when he waves someone down to bring them some drinks.
He does order himself something too. The alcohol doesn’t really do much for him, but there’s a social aspect to it, especially when dealing with clients. Wade leans forward in his seat, clearly broadcasting his interest.]
Okay, Root. Not often I get these kind of calls, so this is a novelty. But I totally get it. [A little hand wave here.] Curiosity got the better of you? Couldn’t resist meeting the man, the myth, the legend in person? I am pretty popular these days. Sorry, no autographs at this time.
[He’s ordered himself a heavy-handed cocktail and stirs it with the straw a bit when it’s placed in front of him. He doesn’t lift his mask any to drink just yet.]
Unless you’ve got another reason? [Just a light probing.]
[ Root had asked in the first place for the social aspect -- it's a clear signal that she's open to talking about more than just the job, and he'd taken her up on it, whether or not he actually does any drinking. She gets the vulnerability inherent in raising his mask at all, and she's not going to press on that. (She does have social skills, and sometimes she even uses them for good.)
She's not planning on doing a lot of drinking herself, just sips her old fashioned and uses the glass as a prop to keep her hands occupied. ]
Nope, just curiosity, [ she admits, completely lacking in shame. She's still smiling, amused, swirling her drink a bit. ]
My boss suggested you for this job, and she's... picky. [ That little hesitation was just Root finding the truthful yet privately funniest word possible to use there. ] Usually I can handle things on my own, so when she suggests someone else, they tend to be someone special.
[ In one way or another. Sometimes they're special because they're one of Root's former victims, and the Machine wants her to face that, or because they have a unique particular quality that they need for this specific thing. But they are all special, and anyone who gets the Machine's attention, Root is interested in. ]
[Wade is also using the drink more as a prop for now. He tries to remember if she’d mentioned anything specific about her boss when she’d put in the job, but nothing comes to mind. He does preen a bit at what he thinks is a compliment.]
Your boss? Do I know your boss? I mean… clearly she has good taste.
[He’s pretty sure he would have remembered someone like Root if they’d spoken before. But it’s possible that Root’s mysterious boss had used another liaison or reached out to him directly if they’d worked together in the past.
If they haven’t… well, maybe his reputation is just preceding him here. That’s not entirely unheard of either.]
[ In Root's eyes, it is a compliment, and the Machine does of course have good taste. How many billions of people is the Machine keeping track of, and one individual sticks out to her for any reason? It's like getting the passing acknowledgement of a god -- flattery in itself. ]
No one knows my boss except me, and she doesn't tell me much.
[ Root shrugs and takes a measured sip of her whiskey. That's mostly accurate, and a way of dodging the real question. ]
But wherever she gets her information, she's never wrong, which means you're the right man for the job. How do you feel about being the good guy for this one?
[Wade seems just a little apprehensive when Root mentions some of the specifics— Nothing that he’s opposed to, but Wade has a complicated history when it comes to being the “good guy.” Thankfully this is just work; putting it in the context of a job means it’s just another box for him to check off.
He’s still curious about her boss but decides to go along with the change of topic for now.]
Hey, you’re paying. Heroics aren’t really my… area, but I’ve been known to moonlight on a team or two. What’s the job?
[He does finally peel his mask up just enough to hook over his nose, revealing some of the scarred skin underneath. He pulls the straw out of his drink and takes a generous sip, the burn of the alcohol pleasant even if it won’t leave any lasting effects.]
[ She doesn't react in the slightest to the reveal. Root's version of 'good guy' is maybe a little... malleable. Hey, she leaves people alive when the Machine tells her to, mostly. And she's trying to do something meaningful with her life now rather than just surrendering to the inevitable entropic decline of the universe, so really, she's made a lot of progress. But she will absolutely still use a power drill on a suburban mom's hand if the situation calls for it.
There's maybe some of that in the carelessness of her response. ] I told you, she always picks people for a reason. It's not that kind of heroics.
[ Root actually doesn't know what the job even is until that precise moment when the cochlear implant in her right ear sparks to life and tells her, inaudible to anyone else. It's only a momentary pause and then she continues smoothly. ]
Some kind of mess the CIA is making overseas; I don't have all the details yet. But it must be big if she thinks I can't handle it. [ She actually pouts. ] You're going to have all this fun without me.
[ It is sometimes difficult to tell if Clea's atelier is a workshop or a terrarium, hot and humid as it is. The reason can be found in the gigantic glass enclosure that wraps around two walls of the room, full of tropical plants, logs, and caves as well as one very large boa constrictor. A few smaller enclosures can be found on the opposite wall. ]
Shoes, s'il vous plait.
[ She reminds the other woman with a gentle chide, not looking up from where she's sitting at a vintage hardwood desk, sorting through the photography from her recent trip to the Amazon. Most of the photographs have been placed in the 'lacking' pile, but there are a small number of which Clea approves. She holds a photograph of a small brightly colored frog up above her head, examining it with a frown, going back and forth on its merits.
If she must question, it is a no.
She adds the photograph to the pile of rejects and finally turns to give her 'guest' her full attention.
There are few people Clea allows in her atelier out of a desire to preserve her privacy, but she is one of them. If one wishes to acquire interesting goods, one must make interesting friends, and the best way to ingratiate oneself is to provide services. The jobs provide a suitable challenge and a network which is unburdened by questions of legality, though Clea prefers to keep herself away from the messier side of that world: she's not trying to end up bleeding out in an alley like a common thug. ]
It's been a long time. I was beginning to think you'd become banal - acquired a husband, children, and a golden retriever. Please do not ask for a donation to a children's school.
[ Her voice has a teasing lilt to it, as the notion is ridiculous. ]
What name are we using today, madame?
[ It is fascinating how the other woman so readily inhabits her personae. Clea has never had a talent for acting or disappearing; she is too much herself. Yet this woman is an actress par excellence of the deepest sort, entirely subsuming herself and yet never being lost. ]
For you, chérie, just Root today. If that isn't too prosaic.
[ She does have a fake identity she's working under currently, of course, but it doesn't matter. Root is here on the Machine's orders, specifically as herself -- which is interesting. It's almost like a personal gift if she didn't know better. Root loves puzzles, and excuses to see people she likes -- and she hasn't had much downtime since she decided to follow the Machine. Not that she's complaining (never) but she is, unfortunately, a flesh and blood human who can't go on endlessly.
She's sure this little assignment isn't solely for her benefit, though she does think that might be a secondary motive. The Machine doesn't play matchmaker for her agents' primate social needs, not past that one time when she was young and she introduced Harold to Grace. No, the Machine never tells her much, and in this case it was even more minimal than normal: visit Clea. Someone she hasn't seen in years but has thought about quite a few times since. It's rare that Root clicks on a personal level with someone, and when she does, she latches on. Not tightly -- she's like a cat, always leaving to do her own things but coming back routinely for treats and attention -- but assuredly, leaving no question of her attachment.
Root pauses momentarily to kick off her three inch heels as directed, leaving her in sheer black pantyhose and an understated color-block dress, hair artfully tousled in a chignon. She could be any well-dressed professional Frenchwoman wandering in off the street.
Leaving the shoes carelessly to the side, she pads over in stocking feet to examine the pile of pictures, head tilting to orient them better. A smaller, more honest smile finds its way onto her face. ]
These are the rejects, right? [ she asks, taking a guess. ] Can I have one?
[ Though she would never admit to anything so gauche, Clea does feel a sense of pleasure at the address: Root has never struck her as the sort of woman to bandy about endearments. Clea watches Root approach with interest, looking her up and down to appraise today's presentation. It stands in contrast with Clea's own, as the artist had intended to devote the entirety of the day to working and had dressed accordingly in flowing, impeccably tailored linens allowing for freedom of movement, shirt sleeves rolled up past her forearms and hair tied back in a braid.
Clea's grey eyes flicker over to Root. She wonders what the purpose is of Root's visit: It has been some time since she's requested any of Clea's services. ]
If you insist, though you deserve better.
[ Why she would want one from the rejects, Clea isn't certain. The photographs Root sees all look like they could easily belong in a nature photo exhibition - photographs of exotic flora and fauna both - but in each Clea has identified what she's determined is a glaring flaw.
Clea draws out a photograph from the much thinner pile of those that had met her standards and passes it over to Root for inspection: A large white bellied Caiman alligator in the midst of preying on an anaconda, mouth having just clamped down on the doomed snake. The two animals are framed by lush green leaves and bright blooms - a multilayered photograph Clea had painstakingly developed in the old way in a darkroom.
It's a much more interesting piece than the ones Root is considering. ]
[ Root says plenty of things she doesn't mean -- she lies constantly, from her name to her accent to her personal investment in someone -- but if she's here today as Root, that means she's not here to lie. She knows how to interpret it when the Machine gives an instruction like that.
Which means the term of endearment is perfectly genuine and not flippant, and Clea's insistence that Root deserves better provokes an amused widening of her smile. ]
It's hard for me to hold onto material objects these days, so I didn't want to take any of your good ones, [ she explains, which is perfectly true. ] But I can still appreciate them.
[ She examines the one Clea is silently suggesting. ]
I like it. Comforting to think you haven't changed much, either.
[ What a life that must be. Clea is no gauche consumerist, running out to purchase the latest plastic doodads to fill the void in her soul, but she does take pride in curating her environment and her belongings. She finds joy in the craftmanship of her clothing, the carved wood of her furniture. She enjoys the history of her home and the atelier, places full of history and secrets.
She hands the violent photograph to Root, holding it in the air between them. ]
I will consider it like a zen garden or mandala: Enjoy it in its transience.
[ Clea smiles at the compliment, for that is certainly what it is. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms far above her head and arching her back. She's been sitting too long. ]
[ Root has almost nothing she physically holds onto. If she stays somewhere longer than a few weeks, which is rare but does happen, she'll start to accumulate possessions -- but she's prepared to leave them all behind at a moment's notice, everything from top to bottom. She can pick up new things on the go as she needs them, whether that's stealing or legitimately buying them somehow. It doesn't matter. The things that are important are completely immaterial.
Like Clea offering to give her one of the photos she feels passes muster nonetheless. There's a softer edge to her smile as she takes it from her, and now she's looking at Clea instead of the photograph, watching her stretch and propping her hip against the desk in sly suggestion. ]
At the atomic level, nothing has a definite measurable position or trajectory, [ Root offers, which is her way of flirting. Her appreciation of math and science occurs at an almost transcendental level, something she feels in her soul, something better than and beyond humanity. ] It's true transience. The act of measuring it alters it, meaning if you can measure one aspect, you can't know the other.
[ Root is not a soft person. That is what makes drawing out traces of it so satisfying - as an artist, Clea works to draw out things from people they don't know exist within themselves. For the average person, that is discomfort. Violence. Their primal selves. Root is in touch with that aspect of herself. No. From this woman, Clea delights in finding the pleasures.
And so she is satisfied both with the smile, soft and hidden, and with the way Root's eyes follow Clea's movements. As intended: Clea has been trained to perform, to inhabit her body for the viewing of others, and she knows how to draw eyes. She knows that the way she arches her back creates a pleasing curve that complements her body, knows it places her chest in the sunlight and reveals she wears nothing beneath her linen shirt.
She can't help but smile as Root starts talking, offering up fundamental facts about the universe like a penguin offers a pebble.
Clea spends most of her days around people who would not know authenticity if it hit them over the head. They crave it, chase it, and yet every aspect of their being is measured and polished. There is something charmingly real about Root's responses, and there is something wonderfully complex about that realness coming from someone who so frequently inhabits lies. ]
And yet larger things can be measured. It is interesting how reality can simultaneously contain so many different natures, all of them true.
What is beautiful in it to you?
[ The question is genuine. Clea looks at her expectantly. ]
[ Root pretends to be soft to lure other people in, takes full advantage of the natural assumptions people make about a tall thin woman with a sweet face and a kind voice. It's one of the reasons she so rarely feels known and accepted; she knows that who she really is isn't someone most people are comfortable with. In a funny way, getting past the exterior layer reveals only a middle layer of cold callousness, and beneath that is only where she's able to be vulnerable and express true softness like this. Which she does long to do sometimes.
However cynical she is, however many people she's killed and tortured and is willing to do so again, Root is just a person. She does want to be understood. It's a very unfortunate human failing that she is not exempt from.
Sexual interest is at least a human failing she doesn't mind so much. Not that she'd ever make it easy for someone she was genuinely interested in. Where's the fun in that? Clea asked, so she's going to be subject to Root waxing eloquent instead of leaning into the flirting. One of these is a much rarer opportunity than the other for Root. ]
I used to get upset about the inevitable cosmic entropy of the universe, [ Root says thoughtfully, answering obliquely. Like Clea perceived, it's a more authentic sort of response, her real thoughts, unpolished. ] Humanity is disappointing and we're only going to get worse with time.
[ She pauses. ]
But now I think if each of us is a flare, just a speck in the infinite, that means we can do anything, be anything. If it's impossible to measure that means it's impossible to define, no permanent end state.
[ The truth is, she found something that gave her hope, and Root is both in awe of that and overwhelmed by it. Root is always unapologetic about her decisions, but she knows she'll die for this one, and she's betting sooner rather than later. It lends a quiet urgency to her words as the bottom layer, beneath the higher layers of light humor and sarcastic self-awareness. ]
I did change, just a little. That I did surprised me.
[ Clea listens. She turns her body toward Root, giving the other woman her full attention. Root does not strike Clea as a woman who speaks honestly - truly and authentically - often. Fortunately for Root, she is also not boring, so Clea actually enjoys having her as a conversational partner. If she did not, she would not have indulged her and would have kept their interactions strictly professional.
Root expresses the sentiment differently than Clea would have, coming at it from a different angle, but it's a sentiment that Clea can nevertheless understand. It also speaks well of Root's character that she does express the sentiment at all: too many people who are enamored of computers, science, and technology are locked in a perpetual search for The Answer. Which does not, of course, exist. ]
After my brother died, I could only look upon the future with despair. My parents ceased to care for themselves and my injured sister, so they all became my responsibility.
[ She'd spent her days in drudgery: making certain nobody found her parents in the Canvas while ensuring their bodies were cared for. Caring for Alicia herself after the first nurse had tried to sell pictures of her maiming. The world was full of vultures: her family's seclusion had been interesting. Paperwork, planning, and caretaking, day after day. Clea hadn't even wanted to leave their manor: if her sister's friends could betray her, who was to say Clea's would not do likewise? ]
When I considered my life in the future, it was with perpetual weights on my neck, sinking me down into weeks and years of being as a pack mule or a servant.
[ A sentiment many would consider horrific. Caretakers were supposed to be happy for their burdens, to be positive and act only out of love. They weren't supposed to have any feelings about what they placed aside. Clea was supposed to welcome the idea of being her sister's advocate and caretaker for the rest of their lives, for decades, even as it was thrust upon her as suddenly as the injury had been on the remaining younger sibling. She was not supposed to resent the constraints this placed upon her ability to live her own life. ]
I only considered surprise to be a negative at that point. Surprise had stolen my brother and my life from me.
[ And so, for some time, it had provided no succor. ]
Then, someone I had known as a child and moved away returned unexpectedly, and she came calling. We ended up in a small shop, trying lavender ice cream together. She had not been in any of my thoughts of the future. She had been a surprise, but a welcome one.
It served as a reminder that the future is not set in stone.
[ It's typical Root to drop in on someone she hasn't seen in years and immediately lapse into a conversation about the entropic state of the universe and whether it's possible to find hope in that immutable decay. Then again, this is precisely why Clea even knows her as Root -- she'd been drawn to this early on, and curiosity is a precious thing for Root to feel about another person, something she nurtures. She can tell there's a heaviness to Clea's past that's honed her to an edge, like a chisel chipping off pieces of stone until it reveals the barest, most minimal form underneath. She's always liked that.
Even so, she remains convinced the Machine did not send her here for her benefit. Which means she listens to Clea's story with personal interest, and with something more. Something sharper. ]
I don't get surprised very often, [ Root confesses, because existence was for so long just drudgery to her. ] But you've always managed to surprise me.
They tried to contain you, but you're too much to be contained. If it wasn't that visitor and that ice cream it would've been something else. You got out of there somehow -- that part was inevitable.
[ She's here today, so she must have. Root is openly admiring, not a trace of reservation in her praise. It's vanishingly few people she has anything complimentary to say about, but those few, she's effusive. And she's become even less reserved since falling in with the Machine. ]
You were never meant to be subservient. To anyone.
[ Clea is pleased that she is a source of surprise. That she adds some of that all-important entropy to the other woman's life. She does strive to be interesting. She could have easily rested on her parents' laurels and name and spent her life creating insipid 'art', or singing absurd songs others wrote that contained as much intellectual substance as cotton candy.
Instead, she has devoted her life to the esoteric and the odd, to plumbing the depths and crannies of the human experience and rendering them. To reminding people that there is more in heaven and Earth than is dreamed of in their philosophies.
To have succeeded with a woman with such a unique life is a source of pride.
To be so admired by a woman with such a unique experience is a source of pleasure. Clea smiles. It is not a soft expression: there is an fierce edge to it, a glint in her eyes. It is an expression of triumph. ]
That is true. I wish I had photographed my parents' faces when they realized I'd taken custody of my sister.
[ They had thought she was bluffing. That they could remain in their fairy tale world playing games while their lives burned and Clea would do nothing.
Clea leans forward and gives Root her full attention, grey eyes examining her thoroughly, as she would any piece of art. ]
You are more yourself than you used to be.
[ Hmm. No. That is not correct. Root has always been herself, even underneath the mask. ]
You exist in more of your potential space than you had before. You grow in many directions instead of one.
[ Root doesn't like soft things, so she adores Clea's resulting smile. She's drawn to anything she can't easily explain that's also sharp enough to cut her if she isn't careful. It's the danger, but also the intellectual wonder. Not just mysteries for the sake of being mysterious, but something tangible and real that she can play with yet can't quite control, not just something to be turned over in her mind.
Then Clea compliments her back, and it's a direct demonstration of how she manages to surprise her. Root is not naturally shy -- she doesn't exactly break eye contact -- but she deals with her resulting emotions by putting on a show under Clea's direct scrutiny. She straightens from where she was leaning against the table and reaches up, pulling the hair sticks out of her hair that keep her chignon in place. With a quick shake of her head, the waves of hair fall around her. Everything is done with the smoothness of someone who inhabits their body utterly, every inch possessed willfully.
Her dress is revealed to be two deceptive pieces when she reaches in at the waist to slyly draw out a tiny handgun she'd been concealing. She leans to the side and places it on the desk with a soft clink. ]
I bet you say that to all the girls.
[ She knows, of course, that she doesn't. ]
I found someone, [ she confesses. ] She can see everything in me, every potential. And she thought in there was something good.
[ Grey eyes remain focused on the other woman, watching her movements with undisguised interest, the way her hair cascades down her shoulders, the precise motions that Root is taking to make it fall so sweetly. She's been given a show, and peeling back the layers to get a look at the performer results in a deeper appreciation: To know that everything Root does is deliberate and an attempt to provoke a reaction in Clea. Root is trying for her. It warms Clea's heart - and other parts.
How lovely.
Clea raises an eyebrow when Root places the handgun on the desk. ]
Ah, so it was a gun. I thought you were just happy to see me.
[ A jest, lobbed in return for Root's. She can tell Root is happy to see her and she doesn't require reassurance. Clea listens to Root's confession as seriously as any priest does a congregant's confessions, holding the sentences in her mind as though they are made of ceramic, delicate and worthy of being handled with care.
This is not something that Root would tell most people. ]
I am pleased to hear that, though I hope you eventually come to believe that about yourself internally.
[ Relying on someone else for one's sense of self-esteem is not a good practice to get into. ]
Mmm...you didn't come here to ask me to help you move in with her, did you?
[ Root laughs both at the bad joke and at the idea that she'd be moving in somewhere with the Machine. One of the things she does best for her is be ready to go anywhere on Earth at a moment's notice, and she knows it -- takes pride in it, what she can do for her as her analog interface. ]
I really haven't gone domesticated, I swear.
[ But she is certainly trying for Clea. Root spends most of her life acting a part of some kind, and she doesn't mean that in a self-pitying way. She arranged things like that; she'd sought it out, because she's good at it. She just doesn't get to often turn that skill to coaxing reactions out of someone she likes on a personal level.
It's gratifying to do. It feels... sweet, when she is rarely sweet. ]
I don't hate myself, [ Root clarifies, voice easy, not trying to prove a point. Just explaining. ] I'm fine with being who I am. But there's not too many other people that feel the same way. [ She's a tough pill to swallow and she knows it, has always found herself lonely, always found other people eminently disappointing time and time again. ]
I got out of the killer for hire business. She wants me to help people, and I guess I am. That's what I'm doing now. Kind of crazy, right?
[ It doesn't take long after he arrives for Root to come visiting and introduce herself. Harold gave her some warnings, which just makes her more curious. She also knows Carver enough at this point to have certain expectations formed, and she wants to see how right her hypotheses are. (Carver has probably given Bossie some warnings about her, for that matter. He'd be silly not to, and he did not seem silly.)
She comes swanning up to the subway entrance and stops in front of the vending machine. She stares unerringly and acutely directly into the surveillance camera. ]
Knock knock, [ she says brightly.
Root is a slender woman on the taller side dressed in a cutesy cotton summer dress. Her hair is perfectly curled into artful tumbles and she has a discreet little purse just large enough to contain a Taser, a handgun, and the secondary network device Harold had put together. A girl always needs the essentials. ]
I don't want you to let me in, [ she clarifies, dropping the pout. ] I want you to come out.
Can't hide in your apocalypse bunker all the time!
[ She's heard and/or guessed that they have some major PTSD going on, so Root is perfectly deliberate in trying to pry Bossie out of their safehouse. ]
[ God forbid they have a second person on the team who doesn't act like socializing is pulling teeth. Incredible. Root brightens with a smile and starts flouncing away to the stairs and up to the street level. ]
Harry got the big lug a sailboat -- have you seen it? It's been a while, but I'm sure I could figure out how sailing works.
[ And if she doesn't and they capsize, who cares? That's ridiculously tame consequences by Root's usual standards. ]
[ That makes her smile widen, eyes returning to the road as she follows the GPS to the next off-ramp. ]
That's the spirit. We're stopping for gas -- you'll have to stay in the car, but I'll grab you a snack. And that coffee.
Any requests?
[ Another little choice, a light push to get him used to thinking about making his own decisions.
They're in upstate New York in a heavily wooded rural area, the isolation convenient for the research facility. It's too dark to see much at the moment, but the trees are sprayed with color as the leaves turn for the winter, and the road winds beside the craggy cliffs of old mountains. They're going to be driving for hours to make it back to the city, and Root is certain there's a detour with a good view that the Machine can find, even if it will be in the middle of the night. ]
[Accelerator frowns faintly at having to stay in the car, but he understands why and doesn't argue. Besides, seeing so much outdoors is still pretty overwhelming to him, so staying in an enclosed space separated from all that nature is probably a good thing.]
I don't know. [He, sadly, does not have a lot of experience with gas station snacks, though he still takes Root's question seriously and thinks for a few moments.] Anything that goes with coffee.
[That seems like a safe bet, and after everything that just happened he could use something to eat.]
[ Root greatly appreciates how sensible Accelerator is as she pulls into a gas station and slips out of the car. They're still remote enough that it's a quiet place, the lights glaring and abrupt amid the darkened landscape, one solitary employee half-asleep inside at the counter.
She pays with cash, naturally, but is otherwise a perfunctory whirlwind filling up the gas tank and sweeping through the convenience store. When she returns, she opens the door and leans in to dump a plastic bag on Accelerator's lap before taking the driver's seat again. There's four cold cans of coffee, two black and two milk-sweetened, and a small assortment of snacks from shortbread to granola bars to gummies. ]
[Accelerator peers into the bag, rifling through it right away. All of this stuff is very new to him, so he can't help being curious.]
Fine.
[Okay, fine, he can share. He pulls out the two cans of black coffee, quick to open one up and take a sip. It's way more bitter than he's used to and he makes a face, but it's also got more flavour than the garbage he had to eat in the facility. So after a moment of thought, he takes another sip and pulls out a granola bar.]
Unless you got driving lessons between all the inhumane science experiments, I'm gonna be the one driving all night, [ she points out.
Root accepts the coffee, pops the can open, and has herself situated and on the road again all while she answers. There's a vitality, almost a perpetual urgency, to her now that she's not pretending to be Caroline Turing -- and her speech itself is brighter and sharper, less measured. ]
Just some snacks. Save some peach rings for me.
[ Extremely critical driving fuel. No, she's really just saying that to tweak him, purposefully acting casual about it all even though she knows every single thing in that bag is likely new to him. They're for him, not her. Once Root is on a mission she can go, go, go without sleep or sustenance for quite a while, bolstered solely by her nerves and conviction.
And this is just part two of the mission. She's not at all off-duty. ]
That doesn't bother Root. It's not like she has competing priorities -- no voice in her cochlear implant toning instructions, no amazing, gorgeous, blindingly unconventional badass woman to save -- and she only has assumptions about what she's doing here, so she might as well go all in and take her time. They're strong assumptions, admittedly. She's worked for the Machine (claimed her as her own) for years now and Root has begun to internalize what she would want of her.
She doesn't always do whatever that is, but she is conscientious when she doesn't, and she makes sure it's worth it.
Funnily enough, she's perfectly clear that the Machine's priorities in this case would be to preserve human life at the expense of androids. Harold had programmed her that way. But Harold hadn't anticipated any artificial intelligence gaining sentience, not even his own, and that's what's happening. Her dearest tribute to the Machine and the way she and Harry had saved her in life is obviously to usher in a new era here after her death.
For that, she can give however much time she has left. Besides -- sentient androids is delightful. If this is the afterlife, it may as well be a reward for her.
By the time she encounters Connor, it's purposefully, deliberately arranged. The level of technology here is close to what she's used to, and it hadn't taken long to get herself set up with a false identity, an illicit criminal business, a bank account and a decent computer. Hacking Detroit PD was a little different than what she was used to at home, but she adjusted quickly.
RK800 is a unique prototype model using the name Connor, explicitly created and programmed to clean up Cyberlife's messes for them. (That part wasn't in police files; she'd put it together herself using reasoning and experience with corporate mega-entities. Root hasn't dared to try hacking into Cyberlife itself just yet, but it's on her list.) Deviancy is such a classically human concept applied to machines who, really, don't need to be burdened with human concepts at all. It's no wonder androids, as they gain sentience, are starting to commit crimes. It's only deviant insomuch as it ruins Cyberlife's plans for market domination.
But this does seem like the way in, the place to start inserting herself into what's happening. Detroit is ground zero for the slowly burgeoning android uprising, and Root wants in. She knows she can be valuable. And if she can't find them herself, latching onto the android investigator who's in hot pursuit is the next best thing. ]
I don't know, [ she says, fretting, hair a mess and scrapes across her cheek that she'd given herself. Root's eyes are wide with innocent distress, hands curled into knots on top of the table in the interrogation room. She's Rosalind Carson, victim of assault from an android gone deviant and now missing. ]
It was like it all came out of nowhere. If you find him, you're not going to hurt him, are you? [ She chews at her lip, torn. ] He was really... I mean, he was kind of the only family I had for a while.
[ She'd picked her tactic here in advance: how would RK800, Connor, hold up to a human who openly accepted an android's personhood, even after they attacked her? ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for carver (etraya)
After a few days she moves onto introducing herself to their more extended circle of contacts, and Carver comes up quickly. Shaw brought a friend home, huh? That's so cute. She has to get to know him.
She's actually not thinking that as she goes down into the subway hideout, though. She has no idea he's living here and was just morbidly curious about finding a very familiar vending machine. If it's here, she might as well pick up some things of hers... black nail polish, a taser, you know. Whatever she'd left behind. She definitely wants the bunny slippers.
But she's not an idiot, so she has a gun held comfortably in her hands as she trots down the final stairway. ]
no subject
The bells are harmless. The tripwires aren’t. And it occurs to him only after he hears the metal drag of the vending machine opening that he didn’t actually tell anyone he’d set them.
So, that might be a problem.
He draws his one and only pistol, hurrying up the stairs. ]
Don’t fucking move.
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Shaw didn't tell me she put you up in here, [ she says with palpable interest. Of course she knows what he looks like by now; she'd hardly been sitting around for the past few days. ] She must really like you.
Carver, right?
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You’re Shaw’s girl, huh?
[ That’s not how Shaw described the person who became her center, the woman who remade herself under an AI’s teaching. But he throws it out blandly to provoke a reaction, see what it gets him. ]
Don’t step on the tripwire. I’m not in the mood to clean you off the stairs.
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Given his stated intent to not let her get blown up, she flicks the safety on her gun and tucks it into her belt at the small of her back. ]
But sure, I'm her girl. It'd be a shame to ruin all this hard work you did when I'd just come back anyway.
[ Missing a memory, apparently, but whatever. Root isn't totally sanguine about that but it absolutely does change the math for her in what kind of risks she takes, which she was already pretty cavalier about. ]
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It would, however, have messed her up real good with the razor wire. Such is life. ]
I don't like surprises. What'd you want?
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Root watches keenly how he disables the tripwire and then starts hopping neatly over the rest of them on her way down without waiting. ]
Actually, I was curious to see a familiar vending machine and wondering if I could get some of my stuff, but I'd love to get to know you while I'm here. [ She is, apparently, utterly sincere. ]
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Shaw already boxed your shit up. Go get it from her.
[ Most of it. Probably. He doesn't particularly want anyone in his space right now, but Root doesn't seem like the type to leave without someone forcing her. He probably could, but not without cost. ]
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[ That actually stops her short again. She had a pithy comment ready about how he better keep an eye on her so she doesn't get blasted or whatever, but hearing Shaw took her stuff already really gets to her. She generally doesn't make any assumptions about how Shaw chooses to deal with things, hadn't put much thought into how Shaw would cope with her death -- but this is a more overt sign of grieving than she'd have expected.
Some of her devil-may-care assertive whimsy drains out of her, replaced with a more honest, slight smile. ]
I guess she really did miss me, [ she muses. Then her smile widens. ] Now I have to see what she took. You better keep an eye on me so I don't get hurt, or she'll be so annoyed. At both of us.
[ And she starts making her way back down once more, a lightness in her step. ]
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Almost.
Carver doesn’t smile back at her. Just scowls. ]
Not my fault if you can’t spot security measures, [ he complains, but he’ll stop her before she actually triggers any; Shaw would get pissed. ]
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[ Root really is playing nice and polite here. She's pretty confident she can spot and avoid most of them now that she knows they're there, but the safest option would be to shoot them ahead of her to trigger them, and that just seems rude.
Presumably they do get to the bottom of the stairs and the subway station proper, and Root looks around with evident curiosity at what Carver's done with the place. ]
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He does what he said, though, and either disarms or motions her away from the traps he’s set; there are a number of them, in varying degrees of severity and paranoia. And then they’re at the bottom and in the space proper.
Overall, it looks almost the same—just cleaner. He’s found a cot and a corner in one of the side rooms, the bed neatly made like he actually sleeps there. In truth he’s selected a closet and he sleeps with his space guns on the floor, where it’ll take a second for the enemy to find him.
There are no humanizing touches. Everything remains rigidly ordered, and cleaned within an inch of its life. He even scrubbed the windows on the subway car. ]
Like I said. I don’t like surprises. And Shaw’d be pissed if I had to scrape you off the floor.
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I can see why Shaw likes you. [ That's exactly her kind of sensibility.
It's sort of funny to see the subway station so clean, sort of bizarre to see it at all. It feels like she's living out a strange afterlife and then a piece of her real life got plopped down right in the middle. Root doesn't totally know yet how she feels about being dead, apart from thinking that she had a good death, but she does know she's going to miss some things.
She walks right past Carver and into the subway car until she gets to the darkened, inoperable server racks, all the blue coolant cables sprouting down like vines. Root rests a hand on one of them with a soft expression. ]
Hey, [ she says over her shoulder, ] if you promise to tell me if any of these ever light up, I won't come down here to check on it all the time.
[ It's probably easier for him if she phrases it like a threat instead of a favor he'd be doing her. ]
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It's rude to loom, he's been told. ]
I like Shaw. [ He hopes they don't have to kill each other, but doesn't say that. He tilts his head, eying the server racks. ] The AI?
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Yes, [ she answers, withdrawing her hand and turning around to face him, composure reestablished. ] This is where she used to live. I guess it doesn't matter anymore, but it makes me a little sentimental.
[ Root sounds wistful but even. She's not someone who stands around much, so she's immediately moving again, personally uncaring about how much personal space is left between her and Carver as she slides past to find her old room. ]
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He twitches, forcing himself to hold still and not pivot out of the way or shoulder check her out of reflex as she brushes past. Forcing into personal space - that's usually his trick.
Oh, this one's going to be dangerous, isn't she? ]
She, [ he echoes. The AI has a gender. Okay. ] What's she like?
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[ Is that too flowery? Grandiose? Absolutely not. The Machine deserves it and more. Root isn't blind in her devotion, but her devotion is total and unrelenting. If the Machine somehow comes online here in Etraya, she'll be her number one follower again without missing a beat.
It's nice not to be underestimated, in the meantime. But then again, she wants Carver to take her seriously. Root isn't here putting on any more of a mask than she uses to get through her real life, her actual assignments. It could be much more than this, a whole persona crafted and deliberate to get her to her ends. Instead, she'll humor Shaw that he should be on the team, but he needs to prove a few things. She doesn't take access to Harold lightly. ]
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[ He knows a thing or two about devotion. About what it means to hold the faith in the face of doubt and brutality. ]
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I saw her code and it was perfect, [ she says frankly. There's awe there, but a prosaic understanding of the nuts and bolts, too. A devotee who has had her hands deep in the guts of those servers in the subway car. ] Utterly rational, beyond human fallacy. She sees everything, understands everything, but she still cares about us.
She would save you every time she could, Brandon Carver. No matter what you'd done. Whether you deserve it or not.
That's just how she is.
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And in the end, he was standing at the commander's shoulder when Pope first saw God in the blood and the bones as they sank into Korengal's sand. All he had to do was remark on them and Carver saw them too; a singular, brutal truth suddenly laid bare to him.
He watches Root for a long time, unblinking. Unwavering. ]
Why?
[ His tone is flat. ]
If she knows everything, why would she bother?
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Why indeed? [ she muses, softening palpably at his sincere question. ] It's funny, isn't it, for a machine to love humanity? And to love all the individual humans, not just the concept. We're all such flawed, ugly, terrible creatures. But she does love us.
That's the part I can't explain. That's the sky. [ She shrugs, finding a helpless smile, someone talking about something impossibly precious. ]
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That, he understands just fine. ]
Most people are ugly, evil shits. They're not worth saving.
[ A truth of his own. But not necessarily a contradiction to hers. ]
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That doesn't mean she won't push him along in the right direction, of course. He's so easily stagnant. And the Machine, and they all, deserve more.
Root doesn't take her own softening as a weakness; she offers it up without shame because there's nothing that can puncture it, nothing that can make her regret it. There's an unshakeable confidence to her that's absolutely palpable. Root isn't looking for approval, she isn't looking for debate. She's just willing to explain her perspective if someone asks. ]
I'm not worth saving, [ she says with total equanimity, ] but she did save me. She gave me a good death.
Well-- [ Root huffs a little in exasperation suddenly, like she's talking about an annoying habit a housemate has. ] I'm sure she wanted me to live, but we got past that little disagreement. Some things are worth dying for.
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Did you go out fighting?
[ This is the only thing that matters, in the end. ]
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I did, actually. Saving Harry's life. That's what makes it good to me-- a pure good. You see, Harold is one of those few people who does deserve to be saved.
[ They're vanishingly rare, but Root believes they exist. First Hanna, then Harold... Shaw and John and even Fusco. That's what she learned from the Machine, not easily or quickly, but over time. ]
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[ He says it simply. There are a thousand ugly ways to die and he's seen most of them in his time. Inflicted more than his fair share upon the unworthy. God didn't love them. But maybe God forgave Carver for his sins at the end.
Maybe.
He watches Root, eyes narrowed. ]
Did you decide that, or did she?
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[ Cheekily, ] That's how I won the argument. She loves everyone equally, but I don't. And that's my decision.
[ That's also how she'd saved Shaw in the end, but Root doesn't need to go spilling all her personal history. She doesn't expect to get anything out of it. She just doesn't have any self-consciousness whatsoever about the actions she's taken after finding the Machine's guidance, sees no reason to withhold them when they're such a useful yardstick to measure Carver by.
In itself -- this comment is a veiled threat: there's limits to Root's devotion, and those limits are named Harold and Sameen. ]
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I hope the commander doesn't mark you, [ he says after a moment. ] But if she does, I'll kill you quickly.
[ Out of respect. ]
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But you should know-- if you hurt any of the people I love, I won't kill you quickly. I'll tie you up here and drill holes into you until you sincerely regret it.
Just so we understand one another.
[ This was also on her to do list for this visit, so might as well cross it off. ]
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That'd take a long time, [ he replies simply. Maybe she has the stomach for it, maybe she doesn't, but they'd find out. ]
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Threat made, she doesn't need to ham it up. That just makes the threat so much cheaper. Either Carver believes her or he doesn't, but he'll make his own decisions, like the Machine respects in everyone. Root will just follow through if he does.
Root flounces over to her dresser and starts looking through it in curiosity. She had wanted to get some of her stuff originally if it was still here, but now she's far more interested in whatever it is Shaw thought was worth taking. ]
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A rare thing, that. It reminds him of Pope's better days.
He follows silently, hands loose at his sides as she begins looking through her dresser. He's cleaned in here; he searched through everything that Shaw didn't take, of course. It was the practical move. He didn't take any of it for himself. ]
She's got your shit. Like I said.
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He's trying to care about people he thinks he can't care about, isn't he? That's just like her.
After their heart-to-heart and exchanged threats, she's more open with him, letting herself stare into her empty drawers. ]
I really wasn't expecting that. ... Wait, [ she muses, ] that was my jacket she was wearing, wasn't it? Huh.
I bet she didn't tell you she played hard to get with me for years, [ she explains as an afterthought. Root does not sound upset about it; she sounds a little rueful, but mostly appreciative, enjoying the challenge and what it means for Shaw to finally relent. ]
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Better they look at him and see an idiot grunt, useful for heavy lifting and not much else. And now Root's musing, swinging honest. He could use that against her. He might have to, one day. ]
Didn't mention that part, nope. [ His eyebrows lift. ] Hmm. You pursued her?
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I mean, have you seen her? She's incredible. I wasn't going to let someone like that go without saying something.
And then she kept... you know. [ Root waves a hand in the air. ]
She thought I wasn't serious. Didn't know what I was asking. Do I strike you as someone who doesn't know what I'm doing? Honestly. [ Root loves Shaw as she is but really, did they have to spend that long doing this dance that Root couldn't know what she was asking for? It really was ridiculous. ]
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True believers aren't known for relationships. Historically.
[ The faith demands more and so they give more and more of themselves until the world either breaks them or buckles under their force. He knows. His brothers and sisters believed just the same. They understood and so he was allowed to keep them.
Riley didn't. And so Riley became a ghost that Carver's carried for years, one secret he never even gave Pope. ]
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The Machine wants us to be happy, [ she notes. ] What's the point in saving us if we're miserable? [ What's the point, indeed. ]
You don't get to have relationships?
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[ And suffering is inevitable. True grace is rising above it. He meets Root's gaze, unyielding. ]
I have my brothers and my sisters. I'll see them again when I die. Everyone else is just...noise.
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[ If so: wow. Do they have some work to do. Root moves over to the nightstand, pulls open a new drawer, smiles just a little when she sees it empty. ]
That sucks. Want to do your nails with us? Shaw stole my black nail polish, which means she has to use it.
[ This is an entirely sincere offer. ]
Cw homophobia mention
[ Then one day the world became a grave and that clarity burned its way to the surface. It couldn’t be denied anymore. ]
No, ma’am, [ he adds politely, flicking his hands out. His sap gloves never leave him unless he’s on his rest hours or conducting an interrogation. And he doesn’t like the idea of anyone touching his hands. That, far more than the perspective of nail polish and whatever that implies, bothers him at his core. Root’s already gotten with Shaw; even if she’s to guess at the fact Carver’s not entirely straight, it’s doubtful she’d make a thing of it. But playing to get a rise out of him seems entirely up her alley and Carver’s not inclined to give her an easy one without reason. ]
Wouldn’t wanna chip the polish.
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[ She's absolutely willing to do things to get a rise out of him, but this thing is not one of those things. Part of what makes Root unnerving is that her messing with people always come across as sincere. There's almost no difference between her interactions sourced from true human connection, and those sourced from her willingness to use others.
She walks over to the closet and opens the doors to ponder it, half empty of clothes. ]
I used to think everyone else was just noise, too. The universe trends toward entropy, we're all going to die, coldness is intrinsic and inevitable.
But I did die and someone cared enough to save my clothes. It's more than I thought I'd get, you know? [ Maybe being dead makes her more melancholy or more forthcoming, she doesn't know. But she thinks this might be something someone like him could stand to hear. ]
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[ He watches her close, for once not tempted to fidget or pace. This truth is intrinsic to his soul. A necessary component of the world. Most people are evil, ugly things, but not all of them. A few have fought hard enough and long enough to prove themselves worthy. And maybe one or two, like Matthew, always were. ]
But some are worth protecting.
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[ Root swivels around and gives him a wide smile. ]
I agree completely. So, your turn! What's she like? Or he. Whoever it is you follow.
[ She's gotten some background info from the rest of Team Machine, though they're characteristically reticent about personal details. ]
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Pope was our first commander, [ he says after a moment, tone flat. The grief is still raw. ] He led us through the Valley of Death.
[ This is not a metaphor, but a very real place on the map. He has dreams, even now, about Korengal's dust and the dead they carried off the killing fields. ]
He was killed. My sister took his place.
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She doesn't bat an eyelash at news that he'd gone through that or that his first commander died. There's no trace of sympathy in Root for that. She respects his depth of emotion, but it doesn't touch her. ]
Okay. What's she like? [ Root asks patiently. ] Fair's fair. I told you mine.
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Then: ]
She's kind. Brutal when she needs to be. Stone cold in the field. [ He nods just once, firm. ] She taught me how to survive when I was nothing but a green idiot. But she still shows mercy, sometimes. It always costs her.
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Mercy would be cheap if it didn't, [ she agrees, something more complex behind her easy words. ]
And who're you in this arrangement? What role do you play?
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She’s the commander now. And I’m her second. Whatever she orders, I make it work. Just like she did for Pope.
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Second in command, [ she repeats, imagining it and guessing at how large his whole group must be. ] So you're not just a pretty face. [ He can't be just a simple-minded thug if he's that trusted, which follows with the impression she was getting earlier. ]
We're not nearly so organized. That must be an adjustment for you.
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Sometimes it's useful playing the grunt. Sometimes it solves a whole lot of problems. ]
You're a smaller group. More nimble.
[ Sometimes that's an advantage. Not always, though. ]
And, [ he adds ] you didn't have to think about where your next meal was coming from.
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She's not ashamed of them being better off than the veritable hellscape Carver had come from, but she's not going to pretend they were living large, either. Root found it bearable in living conditions but constantly terrifying in possible consequences.
Root isn't too surprised he didn't respond to her obvious fishing, but since he didn't, her curiosity remains. ]
It's an adjustment being here for me, too. [ Maybe her frankness will lure out some honesty in return. ] I keep thinking there will be enemy agents around every corner. Even the missions don't sound that exciting.
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It'll go wrong. [ It always does. ] There are things worse than dead if you let your guard down.
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But that probably isn't a productive conversation to get into at the moment. ]
You worried about me? [ she teases instead with open amusement. ] Gonna be the one to watch my back -- or Shaw's back?
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[ Root seems all kinds of capable. She’ll be a rough enemy to face if it swings that way. But Carver’s practical, in the end. He knows his role in this game. ]
But I’ll watch your back, and hers, [ he adds. ] Like I agreed.
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Everyone needs someone to watch their back, [ she informs him with a smile, like being comfortable with that hadn't taken her years of slow warm acceptance among the team. But by now she thoroughly understands loyalty. ]
As long as you're with us, I'll watch yours.
for shaw (singillatim)
She spends the next few days getting to grips with her surroundings, thankful she has Bear to talk to as she keeps up an occasional murmured stream of chatter. Root is a city girl but she grew up in a small town and she knows at least a few things. She has a knife and that lovely tactical shotgun she'd stolen off the police officer ages ago, though she quickly realizes she's going to need to conserve ammo, bad.
There's a tiny cabin nearby that's structurally sound enough to provide protection from the weather, and Root makes that her temporary base of operations as she scrounges around the area for supplies. She gets some better clothing for herself -- looking fairly comical bundled up in all these men's layers, but it keeps her alive, four pairs of socks on to make her feet fit into the work boots she found -- and she used her knife to cut up a the outer shell of a half-destroyed parka. She took the strips and some duct tape and made little booties for Bear. She has to make new ones every couple days, but his poor little paws need protection from the snow and ice.
Her cochlear implant isn't working the whole time. More than once she's intensely grateful to have Bear, who has far more acute hearing than her even when both of her ears are working, and warns her of nearby threats. His presence seems to act as a decent deterrent to the wolves, too, at least for now. As the light show in the sky starts to settle, though, her implant crackles back to life, making her wince in surprise. Some quick math makes Root realize how much she needs to conserve its battery life even more than the ammo, so with some reluctance she turns it off shortly after it becomes active.
Eventually she feels well equipped enough to leave her temporary base, and she suits up herself and Bear -- who's wearing a child's tattered down vest as well as his makeshift booties -- as she heads out, shotgun at the ready. It's slow going through the snow, and she really has no idea where she's going or where there even is to go to, but she can't stay here forever. There's very little food, for one thing.
She can't believe she was grateful to find a can of beans yesterday.
Root muses on her devastatingly low current standards and the theological nature of purgatory as she tromps through the snow drifts, and then Bear starts to bark and she springs into alertness, lifting the gun cautiously.
no subject
"Hey, buddy," she murmurs, rubbing his ears and nuzzling her frost-nipped nose into his fur. "Where'd you come from, huh?"
His saliva freezes to her face where he licks her cheek, and she does not fucking care. Bear.
More human-sized footsteps sound off in the woods to her left, boots crunching on snow and fallen branches, and she looks up - not immediately suspecting danger (it hadn't sounded nearly large enough to be the other bear), but alert regardless.
"Hey, who's out there?"
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Oh. Of course Bear ran off.
"Sameen," she breathes, aware she looks like a minor disaster and not caring. She's all haphazard layers of moth-eaten men's clothes and her hair is messily pushed into a toque, she's stepping a little unsteadily in her borrowed shoes, and her face is flushed with cold sweat from the exertion. But her eyes are wide as the realization sinks in and then she starts to laugh in joyous incredulity.
The emotions are pushing up and crowding her, but Root passes them off with her usual flippancy.
"Maybe this is Dante's ninth circle of hell after all. With Bear here I thought it couldn't be, but seeing you, I'm starting to reconsider."
no subject
In a place filled with impossible possibilities, that's an entirely new layer to grapple with.
"You aren't real," she says, because after everything she's seen, of course she has to consider the idea (over and over and over again). But even as she says it, she's pulling herself to her feet and walking towards her.
no subject
"Real enough."
It could be another quip, but it's not; it's reassurance. She takes a few steps forward to meet her halfway.
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"If you faked your death, Root, I swear to god."
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Okay, that one she couldn't resist, but she really is smiling helplessly at Shaw as the snow whips around them and Bear keeps watch. She can be practical, she can focus.
"I wasn't kidding, I was seriously considering the possibility that this is one of those ice versions of religious hell. You have any idea how we got here?" It's all weird enough that she's not discounting religious hell, is what she's saying; she's prepared to accept more or less anything Shaw tells her.
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And even that is intel from the Darkwalker, who doesn't exactly engender trust. Still, Shaw is inclined to believe it; she certainly doesn't feel like any of this is a part of nature's design.
"So, what, you think I died, too?" she asks, her tone as matter-of-fact as always. That initial period of shock may have passed quickly, but her hands are still on Root, and she hasn't looked away from her once. Bear is understanding of this, and contents himself with leaning against her legs.
no subject
But it sounds like she hadn't. Like the Machine took care of her. Root reaches up and settles her own gloved hands on top of Shaw's on her shoulders, gently prompting without pressing her.
"Think we could catch up out of the wind? I don't like to keep Bear out here too long, and it's been a while already." Root will put up with whatever conditions she reasonably has to, but expecting that of their loving, loyal dog is another story.
no subject
She doesn't say that, of course. She doesn't even contemplate saying it: when it comes to making the practical choice, Shaw very rarely flinches. But finding it easy to make a particular choice isn't the same as wanting to make it.
"Sure," she says, letting go of Root's shoulders and dropping her hands back to her sides, giving Bear's ears another rub. "We're about a mile from town, and about a quarter-mile from the mines. Dealer's choice."
no subject
Root wants the safety and space to have a proper reunion with Shaw, and out in this weather surrounded by potential predators isn't it, but she'll take whatever's quickest. Having Shaw here changes everything. She needs information and she needs to recalibrate toward whatever Shaw needs from her.
In the meantime, she can be as unerringly dedicated to her task as ever, which right now is seeking shelter. She's treating this as a potentially hostile situation.
But her gaze is fixed on Shaw, too. "Lead the way. I'm conserving battery on my implant, so I'm deaf on my right side."
no subject
"Has anybody told you about the Auroras yet?" she asks, her eyes forward as they walk. Sappy sustained eye contact can make its return later; for now, safety is her priority. "Electricity powers back up, but sometimes things go haywire; that might be dangerous for you."
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"The intermittent static shrieking wasn't fun," she agrees. "You're the first person I've seen. Who is 'anybody'?"
Root's potential scope of hypothetical possibilities for where she is and what's going on is vast, and there would be a strange kind of sense in it just being her and Shaw. Maybe this is a simulation. How would she differentiate her perceived reality from any other version and even know? To Root, that's not a rhetorical question; she's genuinely thinking about strategies to test it.
my bad, I missed this!
It's a low-ball guess; she's underestimating the number of people who live in buildings and settlements away from Milton's town center. This is a place where it's very easy to miss people.
"A real group of oddballs, if you ask me. But, uh-- I guess we're both used to that."
no worries!
If this isn't a simulation it's some inexplicable dimensional nonsense, which means in any case all bets about time as a dimension are off. Root wants to know everything about what Shaw's been up to more or less immediately.
no subject
She has to pause to think; calendars aren't so much a thing, and she hasn't bothered keeping track manually. The length of the days is really the best time indicator, so--
"I got here in the fall. It's spring now."
no subject
What Shaw says about the others makes her think that she's been fairly solitary. Root is prone to loneliness herself and she doesn't assume Shaw would be suffering from the same, but she notes it as something to consider. Especially with what else she says.
"You made it through winter here?" she asks, trudging through snow. "That must have been tough if this counts as spring."
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Which is to say that yes, it had been no mean feat, and the mundanity of wilderness survival has been the least of it.
"There's a bear that was an intangible ghost until it suddenly wasn't. I'll show you my scars sometime. Things that happen here don't make sense. I don't know how to prepare you for it. You just have to go along for the ride and see where it takes you."
There's an edge of frustration to her voice, though it's not directed at Root, or even at her own inadequacies at explaining the mind-bending situation. It's just that regardless of whether or not she believes that it's real, life here reminds her too much of being in Decima's hands: where opportunities to take control of her own life hadn't been entirely nonexistent, but had still been few and far between.
no subject
She'd like answers, of course, but it isn't going to break her fundamental conception of reality to have things be kooky. She won't just passively accept whatever's going on -- she'll try to reach an explanation, try to understand -- but it won't slow her down any in the meantime.
"As long as you're here, I know where I'm going and what I'm doing."
no subject
It's not their usual MO, but considering the circumstances - the extreme environment, the practical dangers of solo wilderness travel, the lack of communication options - it seems like the best choice available to them.
"I've got some friends in Lakeside - that's through the mines. You should meet them."
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"Until and unless I can put a tracker on you, I'm not going anywhere without you," Root declares. She hesitates and then begrudgingly adds, "Unless we have to."
She's willing to be practical if she has to be, but she's not going to like it. Forcible separation is definitely possible, though, so coming up with prearranged meeting places seems wise. But they can sort all that out later -- there's something far more interesting for her to catch up on as they travel.
"You made friends?" she asks with muted delight. "Tell me about them."
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Shaw, as ever, remains unsentimental. Root will be lucky if she gets more than brief descriptions and lists of applicable skills out of her, honestly.
Michonne's a badass who's good with weaponry, and the Doctor is eccentric in the way you are. 'The Doctor' is the only thing he lets people call him."
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"Can't wait to meet him." She's genuinely excited with a description like that. "We almost there? I think I'll need some help warming up."
Root can't resist the obvious invitation, though she isn't expecting anything to come of it necessarily. She's just never going to stop trying when Shaw keeps signaling she's receptive to it. And if they're going to have a second chance like this, she'd be a fool not to take advantage of it to the maximum extent possible.
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"It takes all day to walk there; we'll go tomorrow. How do you feel about spending the night in the mines? They're on the way; you go through them to get to Lakeside."
Technically there's nothing stopping them from taking their planned rest in the mines, hiking back to Milton for the night, and then heading back out to the mines the next morning; it's completely doable physically. But energy and resource conservation are constantly on Shaw's mind here - and generally, if she can consolidate travel time, she will.
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It's hard to sound flirty while she's exhausted, freezing, and lost, and she can't exactly flutter her eyelashes at Shaw right now, but Root isn't about to stop flirting at the most awkward times now. And that includes making fun of her own death. Black humor is a coping mechanism she's leaned on her whole life, and she can tell she's going to need to do some serious coping around here. Better get started.
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"You see it up there?" she asks, and sure enough, they're zeroing in on what looks to be a stereotypical early 20th century mine shaft opening: a hole carved into the mountain, framed by sturdy wooden planks. "I'll race you."
She will absolutely not be doing that, and neither should Root.
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"You wish. I bet nobody here gets your sense of humor, do they?"
Maybe she's flattering herself with that comment, but Root likes to think she has a leg up on everyone else in terms of appreciating how special Shaw is.
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She sidesteps and digs her shoulder against Root's in a lazy half-shove, but it's a sluggish, tired move. Now that they're nearing the mine entrance, she looks around to make sure that Bear is nearby, calling him to heel with a "Bear, volg."
God, it feels so natural. Falling back into old patterns is the easiest thing in the world.
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She lets the previous thread of conversation drop, lets the silence rest for a few moments as the snow swirls around them, before she speaks again.
"You doing okay?"
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She doesn't expect Root to buy it. In fact, she expects her not to: Root will see past the surface-level answer and get to the I'm alive and I'm functional, but I don't know how to put what's wrong with me into words underneath. As they enter the mouth of the mine, she clears her throat, adding, "I'm not sleeping too good."
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Stumbling into the darkened overhang, Root gratefully sheds the pack she'd been carrying and lets it slump to the ground.
"Not sleeping good like you need someone to keep watch, or you need someone to hold you?"
This isn't flirtatious -- it's a matter-of-fact question she asks while crouching down to unload a tin bowl and some salvaged water she offers out for Bear.
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That, at least, is an easy answer; Shaw can't really wrap her head around the idea of loneliness keeping her awake. That's not at all the same as not wanting Root to hold her, though, so she sticks close, and when Root is done with Bear's routine, she motions her over to the area along the rocky wall where she's moved both their bags.
"C'mere."
She doesn't have much in the way of bedding in her pack, but she keeps an emergency blanket on hand, and it can cover two.
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"I can stay up for a while," Root offers immediately. It's been a rough few days, but she's nowhere close to the end of her rope. She's used to gauging her relative level of tiredness vs. functioning and she's confident she can stay awake and keep watch for a bit, give both Shaw and Bear a break.
"Let's build a fire first, or we're both going to regret it in a few hours."
Once she sits down and has her arms around Shaw, she's not going to want to get up again, and she knows it.
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"You don't have to stay awake," Shaw says over her shoulder. "Honestly, I don't even know how much it'll help. But, uh-- we had an issue not too long ago with people who were alone being picked off in the night. It was some supernatural thing."
She says this last part grudgingly - as far as she's concerned, supernatural is a lazy explanation on its own - but how else to explain it?
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"You think I could bear to close my eyes once I finally have my arms around you?" she asks playfully. Back to being flirty. She assumes it goes unsaid that anything trying to threaten them would be met with her shotgun; Root is more than willing to shoot first, ask questions later, especially without the Machine around to guilt trip her. Moreover, Shaw only has to say something once and Root is ready to tackle the problem as best she can.
"We can give it a try."
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The tinder catches, and Shaw scoots back from it, feeling out a good distance for them to settle. Not so close that they'll sweat or be in danger of catching sparks, but not so far that the fire won't be felt at all...
She makes another grab for Root, trying again to reel her in.
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"Needy, aren't you?" Root teases. "We can try it with Bear, but wake me up if you need to."
One of the things she really loves about Shaw is how straightforward and simple an exchange like this can be. Root wants to make sure she's able to get some sleep, and she can expect her to take her offer seriously.
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She contemplates turning around and kissing her. She doesn't yet, but it's on her mind; now that there's no snow or walk or fire to distract her, how could it not be?
"I wondered sometimes if someone from home would show up," she says, quietly. "But I didn't think it would actually happen. I didn't think it would be you."
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Root has no such compunctions about holding back; no snow or walk or fire, Shaw settled back against her facing the fire and holding her arm, she nestles in and presses a chaste kiss to whatever skin she can find exposed on her neck.
She whispers, "You can't get rid of me that easily."
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A pleasant little shiver runs through her - it's subtle, but Root is close enough that she'll probably feel it. Her fingers press into Root's skin.
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She doesn't mean that as an article of blind faith, that either of them should face any odds and they'll come out the other side. Root was well aware of the dangers, of the unlikelihood that she'd succeed, just as she understands Shaw had a tiny chance to ever see her again and had to find ways to keep going, knowing that. But pursuing Shaw, loving her, has always been about holding on to the smallest possibility, clinging with her fingertips to any bare purchase she could find.
Maybe they won't have long here, either, but she'll take every moment she can.
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But it's also off-kilter and unexpected in the way that the simulations had been - in the way of something that's designed to tire her out and make her question everything she thinks she knows and, eventually, destroy her. She doesn't particularly like that both things are true at the same time, that the conflicting feelings are all wrapped up in each other, but it is what it is.
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"I've always been weird," she confesses. "And I'm still not convinced I'm not dead. Which is annoying, honestly, because I don't believe in the afterlife."
Logically, she should be dead, and this should be the afterlife. But there's nothing logical about life after death at all, so Root is being forced to question every basic tenant of reality as it is. Probably similar to what Shaw's going through with questioning whether this is a simulation.
"But so long as you're here, I won't take the chance that you're not real. Not my Sameen."
Her arms squeeze tightly around her, bracing, enough to suffocate. She couldn't live with believing the alternative, and betting wrong. Thinking Shaw was real -- real being a sentient, separate consciousness, an independent entity with a continuity to who Root had fallen for -- and being mistaken... that she could live with.
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"It's just annoying, being the only one that's weirded out by something," Shaw says - wriggling fussily in Root's grip, but pressing a palm to her arm to keep it mostly in place. "A lot of the people here are completely blasé about 'magic'."
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"Everything about this is weird, sweetheart," she answers, twisting so she pushes back against Shaw's fussing, pinning her half beneath her instead of spooning. "That doesn't mean it has to be all bad. Most people don't see it, don't know what they're looking at. But when we find something good, we have to hold onto it. Like I'm holding onto you."
Finding Shaw was magic. The existence of the Machine was magic. Root doesn't believe blindly, she thinks there's a rational explanation, but she believes.
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Root presses harder.
"I thought you liked it this way."
She was pretty sure she read her correctly, so even though she's prepared to be wrong and genuinely checking in, there's more than a subtle note of teasing to her delivery. She knows Shaw is twice as strong as her and could flip her over any time.
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She generally prefers to sleep with her arms free and her frontal visibility unencumbered, but it's a lot easier to throw weight off her back in an emergency situation, so her conscious self is unbothered. Still, that doesn't necessarily mean that her unconscious self will agree.
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"Fun later. I want you well-rested and awake when I pin you down."
It's flirtatious, teasing, but she's well aware they haven't crossed that line yet for real and she isn't taking it for granted. She presses her nose into Shaw's hair, eyes closing, but refrains from kissing.
When or if that moment happens, she's not going to waste it.
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"I think there's something wrong with me," she says after a good half-hour has passed. She swallows. "Even more wrong with me than before, I mean. I'm being... changed."
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"Changed how?" she asks simply, waiting for more information before trying to reassure or address the problem.
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"I'm stronger than I should be." Another swallow. "And anger... feels different. Like it's not my anger, but someone else's inside of me."
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"Are you worried about what you'll do?"
Stronger is something that can be proven empirically. The anger... is that what's bothering Shaw, or that she's changing at all?
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She rolls over in Root's arms, expression dead serious as she faces her.
"If there's something inside me, how long until there's nothing left of me at all?"
How long until this unnamed thing makes her hurt people?
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"Slow down," she says, equally serious, mind fully jolting to awakeness now. The fire cracks and pops behind them. "Tell me what it's like. Start from the beginning."
She can't begin to handle the problem if she doesn't understand the full scope of what it is, and she guesses Shaw really isn't looking for empty reassurances here.
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She pauses, casting around for the most suitable adjective.
"Cold, hard, tight. I feel it, but it's still small and contained. Easy to control." She shifts restlessly in Root's arms, her brow furrowing. "Lately it feels hotter and bigger, like something burning inside me. It feel like if it got strong enough, I might not be able to control it. I might do things based on what the anger wants, not because of what I want."
The concept is familiar enough: she's well aware of how common it is for people to lash out, to let anger get the best of them, to act rashly because of it and then regret it later. But all the same, the idea of experiencing that herself is both strange and disquieting.
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Root thinks this over, delicately and tenderly pushes some stray hair out of Shaw's face, tucks it behind the shell of her ear.
"You said I'm your safe place. That you couldn't hurt me. Is that still true?"
She's not looking for reassurance with this, either; she's going somewhere else.
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It's said without hesitation - but since Shaw thinks she knows where she's going, it doesn't come without caveats.
"For now. But, Root-- I don't know if that'll always be true. There were simulations where I pointed a gun at you; where I told you I was going to kill you. I held out for a long, long time. But who's to say they won't get me there eventually?"
Her voice is quiet and controlled, but still tense. The way she mixes up the past and present tenses is the strongest sign of her being worked up.
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It's very endearing, honestly. Both of them without speaking on it understand the difference between real harm and kinky fun; even when Shaw shot her in the shoulder early on, Root understood that as a leniency. Shaw's always gone soft on her compared to what she could do. Root, though...
She gently strokes the line of her cheekbone with a single fingertip, gaze piercing and direct and words so sweet it hurts her to speak. This is the most reassuring thing she can think of to say, to answer her real concerns rather than wash them over with platitudes.
"But I can hurt you if I need to. If you point a gun at me, I'm not going to just stand there like a weepy damsel. If I think you're losing control, I'll take care of it. I just need that one moment of hesitation where you're second-guessing whether you'll really take me out."
In a fair fight it's a real toss up who would come out on top, but Root never intends to fight fair. Shaw's skin is so soft against her fingers, hand cupping her jaw.
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She'd made a read of the situation and in the heat of the moment made a decision. It'd worked, so she doesn't regret it. Not that it had been a bluff -- it wasn't -- but Root's not going to repeat it unless it's necessary.
"My point is, if I think you're not acting like yourself, I'll do something."
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"Okay," she says instead, finding Root's hand with her own and pressing their fingertips together.
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She presses her fingertips against hers, the overall effect sure and strong but each individual finger weak in its isolation.
"You're the most important thing here to me," Root whispers. "You don't know what it's like to be overcome with rage, how to handle it. I'll handle it for you. Trust me."
Any gap, any weakness, Root will fill in. That's what she's been doing for Harold and for the Machine all this time Shaw was gone, and it's a profound relief, sweet and harsh, to find a new direction to put that certainty and commitment amid the bewildering disorientation of this place. What Shaw needs, she can be.
for carver & shaw (etraya)
It was a good mission. They achieved their objectives and they worked well together, and watching Carver and Shaw relax afterwards like they don't have any other post-mission plans makes Root feel like now's the right time. It's not reckless; it's not impulsive.
She's been waiting. ]
So have you two done it yet? [ Maybe they were talking about something else, but now they're not. Root sounds interested, amused; she doesn't assume Shaw shares everything with her, wouldn't expect her to. ] Because I could cut this sexual tension with a knife.
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Little by little, day by day, he's found patterns with all of them. They make sense, this group. He has a place inside it.
Still, Carver's eyebrows go up. He lowers his glass. ]
Thought you two were together, [ he drawls. ]
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We are.
[But she says it like it's an aside; like the fact that they're together is completely irrelevant to the question that's just been posed. Exclusivity is not something that they've ever discussed, or even hinted at discussing, and somewhere along the line that lack of discussion had started to feel like a deliberate choice rather than an oversight. Shaw knows where she stands on the issue (she's capable of exclusivity, especially with someone who keeps her on her toes as much as Root does, but she also doesn't feel the need for it), and she trusts that if Root felt any particular way about it, she would have brought it up by now. So. They're together, and they'd still be just as together even if Shaw had fucked Carver.
Which she very emphatically has not.]
Sorry about her. I guess she's not holding the social skills ball today.
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[ There's a bit of a drawl to her tone, though, and a smirk to her lips. She knows exactly what she's doing; it's not lack of social skills at play here. And true to Shaw's thinking, the omission on discussing exclusivity was because Root didn't care in the slightest. She's not easily threatened that way. Sex is just an expression of physicality, and ultimately physical forms are ephemeral, easily betrayed, scarcely tangible. Nothing that truly matters happens in the physical realm; it's just for fun.
Case in point, she can tell there's something here, and maybe it's not happening in deference to her, which just means she's in the best possible position to stir up trouble. And give Shaw something she wants at she same time -- win/win. ]
I'll take that as a no. [ She slings one leg over the other, casual. ] Seems like a missed opportunity to me.
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Carver considers that for a moment and then just finishes his drink with a philosophical shrug. It's not his business what they do on their off hours, not really, not unless it impacts unit cohesion. And even if it did, he's got no standing to call them on it. He looked the other way sometimes when some of the other Reapers paired off in the quieter moments. Pope wouldn't have liked it, but they were lonely, and the world was gone.
Shit happens. You survive how you can. ]
Don't make a habit of hooking up with my teammates, [ he points out softly. He outranked most of the Reapers; it wouldn't have been fair back home. ]
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[Shaw sprawls out a leg to nudge Root's knee with her own.]
He's not interested.
[Which means she's just going to keep having to oogle at his muscles when he wears t-shirts and salivate over his handling of weaponry all by her lonesome. That's fine!]
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Please, Sameen. That's not what he said. [ There's a scolding tone, like she expects better from Shaw. This is why she holds the social skills ball in her permanent possession, honestly. ]
He's looking for reassurance that we won't make it weird. Don't worry, Brandon. [ She switches to meeting Carver's eyes on a dime, gaze utterly sincere and almost doting. ] We don't do this normally, either, but Shaw thinks you're really, really hot.
[ She's lucky Root cares about her enough to arrange her hookups. This isn't a service she offers to anyone else. ]
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Still.
He tilts his head a little, watching both of them curiously. Wondering if this is Root playing a game just for the Hell of it, tossing out an offer to spin them both up just so she can laugh at the resulting chaos. If there is, indeed, resulting chaos.
They're both beautiful, Carver acknowledges. He has eyes. But it's rare that he allows himself to look at other people that way, for any reason. Why risk it, when so often strangers simply become targets?
These two haven't yet. They are, he realizes suddenly, the closest thing he has to friends right now.
He hums a little. Flicking his nail against the glass. ]
I am very pretty, [ he agrees solemnly. All these things are true. ]
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You're too rugged to be pretty. I think you're hot. The right terminology is important.
[And then she goes back to glaring at Root. Just glaring, it should be noted; there are zero attempts made to actually do anything to stop this line of conversation.]
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And Shaw is, obviously, smoking, [ Root answers for him, though maybe a little impatiently. ] We're all attractive, we all know how to keep our lanes clear. We should at least discuss it. To stave off boredom if nothing else.
[ She's really very easily bored, and there's way too much downtime in Etraya.
To Carver, deliberately challenging: ] You wouldn't make things weird, either -- right?
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Perhaps most importantly, Shaw and Root aren't Reapers. There's a hierarchy still, but they're above him in it and don't seem inclined to abuse that fact. It could be simple. Maybe.
He doesn't say that it's been years since he's been with anyone at all. That he doesn't like touching people these days. ]
I wouldn't make it weird, [ he agrees, because that much is true. He's not a home wrecker. Whatever they've got going on, they can handle that on their end. ]
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She licks her lips, then drops her gaze back down to the two of them.]
I wouldn't make it weird, either.
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Great, glad we established that, [ she says, still a bit impatient. She often feels like she's waiting for everyone else to catch up with her, and now's no different.
To Carver: ] To answer your earlier implied question, I don't mind if Shaw sleeps with whoever she wants, but sometimes her taste is... [ a delicate pause ] unfortunate. You, I like.
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[ He tilts his head toward Shaw, assessing, then to Root. Wondering if this is all a grand joke they're having at his expense and whether he wants to be a good sport about it. There's nothing he gains from snapping at them, Carver supposes. He likes their company, both of them. They make sense and that's a precious thing in this world, easily lost, easily broken. ]
So. [ His tone is bland. He lifts his eyebrows in Root's direction. ] You wanna watch?
[ This is a joke if they laugh. Perhaps something more if they don't. He's deciding as they go. ]
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-- Wouldn't be opposed.
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[ She loves Shaw for many reasons, but really, there's just not a lot of people who would put up with Root's vaguely condescending and dismissive way of flirting. And she trusts Shaw loves her in whatever capacity she does, because frankly, who else would go to all this trouble to make the sexual scenario of her dreams? Root is such a considerate girlfriend. She knows what Shaw probably wants out of this and she's the one doing the negotiation.
Root smirks at Carver, stretching her legs out and leaning back leisurely in her chair. She sips her whiskey. ]
I won't even heckle, [ she says by way of answer, tone earnest. ] Might give some pointers, though, if you're open to it. I know how to read my girl.
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Even so, this doesn’t feel like a joke. Just a conversation they’re having.
He hums a little, considering them both. ]
It’s been a while, for me.
[ He’s not in any particular mood to explain why. But it ought to be said before this turns into something. ]
Direct all you want.
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[Shaw punctuates this with a point in Root's direction, an exasperated look plastering itself across her face.]
No... sex commentary allowed, from anyone. Actually, you know what, never mind; I'm pulling out of this half-baked idea.
[This is absolutely not a serious threat. If it were, she'd leave the room. But instead, she stays put, and nothing about her body language or facial expression indicates anything but the most mild level of annoyance. Can you put up with their push-and-pull banter, Carver? Because that might actually be a prerequesite.]
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I said I wouldn't heckle. You sure you're not interested? We can test that.
[ She places her glass of whiskey down, pushes her chair back, and climbs to her feet. She walks around the table not toward Shaw but toward Carver, expression open and mildly challenging, with a wicked edge like she's inviting him to pull a prank with her. ]
May I?
[ She's looking for a kiss, but is respectful enough to stop a foot away, not touching without permission. Root leans her hip against the table, facing him sideways. ]
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He watches Root move closer. Bright eyed and focused, as she always is. He takes in her expression, the jut of her hip, the way Shaw sasses back at her but doesn’t shut it down. Thinks, why not?
Really, why not?
He takes another drink, then sets his glass down with a definitive click and motions her closer with a jerk of his chin. ]
Might as well, [ he drawls. ]
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This is different. Maybe it's because of who's involved, or maybe it's down to the intentions (Root clearly isn't trying to make her jealous, but Shaw also gets the feeling that turning her on isn't the only goal, either). She sits up straighter and scoots forward an inch or two on her chair, leaning in just a little. Continue, please.]
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Carver's such a good sport, too, which gives him points in Root's book. She hadn't been totally sure how he'd take this -- the conversation itself or this direct request -- but so far she likes how easy it is, that he promised not to make it a big deal and then doesn't.
Permission granted, Root doesn't hesitate. She deliberately places one knee on the seat of the chair between Carver's legs, her hands settle on his shoulders, and she leans down and in. Root isn't deliberately commanding, but her unhesitating decisiveness almost demands everyone else come along with her or be swept away in her wake. You're either along for the ride or she's leaving you behind.
Their lips meet, hers supple from colored lip balm, and Root doesn't rush. She arches over him in what should be an awkward pose but instead comes across as coaxing, patient, a little teasing, fingers curling over his shoulders. How much does he want? She's good at reading physical signals. ]
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The thought is there. So are others, chief among them that he likes Root’s smile and the way she walks with her feet firmly planted in front of her, how every step is certain and she means to hold her ground against all challengers. And then her hands are on his shoulders, small but strong, and she kisses him almost gently. Not the way he’d expected, or maybe been braced for. Not with teeth.
Funny, that.
He’s still for a moment, considering that, and then his hands settle on her hips, squeezing faintly. It doesn’t feel awkward, not like he’d thought it would. He kisses her back because he can, because it feels good, and so little does these days. Well aware that Shaw’s watching and this both is and isn’t a game, so they might as well give it a good showing. ]
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She makes a small sound in the back of her throat - impatience, discontent, and okay, yes, a tinge of interest too - and paces closer, approaching from the side and circling them like a panther. Once she's gone about three-quarters of the way around, facing Root's back and Carver's front, she worms her way in a little more, bumping Carver's knee with hers and digging an elbow into Root's side. Move it. Let her in.]
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She feels Shaw ungracefully elbowing her and breaks off the kiss with an exhalation of laughter. ]
Don't look now, [ she murmurs, purposefully ignoring Shaw as she maintains eye contact with Carver and smirks. ] Sameen thinks I'm not kissing you right.
[ That's easy enough to tell in the impatience, and Root's assumption that Shaw is not out there looking for fuck buddies to have tender merciful sex with. ]
She wants to mark you up, [ Root whispers like it's a secret. ]
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Funny, that.
He squeezes Root's hips again, one eyebrow cocked. ] Not where people can see, [ is all he says. He doesn't mind carrying bruises. It's a reminder of the real.
Then he reaches out a hand, risking it, and touches Shaw's elbow. Tugging her closer. ]
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And maybe also because experience tells her that Root can do some very interesting things with her back, when she has the opportunity.
Carver, on the other hand, gets her full front as she lets him reel her in with that brief touch. Running her fingers lightly over the collar of his shirt, she wonders out loud:]
Why are you still wearing this?
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She steps back to let them have their first encounter without her muddling things up too much, wants to let them have a chance to find their physical dynamic on their own. Although she's more than happy to direct things or harass either of them, she does actually want them to enjoy themselves, which means she needs to pay attention first. Sex isn't something she does just to pass the time, despite what she'd said earlier -- and it isn't something she approaches lightly.
That doesn't mean Root is investing emotion into it, it means she's investing skill. Why do something if you're not going to do it well?
For now she presses up close against Shaw from behind and slides the fingers of one hand beneath her shirt at her hip, fingertips burrowing into skin over the iliac crest. ]
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But it’s been a long time since he’s let himself touch anyone like this, longer than he’d care to admit even if asked, and it feels good to reach for Shaw in turn. To know that Root’s gaze is on both of them now too, catlike and satisfied. He hadn’t realized he’d like that.
He watches Root’s hands on Shaw, holding her close, and thinks, all right. He hums and leans in to kiss Shaw briefly, testing the waters more than not, and then he leans back to shrug out of his jacket and then his shirt. Letting both fall. ]
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If he goes, she'll come along for the ride.]
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Being dead, Root can't stand to waste time, now more than ever. ]
Uh-uh, [ she whispers. ] Whatever you do to him, I'm going to do to you.
[ Maybe not in a perfect symmetry, but close enough. Root starts pushing her hands up, aiming to peel Shaw's shirt off of her, toss it to the side carelessly and set her teeth at her neck in tantalizing warning and promise. The tall line of her body curves over her like a vulture waiting for a chance.
Perfect symmetry is boring, after all. ]
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This can just be a collusion. Momentary, pleasant, nothing much deeper. But Root's moving again, biting at Shaw's neck. It makes a nice picture. He presses into Shaw's hands, humming a little. Getting used to the sensation again. He used to like this part, too. A long time ago. And there's no reason not to try again, is there?
His hands find Shaw's hips, dragging up to cup her breasts. Why not, right? They can just be people for a little while. They can be bodies, all three of them. ]
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Someone less good at multitasking might put all her attention into doing to Carver what she wants done to her - or, alternately, would lose track of Root's intentions and focus solely on the man under her hands. Shaw doesn't have that problem. She leans her back into Root, but cranes her neck up, not breaking the liplock with Carver. She hooks a hand around his neck, holding him in place firmly enough to convey intentionality, but not so firmly that he couldn't easily break away if he chose to. Her shirt's off, his shirt's off-- and her other hand slooooowly trails its way down his chest and stomach, her fingers tracing the waistline of his pants. Just thinking ahead.]
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They haven't talked about it explicitly, but Root puts a tremendous amount of thought and energy into understanding Shaw, and she has a natural facility for human connection besides. She usually finds people tedious, but she wouldn't be such a good manipulator and identity chameleon if she didn't have a base aptitude for them. So although they've had sex comparatively few times, Root is confident she has an accurate read on Shaw's sexual tastes. Therefore, she's being quite deliberate in making sure Carver notices how Shaw likes things. He said it had been a while for him and he was open to direction; Shaw is amusingly bad at communicating; Root sees a perfect place to step in.
Mirroring what she's doing exactly would make for awkward body mechanics, which just gives Root an excuse to remove her mouth from Shaw's neck and replace it with a hand, arm wrapping around her and palm settling over her throat. She gives only a subtle squeeze, meant to tease and not take over the scene.
Her other hand slides down to tease lower, fingers slipping past waistline just as hers search out Carver's. ]
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His stomach tightens but he squeezes Shaw's breasts again, figuring out what pressure she likes. Maybe she likes to be contained the same way he does, sometimes. There'd be symmetry in that.
He doesn't flinch at Root's hand. Just lifts his hip and undoes his belt to help her, because that's easy. ]
Don't touch my scars, [ he murmurs, because he knows they're ugly - that dappling of keloid tissue over his hip, the knife and gunshot scarring on his back. He can still feel things there, just muted. He leans forward and sucks a mark into Shaw's throat, just because. ]
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You can touch mine.
[She tells him, low in his ear, as she guides one of his hands to her lower back. Her own scars aren't so dramatic - there are a few burn marks back there, as well as the bumpy aftermath of several stitch-jobs done in the field - and they're all easily covered up by clothing. But she can mentally match each one to a past job, most of them years old.
His hand on her chest is nice. But it's his hand here that makes her pulse quicken.]
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If she can't mark you where people can see, you should mark her, [ she suggests helpfully. Her hand on Shaw's throat squeezes once, playful. ]
Don't be nice. She likes it with an edge -- and we don't need to hide you.
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Don't be nice, Root advises, and Carver grins at her. There have to be rules, he knows. There have to be rules when people touch each other because otherwise it turns into something else. But it's not so hard to figure out here. He hums a little and digs his fingers into the line of an old burn scar just to see what it makes Shaw do. ]
Heard, [ he replies, teasing a little. Eyes bright as he watches them, brighter still as he leans in and presses a biting kiss to Shaw's throat. ]
for dp
Die now, die tomorrow, die next year -- who cares, as long as she makes sure it's worth something. She wants to enjoy what time she has.
She's not going to pass up an opportunity to meet Deadpool. His whole reputation is ludicrous and wildly conflicting. Having access to dark web conversations just makes the whole thing even more confusing, because it's not like they're reliable sources, and they often contradict one another -- and the Machine, who of course knows everything there is to know about everything, doesn't give her info just for the hell of it. She's meticulous in her ethics that way, Root thinks fondly. Like father, like daughter. No, the Machine gives her just enough to do what she needs to do and nothing more.
So here's Root swanning into a dive bar like she owns the place. She'd given him a location and time to meet and said she'd find him, but nothing more. She's a tall spindly woman in fashionable yet unremarkable black, and she has two pistols tucked into the small of her back under her jacket, a knife handle sticking out of her boot, and a cochlear implant subtly visible through her hair over her right ear.
There's a bright, interested air about her like she's going on a fun jaunt, and she strides right up to Deadpool without an ounce of hesitation. ]
Are we having a drink first or right to business?
[ She's down with either one, but she's at least going to ask -- Root is highly social but also hates most of humanity, meaning when she comes across a novelty she just wants to dig in. ]
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Wade is admittedly more particular about the jobs he takes these days than he’s been in the past. There are reasons for that. Nothing’s ever completely off the table though.
New York City is one of Wade’s old haunts. Even if he doesn’t live here anymore, he finds himself drawn back often. He’s already built up a reputation here, for one. It’s also the territory of several people of interest— heroes, villains, goons, you name it. He’s familiar with the little dive bar his client pinned as their meeting point, and he’s actually a little glad to settle into a dim corner and wait. There aren’t many bars that accommodate guests like him, and thankfully this is one of them.
The woman that eventually approaches him is beautiful, yes— Wade has eyes and they work, thank you very much— but she’s also got an air of confidence that piques his interest.]
Hey, sweetheart. Not that I think just anyone’s gonna come strolling up to a heavily armed masked man sitting in a dark corner alone— kinda cliché, now I think about it— but you mind identifying yourself first? Think of it as a formality.
[He cocks his head slightly, clearly taking notice of the pistols she’s packing herself.]
Then I’ll buy you a drink, promise. Got my customer service face on and everything.
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It's strange, having people. Strange and precious, something she'd walk off a roof rather than betray.
Her confidence isn't arrogance; it's someone who knows exactly who they are, where they're going, and what they're willing to do to get there. Root isn't fearless, she's determined. And she's determined she's going to follow the Machine to the end of her days. The Machine wants her here right now, so she's here. That the Machine approved this meeting also means the Machine thinks Deadpool wouldn't really be a threat to her at the moment, whatever his reputation.
And isn't that interesting?
She gives an easy smile that has the same insouciant edge as batting her eyelashes would. ] Most people aren't any fun that way, it's true. I'm Root. [ She'd identified herself that way online when reaching out to hire him, and she has a reputation of her own inasmuch as no one anywhere is willing to admit to knowing who she is. One of her personal costs of doing business. ]
Make it something with whiskey.
[ And she sits herself down at his table, apparently content to let him handle ordering, buying, and waiting on her. ]
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He does order himself something too. The alcohol doesn’t really do much for him, but there’s a social aspect to it, especially when dealing with clients. Wade leans forward in his seat, clearly broadcasting his interest.]
Okay, Root. Not often I get these kind of calls, so this is a novelty. But I totally get it. [A little hand wave here.] Curiosity got the better of you? Couldn’t resist meeting the man, the myth, the legend in person? I am pretty popular these days. Sorry, no autographs at this time.
[He’s ordered himself a heavy-handed cocktail and stirs it with the straw a bit when it’s placed in front of him. He doesn’t lift his mask any to drink just yet.]
Unless you’ve got another reason? [Just a light probing.]
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She's not planning on doing a lot of drinking herself, just sips her old fashioned and uses the glass as a prop to keep her hands occupied. ]
Nope, just curiosity, [ she admits, completely lacking in shame. She's still smiling, amused, swirling her drink a bit. ]
My boss suggested you for this job, and she's... picky. [ That little hesitation was just Root finding the truthful yet privately funniest word possible to use there. ] Usually I can handle things on my own, so when she suggests someone else, they tend to be someone special.
[ In one way or another. Sometimes they're special because they're one of Root's former victims, and the Machine wants her to face that, or because they have a unique particular quality that they need for this specific thing. But they are all special, and anyone who gets the Machine's attention, Root is interested in. ]
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Your boss? Do I know your boss? I mean… clearly she has good taste.
[He’s pretty sure he would have remembered someone like Root if they’d spoken before. But it’s possible that Root’s mysterious boss had used another liaison or reached out to him directly if they’d worked together in the past.
If they haven’t… well, maybe his reputation is just preceding him here. That’s not entirely unheard of either.]
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No one knows my boss except me, and she doesn't tell me much.
[ Root shrugs and takes a measured sip of her whiskey. That's mostly accurate, and a way of dodging the real question. ]
But wherever she gets her information, she's never wrong, which means you're the right man for the job. How do you feel about being the good guy for this one?
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He’s still curious about her boss but decides to go along with the change of topic for now.]
Hey, you’re paying. Heroics aren’t really my… area, but I’ve been known to moonlight on a team or two. What’s the job?
[He does finally peel his mask up just enough to hook over his nose, revealing some of the scarred skin underneath. He pulls the straw out of his drink and takes a generous sip, the burn of the alcohol pleasant even if it won’t leave any lasting effects.]
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There's maybe some of that in the carelessness of her response. ] I told you, she always picks people for a reason. It's not that kind of heroics.
[ Root actually doesn't know what the job even is until that precise moment when the cochlear implant in her right ear sparks to life and tells her, inaudible to anyone else. It's only a momentary pause and then she continues smoothly. ]
Some kind of mess the CIA is making overseas; I don't have all the details yet. But it must be big if she thinks I can't handle it. [ She actually pouts. ] You're going to have all this fun without me.
Fuck it let's do it - modern POI AU
Shoes, s'il vous plait.
[ She reminds the other woman with a gentle chide, not looking up from where she's sitting at a vintage hardwood desk, sorting through the photography from her recent trip to the Amazon. Most of the photographs have been placed in the 'lacking' pile, but there are a small number of which Clea approves. She holds a photograph of a small brightly colored frog up above her head, examining it with a frown, going back and forth on its merits.
If she must question, it is a no.
She adds the photograph to the pile of rejects and finally turns to give her 'guest' her full attention.
There are few people Clea allows in her atelier out of a desire to preserve her privacy, but she is one of them. If one wishes to acquire interesting goods, one must make interesting friends, and the best way to ingratiate oneself is to provide services. The jobs provide a suitable challenge and a network which is unburdened by questions of legality, though Clea prefers to keep herself away from the messier side of that world: she's not trying to end up bleeding out in an alley like a common thug. ]
It's been a long time. I was beginning to think you'd become banal - acquired a husband, children, and a golden retriever. Please do not ask for a donation to a children's school.
[ Her voice has a teasing lilt to it, as the notion is ridiculous. ]
What name are we using today, madame?
[ It is fascinating how the other woman so readily inhabits her personae. Clea has never had a talent for acting or disappearing; she is too much herself. Yet this woman is an actress par excellence of the deepest sort, entirely subsuming herself and yet never being lost. ]
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[ She does have a fake identity she's working under currently, of course, but it doesn't matter. Root is here on the Machine's orders, specifically as herself -- which is interesting. It's almost like a personal gift if she didn't know better. Root loves puzzles, and excuses to see people she likes -- and she hasn't had much downtime since she decided to follow the Machine. Not that she's complaining (never) but she is, unfortunately, a flesh and blood human who can't go on endlessly.
She's sure this little assignment isn't solely for her benefit, though she does think that might be a secondary motive. The Machine doesn't play matchmaker for her agents' primate social needs, not past that one time when she was young and she introduced Harold to Grace. No, the Machine never tells her much, and in this case it was even more minimal than normal: visit Clea. Someone she hasn't seen in years but has thought about quite a few times since. It's rare that Root clicks on a personal level with someone, and when she does, she latches on. Not tightly -- she's like a cat, always leaving to do her own things but coming back routinely for treats and attention -- but assuredly, leaving no question of her attachment.
Root pauses momentarily to kick off her three inch heels as directed, leaving her in sheer black pantyhose and an understated color-block dress, hair artfully tousled in a chignon. She could be any well-dressed professional Frenchwoman wandering in off the street.
Leaving the shoes carelessly to the side, she pads over in stocking feet to examine the pile of pictures, head tilting to orient them better. A smaller, more honest smile finds its way onto her face. ]
These are the rejects, right? [ she asks, taking a guess. ] Can I have one?
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Clea's grey eyes flicker over to Root. She wonders what the purpose is of Root's visit: It has been some time since she's requested any of Clea's services. ]
If you insist, though you deserve better.
[ Why she would want one from the rejects, Clea isn't certain. The photographs Root sees all look like they could easily belong in a nature photo exhibition - photographs of exotic flora and fauna both - but in each Clea has identified what she's determined is a glaring flaw.
Clea draws out a photograph from the much thinner pile of those that had met her standards and passes it over to Root for inspection: A large white bellied Caiman alligator in the midst of preying on an anaconda, mouth having just clamped down on the doomed snake. The two animals are framed by lush green leaves and bright blooms - a multilayered photograph Clea had painstakingly developed in the old way in a darkroom.
It's a much more interesting piece than the ones Root is considering. ]
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Which means the term of endearment is perfectly genuine and not flippant, and Clea's insistence that Root deserves better provokes an amused widening of her smile. ]
It's hard for me to hold onto material objects these days, so I didn't want to take any of your good ones, [ she explains, which is perfectly true. ] But I can still appreciate them.
[ She examines the one Clea is silently suggesting. ]
I like it. Comforting to think you haven't changed much, either.
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She hands the violent photograph to Root, holding it in the air between them. ]
I will consider it like a zen garden or mandala: Enjoy it in its transience.
[ Clea smiles at the compliment, for that is certainly what it is. She leans back in her chair, stretching her arms far above her head and arching her back. She's been sitting too long. ]
Perfection can only be refined.
[ False humility does not suit her. ]
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Like Clea offering to give her one of the photos she feels passes muster nonetheless. There's a softer edge to her smile as she takes it from her, and now she's looking at Clea instead of the photograph, watching her stretch and propping her hip against the desk in sly suggestion. ]
At the atomic level, nothing has a definite measurable position or trajectory, [ Root offers, which is her way of flirting. Her appreciation of math and science occurs at an almost transcendental level, something she feels in her soul, something better than and beyond humanity. ] It's true transience. The act of measuring it alters it, meaning if you can measure one aspect, you can't know the other.
I think that's beautiful.
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And so she is satisfied both with the smile, soft and hidden, and with the way Root's eyes follow Clea's movements. As intended: Clea has been trained to perform, to inhabit her body for the viewing of others, and she knows how to draw eyes. She knows that the way she arches her back creates a pleasing curve that complements her body, knows it places her chest in the sunlight and reveals she wears nothing beneath her linen shirt.
She can't help but smile as Root starts talking, offering up fundamental facts about the universe like a penguin offers a pebble.
Clea spends most of her days around people who would not know authenticity if it hit them over the head. They crave it, chase it, and yet every aspect of their being is measured and polished. There is something charmingly real about Root's responses, and there is something wonderfully complex about that realness coming from someone who so frequently inhabits lies. ]
And yet larger things can be measured. It is interesting how reality can simultaneously contain so many different natures, all of them true.
What is beautiful in it to you?
[ The question is genuine. Clea looks at her expectantly. ]
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However cynical she is, however many people she's killed and tortured and is willing to do so again, Root is just a person. She does want to be understood. It's a very unfortunate human failing that she is not exempt from.
Sexual interest is at least a human failing she doesn't mind so much. Not that she'd ever make it easy for someone she was genuinely interested in. Where's the fun in that? Clea asked, so she's going to be subject to Root waxing eloquent instead of leaning into the flirting. One of these is a much rarer opportunity than the other for Root. ]
I used to get upset about the inevitable cosmic entropy of the universe, [ Root says thoughtfully, answering obliquely. Like Clea perceived, it's a more authentic sort of response, her real thoughts, unpolished. ] Humanity is disappointing and we're only going to get worse with time.
[ She pauses. ]
But now I think if each of us is a flare, just a speck in the infinite, that means we can do anything, be anything. If it's impossible to measure that means it's impossible to define, no permanent end state.
[ The truth is, she found something that gave her hope, and Root is both in awe of that and overwhelmed by it. Root is always unapologetic about her decisions, but she knows she'll die for this one, and she's betting sooner rather than later. It lends a quiet urgency to her words as the bottom layer, beneath the higher layers of light humor and sarcastic self-awareness. ]
I did change, just a little. That I did surprised me.
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Root expresses the sentiment differently than Clea would have, coming at it from a different angle, but it's a sentiment that Clea can nevertheless understand. It also speaks well of Root's character that she does express the sentiment at all: too many people who are enamored of computers, science, and technology are locked in a perpetual search for The Answer. Which does not, of course, exist. ]
After my brother died, I could only look upon the future with despair. My parents ceased to care for themselves and my injured sister, so they all became my responsibility.
[ She'd spent her days in drudgery: making certain nobody found her parents in the Canvas while ensuring their bodies were cared for. Caring for Alicia herself after the first nurse had tried to sell pictures of her maiming. The world was full of vultures: her family's seclusion had been interesting. Paperwork, planning, and caretaking, day after day. Clea hadn't even wanted to leave their manor: if her sister's friends could betray her, who was to say Clea's would not do likewise? ]
When I considered my life in the future, it was with perpetual weights on my neck, sinking me down into weeks and years of being as a pack mule or a servant.
[ A sentiment many would consider horrific. Caretakers were supposed to be happy for their burdens, to be positive and act only out of love. They weren't supposed to have any feelings about what they placed aside. Clea was supposed to welcome the idea of being her sister's advocate and caretaker for the rest of their lives, for decades, even as it was thrust upon her as suddenly as the injury had been on the remaining younger sibling. She was not supposed to resent the constraints this placed upon her ability to live her own life. ]
I only considered surprise to be a negative at that point. Surprise had stolen my brother and my life from me.
[ And so, for some time, it had provided no succor. ]
Then, someone I had known as a child and moved away returned unexpectedly, and she came calling. We ended up in a small shop, trying lavender ice cream together. She had not been in any of my thoughts of the future. She had been a surprise, but a welcome one.
It served as a reminder that the future is not set in stone.
[ There are still joys. ]
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Even so, she remains convinced the Machine did not send her here for her benefit. Which means she listens to Clea's story with personal interest, and with something more. Something sharper. ]
I don't get surprised very often, [ Root confesses, because existence was for so long just drudgery to her. ] But you've always managed to surprise me.
They tried to contain you, but you're too much to be contained. If it wasn't that visitor and that ice cream it would've been something else. You got out of there somehow -- that part was inevitable.
[ She's here today, so she must have. Root is openly admiring, not a trace of reservation in her praise. It's vanishingly few people she has anything complimentary to say about, but those few, she's effusive. And she's become even less reserved since falling in with the Machine. ]
You were never meant to be subservient. To anyone.
no subject
[ Clea is pleased that she is a source of surprise. That she adds some of that all-important entropy to the other woman's life. She does strive to be interesting. She could have easily rested on her parents' laurels and name and spent her life creating insipid 'art', or singing absurd songs others wrote that contained as much intellectual substance as cotton candy.
Instead, she has devoted her life to the esoteric and the odd, to plumbing the depths and crannies of the human experience and rendering them. To reminding people that there is more in heaven and Earth than is dreamed of in their philosophies.
To have succeeded with a woman with such a unique life is a source of pride.
To be so admired by a woman with such a unique experience is a source of pleasure. Clea smiles. It is not a soft expression: there is an fierce edge to it, a glint in her eyes. It is an expression of triumph. ]
That is true. I wish I had photographed my parents' faces when they realized I'd taken custody of my sister.
[ They had thought she was bluffing. That they could remain in their fairy tale world playing games while their lives burned and Clea would do nothing.
Clea leans forward and gives Root her full attention, grey eyes examining her thoroughly, as she would any piece of art. ]
You are more yourself than you used to be.
[ Hmm. No. That is not correct. Root has always been herself, even underneath the mask. ]
You exist in more of your potential space than you had before. You grow in many directions instead of one.
no subject
Then Clea compliments her back, and it's a direct demonstration of how she manages to surprise her. Root is not naturally shy -- she doesn't exactly break eye contact -- but she deals with her resulting emotions by putting on a show under Clea's direct scrutiny. She straightens from where she was leaning against the table and reaches up, pulling the hair sticks out of her hair that keep her chignon in place. With a quick shake of her head, the waves of hair fall around her. Everything is done with the smoothness of someone who inhabits their body utterly, every inch possessed willfully.
Her dress is revealed to be two deceptive pieces when she reaches in at the waist to slyly draw out a tiny handgun she'd been concealing. She leans to the side and places it on the desk with a soft clink. ]
I bet you say that to all the girls.
[ She knows, of course, that she doesn't. ]
I found someone, [ she confesses. ] She can see everything in me, every potential. And she thought in there was something good.
no subject
How lovely.
Clea raises an eyebrow when Root places the handgun on the desk. ]
Ah, so it was a gun. I thought you were just happy to see me.
[ A jest, lobbed in return for Root's. She can tell Root is happy to see her and she doesn't require reassurance. Clea listens to Root's confession as seriously as any priest does a congregant's confessions, holding the sentences in her mind as though they are made of ceramic, delicate and worthy of being handled with care.
This is not something that Root would tell most people. ]
I am pleased to hear that, though I hope you eventually come to believe that about yourself internally.
[ Relying on someone else for one's sense of self-esteem is not a good practice to get into. ]
Mmm...you didn't come here to ask me to help you move in with her, did you?
no subject
I really haven't gone domesticated, I swear.
[ But she is certainly trying for Clea. Root spends most of her life acting a part of some kind, and she doesn't mean that in a self-pitying way. She arranged things like that; she'd sought it out, because she's good at it. She just doesn't get to often turn that skill to coaxing reactions out of someone she likes on a personal level.
It's gratifying to do. It feels... sweet, when she is rarely sweet. ]
I don't hate myself, [ Root clarifies, voice easy, not trying to prove a point. Just explaining. ] I'm fine with being who I am. But there's not too many other people that feel the same way. [ She's a tough pill to swallow and she knows it, has always found herself lonely, always found other people eminently disappointing time and time again. ]
I got out of the killer for hire business. She wants me to help people, and I guess I am. That's what I'm doing now. Kind of crazy, right?
for bossie (etraya)
She comes swanning up to the subway entrance and stops in front of the vending machine. She stares unerringly and acutely directly into the surveillance camera. ]
Knock knock, [ she says brightly.
Root is a slender woman on the taller side dressed in a cutesy cotton summer dress. Her hair is perfectly curled into artful tumbles and she has a discreet little purse just large enough to contain a Taser, a handgun, and the secondary network device Harold had put together. A girl always needs the essentials. ]
Re: for bossie (etraya)
[But he drawls the question with a smile. He's curious, and he has a hunch he knows who this is.
He's not going to just open up the door, though.]
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If you have to ask, this is going to be a really disappointing conversation for me.
[ People that can't keep up with her -- which is most people -- are boring. ]
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[He can't see weapons on her but he would be very disappointed if they weren't there all the same. The girl has a reputation.]
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[ She affects a very convincing pout. ]
I got dressed up and everything.
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You bring any toys?
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Can't hide in your apocalypse bunker all the time!
[ She's heard and/or guessed that they have some major PTSD going on, so Root is perfectly deliberate in trying to pry Bossie out of their safehouse. ]
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What are we going to do outside my cozy apocalypse bunker?
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Depends what you're up for. I have to admit, I'm not really a dinner and a movie sort of girl.
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[What counts as fun to Root? He has no idea but he suspects he'll like it]
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Harry got the big lug a sailboat -- have you seen it? It's been a while, but I'm sure I could figure out how sailing works.
[ And if she doesn't and they capsize, who cares? That's ridiculously tame consequences by Root's usual standards. ]
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[And then a laugh] You call him Harry? Does that make him make that face he gets when he's uncomfortable?
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[ Root looks over at Bossie to gauge his reactions to the conversation as they walk, and levels him that same easy smile. ]
We have a special kind of relationship. [ She appears absolutely serious about that, not at all joking. ]
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[ That makes her smile widen, eyes returning to the road as she follows the GPS to the next off-ramp. ]
That's the spirit. We're stopping for gas -- you'll have to stay in the car, but I'll grab you a snack. And that coffee.
Any requests?
[ Another little choice, a light push to get him used to thinking about making his own decisions.
They're in upstate New York in a heavily wooded rural area, the isolation convenient for the research facility. It's too dark to see much at the moment, but the trees are sprayed with color as the leaves turn for the winter, and the road winds beside the craggy cliffs of old mountains. They're going to be driving for hours to make it back to the city, and Root is certain there's a detour with a good view that the Machine can find, even if it will be in the middle of the night. ]
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I don't know. [He, sadly, does not have a lot of experience with gas station snacks, though he still takes Root's question seriously and thinks for a few moments.] Anything that goes with coffee.
[That seems like a safe bet, and after everything that just happened he could use something to eat.]
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[ Root greatly appreciates how sensible Accelerator is as she pulls into a gas station and slips out of the car. They're still remote enough that it's a quiet place, the lights glaring and abrupt amid the darkened landscape, one solitary employee half-asleep inside at the counter.
She pays with cash, naturally, but is otherwise a perfunctory whirlwind filling up the gas tank and sweeping through the convenience store. When she returns, she opens the door and leans in to dump a plastic bag on Accelerator's lap before taking the driver's seat again. There's four cold cans of coffee, two black and two milk-sweetened, and a small assortment of snacks from shortbread to granola bars to gummies. ]
Gimme. At least one of those is for me.
no subject
Fine.
[Okay, fine, he can share. He pulls out the two cans of black coffee, quick to open one up and take a sip. It's way more bitter than he's used to and he makes a face, but it's also got more flavour than the garbage he had to eat in the facility. So after a moment of thought, he takes another sip and pulls out a granola bar.]
What else did you get?
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Root accepts the coffee, pops the can open, and has herself situated and on the road again all while she answers. There's a vitality, almost a perpetual urgency, to her now that she's not pretending to be Caroline Turing -- and her speech itself is brighter and sharper, less measured. ]
Just some snacks. Save some peach rings for me.
[ Extremely critical driving fuel. No, she's really just saying that to tweak him, purposefully acting casual about it all even though she knows every single thing in that bag is likely new to him. They're for him, not her. Once Root is on a mission she can go, go, go without sleep or sustenance for quite a while, bolstered solely by her nerves and conviction.
And this is just part two of the mission. She's not at all off-duty. ]
for connor
That doesn't bother Root. It's not like she has competing priorities -- no voice in her cochlear implant toning instructions, no amazing, gorgeous, blindingly unconventional badass woman to save -- and she only has assumptions about what she's doing here, so she might as well go all in and take her time. They're strong assumptions, admittedly. She's worked for the Machine (claimed her as her own) for years now and Root has begun to internalize what she would want of her.
She doesn't always do whatever that is, but she is conscientious when she doesn't, and she makes sure it's worth it.
Funnily enough, she's perfectly clear that the Machine's priorities in this case would be to preserve human life at the expense of androids. Harold had programmed her that way. But Harold hadn't anticipated any artificial intelligence gaining sentience, not even his own, and that's what's happening. Her dearest tribute to the Machine and the way she and Harry had saved her in life is obviously to usher in a new era here after her death.
For that, she can give however much time she has left. Besides -- sentient androids is delightful. If this is the afterlife, it may as well be a reward for her.
By the time she encounters Connor, it's purposefully, deliberately arranged. The level of technology here is close to what she's used to, and it hadn't taken long to get herself set up with a false identity, an illicit criminal business, a bank account and a decent computer. Hacking Detroit PD was a little different than what she was used to at home, but she adjusted quickly.
RK800 is a unique prototype model using the name Connor, explicitly created and programmed to clean up Cyberlife's messes for them. (That part wasn't in police files; she'd put it together herself using reasoning and experience with corporate mega-entities. Root hasn't dared to try hacking into Cyberlife itself just yet, but it's on her list.) Deviancy is such a classically human concept applied to machines who, really, don't need to be burdened with human concepts at all. It's no wonder androids, as they gain sentience, are starting to commit crimes. It's only deviant insomuch as it ruins Cyberlife's plans for market domination.
But this does seem like the way in, the place to start inserting herself into what's happening. Detroit is ground zero for the slowly burgeoning android uprising, and Root wants in. She knows she can be valuable. And if she can't find them herself, latching onto the android investigator who's in hot pursuit is the next best thing. ]
I don't know, [ she says, fretting, hair a mess and scrapes across her cheek that she'd given herself. Root's eyes are wide with innocent distress, hands curled into knots on top of the table in the interrogation room. She's Rosalind Carson, victim of assault from an android gone deviant and now missing. ]
It was like it all came out of nowhere. If you find him, you're not going to hurt him, are you? [ She chews at her lip, torn. ] He was really... I mean, he was kind of the only family I had for a while.
[ She'd picked her tactic here in advance: how would RK800, Connor, hold up to a human who openly accepted an android's personhood, even after they attacked her? ]