Okay. Maybe her new favorite person for a while with how quickly he did that, and without objecting.
Root braces herself further upright on the couch and grabs the phone as quickly as she can, suppressing winces, eyes fervently glued to the phone screen. It lights up on its own again, but it just displays the same message as before, not even with a new timestamp:
ET: Rest.
Ugh. Limitations of human biology foiling her, she's sure. Root could do so many things right now if she wasn't currently recovering from almost death, and the Machine must need help, must need her.
Staring directly at the phone, she says aloud, "I need to know he's okay." Sameen can take care of herself, but Harold absolutely can't, and the Machine doing this much is all she needs to have hope in that realm. It's Harold she needs reassurance for. He was in the car and there was a sniper and she doesn't know where he is now.
The phone only vibrates in her hand, the single pulse held for a full beat, but again -- again, it's enough. Morse code for yes.
Root collapses back onto the couch, loved ones accounted for.
"Can I have some water," she says, not quite a question. "And a snack would be nice." She is, suddenly, fully aware of how long it's been since she's done anything resembling maintenance for her disappointing organic flesh-house.
There's something odd about that phone. It's a burner, or he'd thought it at first glance. Nothing special.
Yet she didn't unlock it. Hasn't asked for the code. And yet it lit right up.
So, that's happening.
Damien watches the moment play out, only half-listening. There's a he. Someone this woman cares about. There's a player involved, Ernst Thornhill, who's powerful enough to divert the FBI. There's a question of why.
He steps away, retreating to the kitchen. He returns with a water bottle and a granola bar and steps them next to her. He probably should eat something himself but the thought leaves him vaguely sick.
Root drinks the water (slowly) and eats the granola bar (faster) and quite literally chews over her thoughts for some time before she attempts a conversation. Her brain isn't fully online yet, but piece by piece, it's getting there.
"Not much of a talker, are you?" she comments. Her gaze is getting sharper as the fuel gets into her. "What's your name?"
Just how obedient is he? The Machine would have picked him deliberately, carefully, but Root can't pretend to know how her selection process would've worked. It's a calculation entirely beyond her. All she knows is that she would've picked wisely, and well.
He stays standing. There and not-there in his mind. The room is the world and the world is a monster; he doesn't want to touch it. Doesn't want to remember all the awful things it can do to a body because he's stuck in one of those when he bothers remembering it. That's the worst part, Damien thinks. Not what a body can be but how much it can suffer. There's always more than you think, even at your lowest.
The woman doesn't die. He watches her bandages and they stay clean at the edges. He wonders if that matters.
The food disappears. Damien eyes the wrappers. The crumbs. Then his gaze drifts away. He needs to eat something before he passes out but the idea makes his chest ache with an ugly, hot pain. He was shot not so long ago, or thought he was.
Then again, what he thinks isn't always right. Hasn't he been told that his whole life?
"Damien," he says after a while, without much affect. He's not very good at faking that sort of thing. Jade or Dana always took point on the missions that required talking.
The pause and everything before he gives a name. The Machine sure knows how to pick 'em, and Root is absolutely including herself in that mental comment.
Root drinks the water and eats the granola bar before talking again. It takes a little while, and it hurts to swallow, like all of her organs are protesting that her esophagus is moving even a little. But if she wants to heal as fast as possible then she needs to eat, and Root gets through the sustenance with the blank commitment of someone who thinks of bodies as unfortunate organic annoyances.
"Okay, Damien," she says finally, carelessly leaving her trash on a nearby table. "Earnest Thornhill paid you to save me and bring me here, right? He pay you to do anything else?"
She's assessing her resources, whether or not she can drag him along on what comes next. She's going to need help, that much is clear.
The trash bothers him. Damien eyes it and then lets his gaze drift. It’s hard to focus right now. He supposes wrappers don’t really matter, in the end. Not much does right now.
“No,” he replies in that same empty tone. The money wasn’t the point. He acted because the only other choice was to lie down and die and if you aren’t going to do that, there’s no point in staying motionless. That’s where the enemy traps you.
He watches the woman and doesn’t ask her name. That might not matter, either.
He wonders if Jade is still alive. If any of the others are. What he’d do if he knew the answer.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Root braces herself further upright on the couch and grabs the phone as quickly as she can, suppressing winces, eyes fervently glued to the phone screen. It lights up on its own again, but it just displays the same message as before, not even with a new timestamp:
ET: Rest.Ugh. Limitations of human biology foiling her, she's sure. Root could do so many things right now if she wasn't currently recovering from almost death, and the Machine must need help, must need her.
Staring directly at the phone, she says aloud, "I need to know he's okay." Sameen can take care of herself, but Harold absolutely can't, and the Machine doing this much is all she needs to have hope in that realm. It's Harold she needs reassurance for. He was in the car and there was a sniper and she doesn't know where he is now.
The phone only vibrates in her hand, the single pulse held for a full beat, but again -- again, it's enough. Morse code for yes.
Root collapses back onto the couch, loved ones accounted for.
"Can I have some water," she says, not quite a question. "And a snack would be nice." She is, suddenly, fully aware of how long it's been since she's done anything resembling maintenance for her disappointing organic flesh-house.
no subject
Yet she didn't unlock it. Hasn't asked for the code. And yet it lit right up.
So, that's happening.
Damien watches the moment play out, only half-listening. There's a he. Someone this woman cares about. There's a player involved, Ernst Thornhill, who's powerful enough to divert the FBI. There's a question of why.
He steps away, retreating to the kitchen. He returns with a water bottle and a granola bar and steps them next to her. He probably should eat something himself but the thought leaves him vaguely sick.
no subject
"Not much of a talker, are you?" she comments. Her gaze is getting sharper as the fuel gets into her. "What's your name?"
Just how obedient is he? The Machine would have picked him deliberately, carefully, but Root can't pretend to know how her selection process would've worked. It's a calculation entirely beyond her. All she knows is that she would've picked wisely, and well.
no subject
The woman doesn't die. He watches her bandages and they stay clean at the edges. He wonders if that matters.
The food disappears. Damien eyes the wrappers. The crumbs. Then his gaze drifts away. He needs to eat something before he passes out but the idea makes his chest ache with an ugly, hot pain. He was shot not so long ago, or thought he was.
Then again, what he thinks isn't always right. Hasn't he been told that his whole life?
"Damien," he says after a while, without much affect. He's not very good at faking that sort of thing. Jade or Dana always took point on the missions that required talking.
no subject
Root drinks the water and eats the granola bar before talking again. It takes a little while, and it hurts to swallow, like all of her organs are protesting that her esophagus is moving even a little. But if she wants to heal as fast as possible then she needs to eat, and Root gets through the sustenance with the blank commitment of someone who thinks of bodies as unfortunate organic annoyances.
"Okay, Damien," she says finally, carelessly leaving her trash on a nearby table. "Earnest Thornhill paid you to save me and bring me here, right? He pay you to do anything else?"
She's assessing her resources, whether or not she can drag him along on what comes next. She's going to need help, that much is clear.
no subject
“No,” he replies in that same empty tone. The money wasn’t the point. He acted because the only other choice was to lie down and die and if you aren’t going to do that, there’s no point in staying motionless. That’s where the enemy traps you.
He watches the woman and doesn’t ask her name. That might not matter, either.
He wonders if Jade is still alive. If any of the others are. What he’d do if he knew the answer.