Chapter Text
Traffic hours always seemed to put her into a good mood; Root didn’t know if it was the chaos of so many cars glued to the asphalt like snails, or the constant horns and yells that filled the air. All in all, she loved opening the windows and letting the noise in, even though Sameen hated it – even more now that it allowed the cold autumn air inside her apartment, carelessly waving the curtains as if mocking.
From Sameen’s bed Root stared at the sunlight tracing lines on the wall, the sun slowly coming down from its zenith. To her it created a minimalist painting she had come to love, changing from month to month, depending on the weather, on the rotation and inclination of the Earth. She studied every difference, ignoring Sameen’s complaints that she was acting weird again. But to Root those moments were always perfect; with the constant noises outside, and the sun setting, the whole day slowed down like it didn’t know where the evening was headed and that, somehow, was comforting.
Sameen’s hand ran up her thigh, familiar and warm, and Root closed her eyes for a moment, revelling in the scent of Sameen’s perfume. For months she had smelled it on her own clothes at the oddest of times; it glued to Root’s skin during those brief hours they could both steal away from numbers, relevant and irrelevant alike, and the scent stayed with Root afterwards, lingering on whatever she was wearing that day; whatever clothes she had discarded in a rush. Sameen’s perfume came back to Root every now and then, on a rooftop in Berlin or in an alleyway in San Francisco, and every time it created an odd heat across her chest, a burning that wasn’t unpleasant.
Although between Sameen’s bed sheets, it rapidly turned into a fire; a sharp pain wrapped around her sternum that worsened as Root met Sameen’s eyes. There was a shadow in Sameen’s gaze recently, some glooming worry when she meticulously checked up Root’s recent wounds, redoing her bandages even when they were still clean, just in case. All the while Sameen asked more questions about Root’s missions and her whereabouts, and Root didn’t know what to make of it or how to answer. She noticed Sameen’s fingers becoming gentler, her tone softening, her movements less rushed.
It reminded her of that day, almost a year ago, when Sameen had asked for Root to stay – had almost begged her with a sad voice Root had never heard before; I just don’t know what this is. Root didn’t know either – months later, she still had no idea, not really. She didn’t know what strange compulsion got her heart racing every time she was with Sameen, how it was possible for Root to miss her while she was away, and at the same time be unable to stay. She felt restless, every day a little more than the one before, and she would never spend more than a few hours with Sameen before using the Machine as an excuse to leave.
Lately she suspected Sameen had noticed the lies, and it only deepened her guilt.
It wasn’t like Sameen was asking for anything, really. She’d take Root as she came, but Root wondered why Sameen’s hands lingered, why her hands weren’t as rough as before. Root would push her buttons then, annoy her and tease her until Sameen would finally bruise her, marking every inch of Root like she was hers. That wouldn’t help for long; days later Root would look at herself in the mirror and notice some contusion turning into a yellowish brown circle and she’d think of Sameen’s sad eyes and hear her voice again. Don’t leave.
That afternoon she had settled on swallowing one too many drinks with Sameen, numbing herself to forget about that an unbearable heat that made her want to run away. It made her itch as Sameen’s eyes slowly embraced her skin, gaze almost crawling under it and Root tried her best to ignore the slow shift in Sameen’s behavior, tried to forget the way it seemed the fire inside her would burn until she’d choke on the smoke.
“What’s with you these days?” Sameen asked when Root’s bite turned more angry than aroused.
Root didn’t answer, her fingers scratching Sameen’s back furiously.
“Root,” she groaned, pushing Root deeper into the mattress, “just tell me what’s going on.”
“Never picked you for the talking type,” Root teased with a smirk, one hand running down Sameen’s arm, kneading the muscles.
Sameen shook her head. “Fine,” she grunted, leaning down. As her lips reached Root’s, Root turned her face to the side, wincing.
“Will you do something for me?” Root whispered nervously, and Sameen’s frown deepened as she waited for the rest of that sentence. “Your knife,” Root started, throwing a glance towards the settee. “Could you...?”
It wasn’t the first time they had used Sameen’s knife, but Root had never really asked for it before, and the question lingered between them, heavy in the afternoon’s end. Root wished she hadn’t said anything, or that Sameen would just agree without giving it a second thought. But Sameen wasn’t like Root; she didn’t go head first and think of an escape plan later, and this was something Root liked, she needed to remind herself; it was something she loved about Sameen.
“It’s not sterilized,” Sameen started, but averted her eyes. “Give me a minute?”
Root almost gleamed, the burning inside strangely soothed at the sight of Sameen, naked as she sat on the side of the bed, carefully cleaning her blade.
“It still has to dry up a bit,” she argued when Root pulled her close, a smirk finally back on Root’s face.
Root snaked one leg around Sameen’s waist, rolling her hips against Sameen, warm and demanding. “Now, Sam,” she begged, biting on her lower lip as she wrapped her arms around Sameen’s neck, urging her closer. There was something pressing in her voice, some distress she didn’t want coming through and yet it did; she only hoped Sameen didn’t hear it.
She longed for blazing cuts on her skin, needed it desperately and when Sameen finally caved in Root revelled in the sudden pain, her blood swelling up at the surface of her chest, red lines that viciously burned up.
Once again she felt Sameen’s fingers moving inside her, and Root arched her body into her rhythm, hips grinding against the hand.
“More,” Root asked, placing her hand around Sameen’s wrist, forcing her to push the blade harder against her skin.
“Will you just let me?” Sameen groaned, shaking off Root’s hand. Instead of cutting, this time Sameen pressed the tip against the skin until it broke, and Root gasped.
There was something new and exciting in that pain; the feeling of the knife puncturing instead of cutting, and she swallowed hard. Sameen dug into Root a few other holes, creating a strange constellation of little red lines here and there above her breast. “Deeper,” Root begged and Sameen moved between her legs, pushing her fingers inside roughly. Root moaned, her breath warm against Sameen’s skin, yet she shook her head; “I meant the knife.”
Sameen frowned. “Can’t,” she answered, staring at Root with the same worried gaze Root had wanted to forget.
She bit down her lip. “Yes you can,” she argued, the movement between her legs stopping as Root lifted herself up, hanging back on her elbows. “You can patch me up later,” she suggested, hoping her voice conveyed all her trust.
Above her, Sameen didn’t look convinced; she pulled out her fingers before she leaned forward to place the knife back on the settee. “You’re not thinking straight,” she argued.
“Never am when you’re around,” Root purred, but Sameen only seemed more annoyed. Root pulled her down, tugging on her hair and biting on her lip until Sameen agreed to kiss her again. “Why don’t you just fuck me?” she whispered against Sameen’s mouth, and that finally got her a reaction. Root gasped when Sameen returned her hand between her legs, moving roughly against her labia.
When Root came a few minutes later, Sameen’s name at the back of her throat, she felt her eyes watering and pretended not to notice the way Sameen’s lips soothed her cuts. She pulled on Sameen’s hair until she agreed to meet her in a kiss. Root tasted her own blood on Sameen’s mouth and exhaled then, some strange relief settling in her chest as the sun set down on the city.
[...]
It wasn’t often that the Machine asked Root to help with an irrelevant number in between her own missions, and every time it left Root a little bit more exhausted, trying to keep up with Sameen despite the lack of sleep and the jetlag. It was a long, boring drive all the way to Lancaster, PA, and after a while the sound of the engine lulled Root into sleep, head leaning against the cold window.
When she woke up, hearing Sameen shift on the seat beside her, Root kept her eyes closed a little longer. For a few seconds, half-asleep with the sunlight falling on her face, she felt warm and cosy, and thought she could stay like that, half asleep with Sameen by her side, peaceful and quiet. There was an awkward twinge lingering in her neck, and she ended up sitting back on the passenger seat, awkwardly trying to stretch her legs, definitely awake.
Sameen didn’t mention Root falling asleep, her eyes still on the road, yet she glanced at Root with a worried gaze. Root’s muscles ached as she moved; her neck sore while she felt Sameen’s gaze on her and the oddness returned, that uncomfortable heat in her chest, lurking, choking.
The Machine informed Root that they had reached their destination and she noticed the pale form of the Stone Mill Plaza standing at the corner of the street. She swallowed hard, blinking furiously as she tried to concentrate on the Machine’s voice, being herself quite silent as Sameen parked the car in the large parking lot of a suburban town.
“Alright,” Sameen pulled out a coin from her pocket, ignoring Root’s yawns. “Who’s going in?”
Root blinked, unsure. She vaguely remembered their number’s name, and something about an insurance company, but nothing more. Sameen sighed.
“Are you even awake?” Sameen mocked, but it wasn’t as annoyed as it used to be – it sounded like the familiar banter of someone who earnestly worried, and Root remembered how many times she had that pointless discussion with Sameen, about how Sameen thought the Machine was asking too much, forcing Root to deal with relevant numbers on her own. She didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth; that Root begged for those missions like her life depended on them.
Root cleared her throat. “Maybe you should run point on this one,” she suggested with a raspy voice, brushing a hand against her eyes. She felt more exhausted than she had before, and didn’t even react when Sameen sighed loudly, turning on her earpiece.
“Fine,” she opened the car door, “but you owe me dinner.”
Root stared as Sameen made her way through what little traffic there was, heading straight to the main exterior entrance of the office, where their number apparently worked alone as an insurance broker.
“Can I help you?” he asked Sameen with a charming voice as soon as she entered.
In the car, Root pulled out her laptop from beneath her seat, hacking into the mall’s security system and accessing the camera feeds – the one that should’ve been inside wasn’t functioning.
“I don’t have eyes in there, Shaw,” she warned Sameen. She didn’t receive a response but she knew Sameen had heard her anyway, and she focused on changing the angle of the parking lot’s camera that filmed just in front of his store, trying to peek into its large bay window.
“Yes, well, I was thinking of getting myself a life insurance,” Sameen’s faked enthusiasm brought a smile to Root’s lips, “I know I’m a bit old to start looking.” She flashed a smile even though the number cut her off.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever too old to start looking,” he smirked, and Root felt her heart beating hard against her rib cage, as if it wanted out. She stared at the black and white screen, Sameen’s blurry silhouette leaning against the counter, the confident man smiling as he remained sit behind his counter. He removed the glasses from his familiar face before he stood and introduced himself, but Root barely listened anymore.
She kept her eyes on his every move, watching like a hawk. The thought of Sameen beside him – him, of all people – made her sick and she struggled not to ask Sameen to come back to the car immediately. But no matter what, a number was a number, and Root knew Sameen would never forgive her if she came in the way of helping someone. Even him.
The Machine buzzed in her ear, listing the man’s past aliases to Root, a long flow of names and cities and she thought of hers, her seemingly endless list of names she had used, of persons she had pretended to be over the years. She could still name them all, like ghosts she carried around with her; versions of her that had never been alive to begin with. Data ghosts, she thought.
She didn’t know if they were worse than real ones.
She could see it in the way the number smiled; how he was used to conning people, how he tricked them into trusting him. She noticed how he suggested weakness – sitting behind the desk, taking his glasses off – and then intimacy – the warm handshake, a little rant about his family, of which the Machine found no record of. It was easy really, and Root knew that game well. Better than him, she thought, yet the comparison made her sick.
His charming smile, the way he picked his words carefully, his tone authoritative yet colored with soft edges; it wasn’t unlike the one Root remembered using herself so many times before. It seemed to her like a reaffirmation of what she had always known about herself and she flinched, only glad that no one was there to notice her trouble.
Sameen continued the conversation with the number, pretending to be interested in his offers. All the while she asked all the right questions, confirming the feeling Root already had; that he truly wasn’t an insurance broker, but a con man who faked insurance papers and collected the monthly payments. It was a long con with a nice set up, indicating he was more likely settled down somewhere in the area, and Root started searching the address of his apartment, guessing they could find some lead there. As Root did so, Sameen finally left the office, walking back to the car and dropping her fake smile.
“Our man is working quite the con,” she told Root via her earpiece. “Every payment goes through him; I’m guessing he gets the money until the reclamations pile up, and then leaves before the heat gets too intense.”
“Well his number came up, so it would seem like this time he isn’t packing quickly enough,” Root replied, but she wasn’t really focused, a sudden sense of dread overtaking her. She wondered for a moment if she could just get out of there; the Machine had given her an address, and she imagined driving away, leaving Sameen behind to keep eyes on the number. Then again, she couldn’t settle on letting Sameen spend another moment alone with him.
“Root?” Sameen groaned, avoiding a couple with a stroller.
Root blinked, confused, “what?”
Sameen rolled her eyes – Root couldn’t really see from where she was, but she knew just from Sameen’s tone, the annoyance at being forced to repeat herself more than obvious. “Can you access his computer?”
Without another word Root hacked the private network of the mall, but couldn’t find anything listed under his name or his company’s.
“I don’t see a wifi connection,” she informed Sameen as she double-checked to be sure. Somehow she didn’t trust her exhaustion or her feelings, her instincts still screaming at her to get out of there – to take Sameen and leave Lancaster at once.
“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” Sameen complained, “his whole office looked like it’s1990 again.”
Root looked up from her computer screen for a moment, as if to confirm that Sameen was truly coming back to her, safely leaving the mall and their number behind, and then returned her attention to her laptop. Somehow it was easier to breathe now, as if the more distance Sameen put between her and their number, the less danger she was in – which was ridiculous, because he was nothing but a pathetic con man in a small city, and there was nothing dangerous about him – or at least, nothing Sameen couldn’t easily handle, eyes closed.
Still, the feeling lingered until Sameen opened the car door.
“Any idea where to go next,” Sameen asked as she sat behind the wheel, turning off her earpiece.
“I know a place,” Root winked, but her heart wasn’t in it. Sameen apparently didn’t notice, since she only seemed annoyed again, and they drove away, Sameen following Root’s indications without a word.
The silence in the car was nearly deafening as Root looked out the window, wondering if her trouble was obvious since she couldn’t stop worrying at her lip. She ran a hand through her hair and hoped Sameen couldn’t see how it was trembling. For a moment she thought of telling Sameen everything, revealing what she had just learned about the man they had left behind at that ridiculously small shopping center, but she couldn’t find the words.
She stared at the landscape; ordinary houses in an ordinary town, and Root convinced herself that is was better not to tell. Safer to keep the information to herself, because if she told Sameen, if she said the words aloud, then they would be true, and she didn’t know what to do with that.
Root kept her mouth tight shut.
Their number’s apartment was a small, grim bachelor just above a corner store. As Sameen went through the cabinets and drawers, Root opened his laptop, trying not to think of what she was doing exactly – of where she was.
Still, she couldn’t keep her eyes from lingering on the pile of dirty clothes lying on a chair in the corner, on the TV remote falling between two cushions. She wondered what was inside the refrigerator, and for a moment feared she was losing her mind as her eyes surprisingly watered.
“That’s what you did, right?” Sameen asked as she inspected the place, avoiding to look directly at Root. “Long cons?”
Root didn’t like the reminder or the comparison, but it was true nonetheless, and Sameen knew it all too well. She cleared her throat, looking up and blinking, hoping Sameen wouldn’t see the tears she didn’t want to shed.
“I did short ones first,” Root replied awkwardly as she typed in, her fingers dancing on the keyboard while she thoroughly ignored Sameen’s eyes boring into her. “Stealing PINs, cloning cards.”
“Ever did insurance fraud?” Sameen seemed to give up on understanding whatever was going on with her, and for that Root was grateful.
Root shook her head. “Not my type; too many risks of it tracing back to you,” she continued, skimming through the files. “Most of my cons, I was out of town before they even knew they had been robbed... but I got bored with it pretty quickly.”
“And then you started the wetwork,” Shaw finished, sparing her a glance. “I’m not judging, I’m just saying, it’s what you did.”
“I know it’s what I did,” Root replied with a sigh, averting her eyes. Her stomach tightened uncomfortably, a sensation not unlike what she had felt when she had first realised her connection with Cyrus Wells – her responsibility in his sudden change of career. She tried to focus on his words then, his reassurances about a bigger plan, and then on those of the Machine, about rewriting faulty codes. Yet Root wondered, not for the first time, if she truly deserved this second chance.
There was blood on her hands, and it had been on her so long she didn’t remember how it felt like not to have it there, sticky and warm and condemning. She didn’t have noble excuses to hide behind or patriotic flags to wave about; Root had nowhere to hide, and so many things to pay for.
She looked at Sameen, who had tried to save lives as a doctor and then as a soldier, as Catalyst Indigo and now helping the Machine with irrelevant numbers. Sameen who could cut like a double-edged sword, who was efficient and strong, and did not doubt herself like Root did.
Sameen spared her a glance, but didn’t insist.
Somehow the silence that followed was only worse.
[...]
Breaking into their number’s office later that night had been more effective than their visit to his apartment, and Root had quickly found some interesting files in there. Apparently he had recently received an insurance claim for a family member of a local drug dealer with impressive connections, and who was likely to retaliate soon.
Root quickly transmitted the information to Sameen, who had followed their number to some shady bar in a majorly industrial part of town. Root had been the one busting in while Sameen kept an eye on their number and she didn’t like it one bit, but it seemed better than the alternative.
She was replacing the files in the number’s cabinet when Sameen asked her in a hushed voice, “you have to get here.” Root’s heart stopped then, the anguish she had felt earlier washing down on her like a cold wave. She swallowed hard, locking the office behind her before she made her way out of the mall and into the empty dark streets.
“What’s your ETA?” Sameen insisted, breathing heavily. Root didn’t hear gunshots – yet, her mind reminded her – which she took as a good sign.
“Ten minutes,” she replied as the Machine informed her of Sameen’s localisation, and how to get there quickly on foot.
She followed the Machine’s directions to a shadier part of town where factories and dirty taverns thrived, but as she got closer to Sameen Root forgot the voice buzzing in her implant and ran towards the gunshots echoing through the empty streets instead. She quickly found Sameen ducking behind their car, being shot at by three masked men on the other side of the street, with their number close by, trying to crawl towards safety.
“I’m here,” Root walked over rapidly, firing back, and Sameen took that window of opportunity to move away from her safe location and grab their number, pulling him behind another parked vehicle. Root clipped one of the assailants in the meantime, trying to ignore the way the panicked man held onto Sameen, pulling on her clothes and keeping her from getting up, begging for her to stay down with him. Sameen managed to stand anyway, just in time to fire at a man coming up behind Root.
“Watch your back,” Sameen grunted as Root recharged. The Machine had warned her of the threat but somehow Root felt slow and uneasy, eyes staring at the blood their number was losing. Shot in the thigh, his pants had taken a darker colour and a red puddle formed under him, sticking on the bottom of Sameen’s combats boots.
He had grey hair now, and didn’t have that Texan accent, but she had recognised him almost immediately that afternoon, and he looked almost surreal from up close. Root’s heart stopped for a moment and nausea overcame her senses. It was as if the sight of blood made their connection undeniable, the small rivers on the asphalt that reminded her of some saying she hadn’t heard in a long time; something about drops of water coming back to the sea. A cycle completed; like it was inevitable that someday, one would return to where they came from.
She took her eyes off him then, aiming precisely where the Machine told her too, and got the last man standing. As the assailant cried out loud, she heard Sameen’s voice, weakened as if from far away.
“We have to go,” she pulled on Root’s arm, bringing her back to reality. “Root,” she insisted, and Root blinked. “We should call an ambulance.”
Root stared at her, uncertain. She looked at the con man bleeding out beside them, and then back at Sameen. Her mind quickly reviewed the facts; they were in an empty area, almost entirely devoid of any circulation – it wasn’t very likely that anybody had heard the shootout, and the man needed assistance if he was to survive. Their car had been shot way too many times to be drivable, and Sameen looked weary of stealing one to bring him to a hospital.
“I crushed my phone,” Sameen insisted. “Root, he needs an ambulance.”
In the course of her life, Root had dialed 911 exactly two times. She remembered well the anxiety that came with it, the feeling that she was about to do something that wasn’t allowed. To dial a number that no one should dial. The feeling that her heart was going to pop out of her chest, and that burning down her throat that made her voice sound weird – like it wasn’t hers.
Once she had called to report the kidnapping of her friend Hanna, and no one had helped her. And then a few years later, when she had found her dead mother lying in the middle of the living room, the dispatcher had sent strangers to her house to pick up the body, and Root had stared at them from the couch, her feet up on the cushions even though she wasn’t allowed to.
She wasn’t about to call 911 again, not for him, not even to save his life. She just couldn’t call there again, couldn’t bring her hand to pick up the phone from her pocket.
She walked away without another word, Sameen in tow.
“Root,” Sameen insisted. “Is there an ambulance on the way?”
The Machine didn’t say, but Root turned around. “Yes,” she lied. Gunshots were sure to have alerted someone, she decided, but in this neighborhood, it really was a toss of a coin. Still, she didn’t care; fate would decide what would happen here, and not her.
Emergency services have been notified, the Machine confirmed as Sameen used a slim jack to steal them a new car. Quiet beside her, Root silently drowned in anger, as if she hadn’t wanted the Machine to call the police. As if she had hoped the number would die – and she wondered what that made her. A monster, maybe. Someone not as evolved as the Machine would’ve thought; not as worthy as Sameen would believe her to be.
Root shivered at the thought.
As they drove away in the night, they heard sirens invading the empty streets, and only then Sameen seemed to relax, but Root didn’t lose the tension in her shoulders, stiff and mute.
She barely glanced at the rear view mirror as they left behind a bleeding man she had never met before today. A man she had seen only on photographs, in the shaking hands of her mother – some stranger she had grown to call her father.