Chapter Text
// “What is the point of using the virtual reality simulation? Surely there are… proven methods we can use," Lambert points out.
"Antiquated torture won't work on Ms. Shaw. We have already tried that with poor results," Greer replies. //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim1.log
She is tired, so tired. The sunken eyes look that much worse under the bright fluorescent lighting, her skin seems to have an unnatural color in contrast with the bland walls of the hospital room.
The bandage itches and is soaked with blood. She's not sure the last time she showered or much time has passed between the stock exchange and now. She has incomplete memories of the time in between, enough to know there was a time in between, but not enough to know where she is or how she got there.
The haze is not just the anesthetic wearing off, it's something else, a feeling that something does not belong.
She breaks the mirror.
**
She swims and swims and swims but she never makes it to the shore on the other side.
**
{
// “Drowning, yikes," Stewart says. "Definitely gonna need a way off the island next time."
"Why isn't she responding to the stimuli?" Lambert asks.
"She is, but we can only control so much. This is as close to ‘whole brain emulation’ as we can get, but emphasis on close. Not an Asimov fan?" He asks Lambert who looks confused and possibly mad, like always. "Think of it as a mind upload. The goal of WBE is to measure the brain's responses so a computer can emulate the neuroresponses of the subject being studied, to learn how their brain works. But every neuron is like a computer in itself, so measuring every single one is still not possible, not even with Samaritan's super-processing ability.”
“You are surely joking,” Lambert points out.
"Theoretically, it is believe that technology will be available in a few decades, but for now the best we can do is monitor her event-related potential, e.g. we introduce a set of variables with each session, and measure the neurofeedback, and then we make slight tweaks each time, different variables, etc.”
“Mind control? I believe we’ve already studied that in Maple.”
“Not mind control, no. If we could control her mind, we would just demand the Machine’s location. This is more power of suggestion meets the Matrix. Her responses can vary even within the same combination of factors. And there’s also the negative variation, which means she still has free will, or free-won't in this case, and the ability to resist the suggestion we provide. So we are in control at the beginning, with the world creation, and we can trigger the ERPs as a sequence of lights, images, sounds, and even smells, but ultimately she runs the show from there."
Greer smirks. “Using a computer model loaded with all that we know of the Machine’s associates. Samaritan will calculate new scenarios based on Ms. Shaw's responses, and generate a real time reproduction. We will know exactly where The Machine is, because she will show it to us.” //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim12.log
She hears the familiar sound of a helicopter motor above.
The path to the roof is filled with agents but she disposes of each one despite her heavy limbs and the pounding headache.
The helicopter has no pilot, so she's able to jump inside and take off; it's been years since she flown one but it's like riding a bike - if a bike had two rotors that required absolute precision to fly and not… crash.
She sees Greer's face staring at her from the rooftop. The rational side of her knows he's replaceable, but the bandage isn't waterproof and her sweat stings against the freshly sutured skin.
The white flashes go off like a strobe light at a bad rave, and she slumps forward.
She comes to too late, the helicopter dropping towards the ground, and she makes sure to aim for the old man; the last thought to cross her mind is that she hopes this blow to Samaritan’s team buys the team enough time to fight back.
**
{
// “Okay, no helicopter either."
"Isn't there a faster way?" Lambert asks.
“I read her chart and it mentioned an Axis II Disorder, which could account for her reduced response compared to other subjects. So far she's mostly responded to you and Mr. Greer."
"I'm honored," Lambert replies.
"Don't be, she just went full kamikaze on you. Again.” //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim55.log
"Where to?" The cabbie asks.
"Just drive around," she orders him in Farsi.
"Oh, you speak Farsi?"
She nods and sees her own reflection against the plexiglass, haunted and tired eyes.
They drive for miles of New York City's finest traffic jams, and she keeps an eye on every street corner and every camera they pass.
"Are you from here?" He asks again after several minutes.
She shakes her head.
"Visiting some friends," she lies, even though she's been gone for... she can't remember how long.
"Where are your friends?" The cabbie asks her.
"They're..." She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. The flashes start and she grabs at the bandage behind her ear in agony, but it only makes it worse.
She remembers those eyes, but she doesn't remember how.
Samaritan. He must be a Samaritan operative.
There's a gun in her hand that wasn’t there before, and she doesn't even flinch when the shot rings up. The cab accelerates and she has no way to pull the man's foot off the pedal.
The entire car erupts in flame when they t-bone a van.
**
{
// “Let’s not do that again, shall we?" Greer asks.
"We don't-- we will work on that," Stewart sputters out. "No more stimuli in moving vehicles, got it.” //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim91.log
“Root!” Shaw screams as Root collapses on the ground.
The blinding images flash once again, and she almost throws up from the pain. Or maybe—
Shaw shoots before she can think. No busted kneecap for this Samaritan operative; one shot, right between the eyes.
The blood pools around Root, and she sees John and Fusco carrying Greer out; there’s a plan, to regroup and recover, but one look at Root’s torso and Shaw knows there won’t be any recovery.
Rushing combat boots sound against the concrete floors, closer and closer, until she looks up to see twenty, maybe twenty five agents, weapons drawn, ready to chase after Fusco and Reese.
The SEMTEX was placed in all of the right spots; she’d made sure of it.
She barely hears the click of the detonator.
**
{
// “Struck a nerve, haven’t we?” Lambert gloats.
“Well, technically more than one, the whole brain activity just spiked when Ms. Groves was shot, more than we’ve seen so far—“ Stewart stops himself. “Oh, you mean figuratively.”
“Nothing Samaritan did not know and plan for already,” Greer adds smugly. //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim325.log
She grabs her head in pain, dropping to her knees against the linoleum floor of the pharmacy. The flashes show her images of Reese behind the glass at Samaritan’s facility, surveillance pictures of him side by side with Lambert and Grice’s old partner.
Asset #2873
Reese broke; the old man hadn’t lied. It feels like the final blow.
“Come on, Shaw. Give us the location of Finch and the Machine before your trio becomes a duo,” the blonde woman orders.
Shaw frowns. “You haven’t told them?” she asks the shell of the man she once worked with.
“Samaritan… recruited me two weeks before they relocated the Machine.”
“So now you’re trying to kill them?” Shaw demands in disbelief.
John shrugs. “If it comes to that, yeah. But our priority is destroying the ASI.”
She’s standing in the rubble of the Samaritan facility, flanked by Samaritan operatives.
Behind Reese is what she’s looking for. “Brainwash or no brainwash, you would never let Harold die.”
Reese isn’t Reese. She launches forward, impaling the stranger on a piece of rebar; she doesn’t even notice when it goes through her chest.
**
{
// “We are still not getting enough feedback data on Mr. Reese or Mr, Finch. Her brain activity doesn’t spike up until—“ Stewart crosses his throat with his finger. “You know?”
“She cares about them, of that much we are sure,” Greer points out.
Steward nods. “The brain mapping and everything else, the way it works is by measuring the brainwave, which much like a heart goes up and down, but her brain waves just levels off. There is activity, just not helpful for calibration. Even her response to the simulated death or betrayal of most of her associates is minimal compared to… well, a normal subject. ”
“Can’t we amplify the feedback we do get?” Lambert inquires.
“We can try, but it’d be like blowing up a one megabyte picture into a mural; data will be degraded, which can backfire if she continues resisting the reality of the simulations. They may appear unnatural, and she may grow… weary of their presence.”
“Get it done,” Greer orders. //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim1154.log
“We have to stop running, Shaw!” Root yells, Reese’s blood is all over her but the black of her clothes hides the stains. “Sameen!”
“We can’t,” Shaw replies as she pulls Root into a dark alley, hoping they did lose the Samaritan operatives two blocks back. “We can’t stop.”
“Why?” Root questions. “What’s the point? Finch is dead, Reese is dead. Let’s cut our losses and run.”
Shaw glances at Root’s face in the shadows. “What are you saying, Root?”
“They only want us because of the Machine. We kill it and they’ll let us live,” she says, and her tone is desperate and somewhat manic. It reminds Shaw of the empty facility, of finding Root broken. She’d had no sympathy for the woman then.
“Her,” Shaw argues. “You never called— you wouldn’t give up on Her.”
“Things change,” Root whispers as she touches Shaw’s face. “I won’t lose you again.”
The kiss is soft, softer than Shaw’s ever been kissed and she gives in until she remembers she doesn’t like being kissed softly. “No!” She shouts as she pushes Root away. “This isn’t you. The Root I know would never give up on the Machine, or run.”
“Come on, Sameen. We could be free, run all over the world. Have fun.”
The headache and the flashes hit, hard, until she collapses on the floor, her gun in her hand. She doesn’t even flinch when the shot rings out.
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim1332.log
{
// “Simulation 1332 and she’s shot everyone except for Ms. Groves, sir,” Stewart adds as the program reboots. “Well… and the dog.” //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim1948.log
The water is so clear she can see Root’s black toenail polish through it.
“Told you I knew the perfect place,” Root says. “No phones, no pesky computers.”
There are fading bruises and cuts all over her exposed flesh, and Shaw can’t remember which ones she put there and which ones she didn’t. It doesn’t matter though, it’s just the two of them in the entire beach.
And Bear, waiting for them ashore, biting at the waves that come in.
Root falls backwards, until she’s floating, her hair spreading around her head. A soft wave comes and Root’s body lifts and drops with it effortlessly.
“Don’t float away,” Shaw warns as she reaches for Root’s outstretched hand, anchoring her.
**
{
// “She’s dreaming inside the simulation; that’s a first,” Stewart points out. “Kinda wild, like Inception kind of wild.” When the others don’t react, he adds, “You know, the movie? By that dude, Christopher Nol… You know what? It doesn’t matter.“
Greer’s face is anything but amused.
“Yikes, tough crowd. No pop culture trivia, got it.” //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim2248.log
“You were such a great agent, Shaw— may I call you Sameen?” Control asks as she adjusts the straps around Shaw’s hands tighter and tighter until she can feel them cut off her circulation. “I know we taught you everything you needed to know to withstand this,” Control adds. “…but you were never tortured by me.”
“Like you broke Root?“ Shaw laughs bitterly. “Oh wait, you didn’t. Pretty sure she gave you a 1-star review on Yelp.”
Control smirks. “You are not Ms. Groves.”
“No, but I could break her - god knows I’ve had plenty of practice - which makes me better at this than you,” Shaw spits out as she loses feeling on her appendages.
“Cute,” Control says before she brings a soaked rag and a hospital-grade jug of water.
**
She kills Control with one of the straps that came off her wrist, but another Samaritan agent takes over.
Shaw knows what’s coming, but she never gives them what they’re asking for, not even days later when she lets the water finally fill her lungs.
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim2794.log
{
// Stewart gulps as the last piece of both women’s clothing hits the floor. ”Whoa, she went full Skinemax on us.”
Greer doesn’t smile or grimace. “Perhaps we should try less stimuli.”
“Well, actually—“ The women distract him again so he turns the computer screen away so he can focus on the older man. “Arousal is a good medium for a positive response to the program. It gets all those neurons and oxytocin going, you know?”
“Very well,” Greer says before he leaves the room.
The moaning gets louder, and Stewart’s face scrunches up in… he’s not entirely sure, but he doubts anyone would mind if he took his break early. Maybe his lunch. Or a nap, depending on the women’s stamina. //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim4163.log
The closest Shaw has ever come to cuddling was on the trunk of that cab with Reese, so when she instinctively curls around the expanse of Root’s back, she blames it on the cold and the fact they kicked half of the covers off the bed in their… tumbling.
Her lips feel dry and she tries to lick them, pauses when she feels how swollen they still are; the taste is fading and she brushes her nose against Root’s shoulder blade, bites the curvature of the skin wrapped around bone and cartilage, hoping to get some of it back.
Root moans in her sleep, scoots backwards until there’s barely any part of them not touching each other, and Shaw’s decidedly not cold any longer. Root hums, the vibration against Shaw’s chest makes her breath catch; she knows Root is awake now.
Shaw’s hand that was wrapped around Root’s waist moves down, Root providing guidance that Shaw definitely doesn’t need but doesn’t resist; another time, another place, she would.
(She has, and she will again.)
It’s softer than before, Root’s moans are hazy from sleep, Shaw’s movements are languid and lack the usual… rush and drive.
Root’s fingernails dig into the back of Shaw’s hand when it’s over, the crescent wounds mixing in with the cuts and bruises from her escape. Root turns to face Shaw, and Shaw isn’t sure when attraction became something different, something more. There was always something there, even when Shaw wanted Root as far away from her as possible, or at the very least unconscious, but this—
She focuses on the tip of Root’s nose, the shadow of her cheekbone, the stubborn strand of hair that keeps falling on Root’s face no matter how many times they move it out of the way.
“We’ll have almost matching scars, you know?” Root asks, pointing to Shaw’s ear.
“I’m pretty sure I can find others,” Shaw challenges. “Or create them,” she adds with a smile.
Root’s eyes dip towards Shaw’s lips, her hand cradling the back of Shaw’s neck until Shaw exhales sharply.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” the words are out of Root’s mouth as she realizes her palm is pressing against the bandage. She tries to pull it back, but Shaw’s hands reach for her wrist and grip it tightly. “You said it hurts,” Root points out. “And not the good kind of pain.”
“‘Since you cut the chip out, it’s only bad when I touch it,” Shaw replies.
“And when I touch it?” Root asks, biting her lower lip.
Shaw nods. “It’s the good kind of pain.”
Root doesn’t pull her hand back, instead she pushes Shaw on her back. “I can work with that.”
“That’s what I was counting on.”
**
{
// Music blasts into Stewart’s ears, and he dozes through this part of the simulation. He has been through this enough times to know he has at least four hours before he needs to introduce any stimuli— well, external stimuli.
He just hopes he doesn’t get written up for sleeping on the job. Or fired, which he’s pretty sure means killed at this place. //
}
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim5289.log
Shaw takes the bat and swings it at the first agent, then knocks the second one out. When she hears the third set of footsteps, she glances up slowly. “Cole!?”
“Hi there, partner,” he replies, and the smile is just like it used to be. She figures this is the part where normal people hurt, but she can’t feel anything except the adrenaline coursing through her veins.
“You died,” she points out calmly.
“That was pretty realistic, right?” He laughs. “But no, ISA just re-assigned me to a special project. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
**
“So, how’s life?” Cole asks as they eat a hot dog from a cart on 18th Ave. “Let me guess, married, with three kids and dog?”
Shaw rolls her eyes. “You got the dog part right. Well, sorta. He’s not mine, but— it’s a long story,” she offers.
“I’ve got time. Except not really, because I kinda did just defect from the world’s most powerful organization, so… maybe we can talk while you take me to a safe place? I’ve seen Samaritan’s source code; I could help you defeat it.”
Shaw pauses and frowns, the ketchup spilling from the hotdog onto her t-shirt like fresh blood and the flashes start.
“Shaw? Shaw!” Cole’s voice sounds distant. “Come on, tell me where, I’ll take you there, to your friends.”
“Bear,” she groans as the skyline above her swirls and swirls. “That’s the dog’s name.”
Cole nods. “I’ll get you to Bear.”
She shakes her head. “Too damn risky. We need to get out of town.”
“Root, she’s waiting for you,” Cole says, but his voice has a distinct British accent all of a sudden, his face unrecognizable.
She shoves her knife into his artery; people panic around them.
NYPD shoots her before Cole’s blood soaks through her clothes.
## POSIX syntax ##
command-name > sim7396.log
{
// “Where are we on Ms. Shaw’s progress?” Greer asks.
“Great,” Stewart replies. “Well… if you consider the fact she’s doing exactly the opposite of what we set out to do to be great.”
Lambert sighs. “She’s still resisting the simulation?”
“It’s like her subconscious is… learning.” //
}