"That would be disappointing, because I was hoping you'd take the next shift on watch," Root responds mildly, stopping where she is.
It has the lilt of a quip but not the heart behind it. Root is exhausted. She'd sprained her ankle, so she isn't going anywhere fast, and her companion escapee has her own injuries. Once upon a time, the Machine would've whispered in her ear what to do, where to go, whatever had the best chance of success and survival. She would've known if she could trust the young woman she'd taken with her as she left.
Instead, she doesn't know anything for certain anymore. She's left scrambling around in the dark like everyone else, a frustrating fate for someone who'd gone to her death with the relieved, peaceful assurance that she had, for once, done something unequivocally good. Now she's in this hellscape, wondering if the Machine wants her here or if this is some kind of bizarre purgatory. Root told Shaw that they couldn't be certain reality wasn't a simulation anyway, but she hadn't expected to have that demonstrated to her directly so soon after saying it.
But who she is now is someone who helps people, mostly -- whether they're trustworthy or not -- so she'd dragged them both here as a clearly defensible structure.
They're on the second floor, Root cozied up to a window with a long-distance rifle. The area around the farmhouse and its barn is barren, providing a wide clear space leading up to it that she can keep an eye on. She might be deaf in one ear, and she might not be as good a shot at this range as Shaw, but her eyes still work and she's good enough.
The noise was her dragging her foot in a scrape across the floor as she made to switch posts, rifle held loosely in both hands with proper gun safety posture. She's ragged, run down, even her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy finally at its end. The lack of food has really done her in. But she's also clear-eyed and unfaltering, staring at Ellie with open assessment, waiting to see which way she'll jump.
She's figuring everything out for herself now, and she's paying attention.
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It has the lilt of a quip but not the heart behind it. Root is exhausted. She'd sprained her ankle, so she isn't going anywhere fast, and her companion escapee has her own injuries. Once upon a time, the Machine would've whispered in her ear what to do, where to go, whatever had the best chance of success and survival. She would've known if she could trust the young woman she'd taken with her as she left.
Instead, she doesn't know anything for certain anymore. She's left scrambling around in the dark like everyone else, a frustrating fate for someone who'd gone to her death with the relieved, peaceful assurance that she had, for once, done something unequivocally good. Now she's in this hellscape, wondering if the Machine wants her here or if this is some kind of bizarre purgatory. Root told Shaw that they couldn't be certain reality wasn't a simulation anyway, but she hadn't expected to have that demonstrated to her directly so soon after saying it.
But who she is now is someone who helps people, mostly -- whether they're trustworthy or not -- so she'd dragged them both here as a clearly defensible structure.
They're on the second floor, Root cozied up to a window with a long-distance rifle. The area around the farmhouse and its barn is barren, providing a wide clear space leading up to it that she can keep an eye on. She might be deaf in one ear, and she might not be as good a shot at this range as Shaw, but her eyes still work and she's good enough.
The noise was her dragging her foot in a scrape across the floor as she made to switch posts, rifle held loosely in both hands with proper gun safety posture. She's ragged, run down, even her seemingly inexhaustible supply of energy finally at its end. The lack of food has really done her in. But she's also clear-eyed and unfaltering, staring at Ellie with open assessment, waiting to see which way she'll jump.
She's figuring everything out for herself now, and she's paying attention.