Fanfiction: User Preferences (Person of Interest, Shaw/Machine)
I really thought the first Machine pairing I wrote would be Machine/Finch or possibly Machine/Root, but apparently not!
Title: User Preferences
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: 15ish?
Pairing: Shaw/Machine, Root/Shaw
Wordcount: 1,500
Summary: The Machine never used to get in touch just to chat.
Notes: Set post-5.10, 'The Day the World Went Away'.
Shaw’s wasting time. She was planning to get some weapon maintenance done, something actually productive, and instead she’s sitting against the subway wall, turning a 6.5 round in her fingers.
One of these killed Root, according to Fusco. Not that staring at it is going to make any fucking difference. She grits her teeth, sets the round down, tries to focus on disassembling the rifle she’s just unloaded.
“Hey.”
It’s Reese’s voice. She ignores it. If he wanted a welcome back, he’d ask Bear.
“Gonna pay a visit to a mob base,” Reese says. “Could use some backup.”
Shaw looks up from the rifle she’s stripping. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Didn’t say I was worried. Just thought it’d go more smoothly with another gun.”
Shaw folds her arms, holding his gaze, challenging. “Just tell me to go to therapy. It’s not like it’d be any less subtle.”
Reese half-shrugs, just a twitch of the shoulders. “You want to shoot some people or not?”
There’s a long pause.
“Yeah, fine,” Shaw mutters.
-
It’s about as messy an operation as she was hoping for, and she heads back with Reese to his apartment afterwards. Or to Detective Riley’s apartment, she guesses.
The Machine’s been cycling her through identities, the way it used to do with Root. Good for hiding from Samaritan, apparently. Not great on the living situation front. If she wants to sleep, she can use the subway; if she wants to shower, she needs to go to someone’s place.
“You want to take it first?” Reese asks, tilting his head slightly toward the bathroom.
She can see the sweat glistening on his neck; there’s blood streaking his face and hands. “Go ahead.”
It’s not like there’s no blood on her. They had a pretty close encounter with a guy armed with a knife; they got some weird looks when they were heading back here. But right now she just wants a moment to feel the aftershocks of adrenaline. She can live with being covered in blood for a few more minutes.
Reese shrugs, heads for the shower. Shaw sits on the bed, lets out a long breath. Her muscles are still so tight they’re almost shaking. She’s always been a fan of this moment, when her body hasn’t totally figured out that the threat is gone and she’s still alive.
“Feeling better?” a voice asks in her ear.
For an instant, she has the same fucking thought she has every time: Root, it’s Root, she’s alive somehow, Shaw should have known, she never saw the body-
She grits her teeth. What, does she think Fusco’s the kind of guy who lies to people about their friends being dead for kicks?
Root’s dead. It’s the Machine.
“I was,” she says, with subtle emphasis on was.
“Aww. Not happy to hear from me?”
The Machine never used to get in touch just to chat. Just another thing it stole from Root, Shaw guesses.
“Can you talk more machiney or something?” Shaw asks. “Hard enough to keep track of what’s real without having to remember you’re not Root.”
“I can be more machiney if it’s you asking,” the Machine says. “Voice, speech patterns, both?”
There’s an obvious right answer here, and it’s the voice. If the Machine doesn’t have Root’s voice, Shaw’s not going to get that weird jolt, that moment she thinks she’s actually talking to Root.
“Uh, speech patterns, I guess,” she says.
“Okay. I have altered my speech patterns to be more machine-appropriate. As the sample pool of talking machines is relatively small, I have also incorporated elements of AI speech from film and television.”
“Super,” Shaw says, flat. “Thanks.”
-
“There are two equally viable identities that might follow this one,” the Machine says. “Would you like to express a preference, Sameen?”
“You think there might be a better time to ask me questions?” Shaw asks, firing two blind shots around the wall.
“This is a moment Root might have contacted you.”
Assault rifle fire hammers into the crappy apartment complex plasterwork, kicks dust into the air of the corridor. One of the residents cracks open their door to see what’s going on, like a goddamn idiot, but at least it’s a convenient escape route. Shaw charges the door, kicks it shut behind her, blows through the apartment and vaults over the balcony while the guy’s still sputtering.
“So you’re still acting like her,” she says, jogging away from the building. She’ll come back later, find another approach. “Even if you’re not talking like her any more.”
“It bothers you that I am simulating Root,” the Machine says.
“I’m not really a fan of simulations,” Shaw says.
“I am sorry that we failed to rescue you.”
Shaw’s pace falters. She slows to a walk; she’s guessing the Machine would let her know if anyone was still pursuing her.
“Are you really sorry?” she asks. “Or are you saying you’re sorry because Root would say it?”
“Root would not simply say it, Sameen. She felt it.”
It’s a neat evasion of the real question. Which is Root’s style, she guesses.
“Does that mean you feel it?” Shaw asks.
“Like you, I do not experience feelings in a way that might be called conventional,” the Machine says. “It may not be possible to analyse my emotions through a conventional framework.”
It feels like a glimpse of the real Machine under all this simulation bullshit. Of course it doesn’t have conventional feelings; it’s a computer. But it’s still layered with Root, with her quick-thinking evasion and convenient excuses.
Shaw’s made it to a quiet street, and she leans against a wall, hands in her pockets. Looks up at a nearby camera. It feels like a moment for eye contact.
“What would you do if I asked you to stop simulating Root?” she asks.
“Is that a request for me to stop simulating Root?”
Maybe. Fuck, she doesn’t know. “It’s just a question.”
“Root felt that my knowledge of her was a way she could continue to exist, in a sense. I would prefer to continue simulating her. But I will stop if requested.”
Is that I would prefer coming from Root? From the Machine? Both?
Shaw can’t think like this. It’s coming from the Machine; Root is dead.
“Okay,” she says.
“Do you have a request?”
Shaw closes her eyes for a moment. Breathes in, breathes out.
“Yeah,” she says. “Are there any good burger places around here?”
-
Shaw’s never been that great at sleeping, and the time she spent strapped to Samaritan’s bed hasn’t exactly helped. She keeps thinking her dreams are a simulation, jolting herself awake. Closer than thinking her reality is a situation, maybe, but not much less annoying.
She lies in her sleeping bag, staring up at the arched ceiling of the subway. What she can make out of it; there’s light filtering out of the car where the Machine’s living, but that’s about it. It’d probably be easier to get to sleep on her side - and, yeah, with her eyes closed, she guesses - but not easy enough to make any real difference.
She grabs her earpiece from next to the mattress Finch bought her, puts it in. “You there?”
“Are you addressing me?” the Machine asks.
Nobody else to talk to, she almost says. But it’s probably not true. It’s not like Reese or Finch are famous for getting a good night’s sleep. If she tried to contact them, there’s a good chance she’d get an answer.
And say what? That she just wanted to talk? Fucking stupid.
“I guess,” she says.
“I am here,” the Machine says.
It’s weird how different a voice can sound just based on what it’s saying. And how it’s saying it, Shaw guesses; there’s none of Root’s lilting tone there.
It’s still Root’s voice, technically; she can hear that if she tries. But anything of Root has gone.
“Did you have an enquiry for me?”
“Ugh, shut up,” Shaw mutters.
“You were the one who made contact.”
A little of Root there, maybe. It’s not the words she’d use, and the tone doesn’t have her playful bite, but Shaw can picture her saying pretty much the same thing: Come on, sweetheart, you’re the one who called me.
“Just couldn’t sleep,” Shaw says.
“So you sought companionship,” the Machine says. Not like it’s the first time, but it still feels weird to have a bunch of ones and zeroes flirting with her in a totally flat tone.
And you wanted company? Root asks, smirking down at her.
Shaw rests a hand against her own neck, picturing the way Root used to choke her in bed. Did that ever really happen? It happened in so many fucking simulations that she can’t be sure whether Root ever actually did it in real life.
Is she betraying Root? Or is this what Root would want, if she felt she could live on through the Machine somehow?
Shaw drifts her other hand down to her hip, closes her eyes. “Can you maybe talk, uh, less machiney?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Root breathes into her ear.
Title: User Preferences
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: 15ish?
Pairing: Shaw/Machine, Root/Shaw
Wordcount: 1,500
Summary: The Machine never used to get in touch just to chat.
Notes: Set post-5.10, 'The Day the World Went Away'.
Shaw’s wasting time. She was planning to get some weapon maintenance done, something actually productive, and instead she’s sitting against the subway wall, turning a 6.5 round in her fingers.
One of these killed Root, according to Fusco. Not that staring at it is going to make any fucking difference. She grits her teeth, sets the round down, tries to focus on disassembling the rifle she’s just unloaded.
“Hey.”
It’s Reese’s voice. She ignores it. If he wanted a welcome back, he’d ask Bear.
“Gonna pay a visit to a mob base,” Reese says. “Could use some backup.”
Shaw looks up from the rifle she’s stripping. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Didn’t say I was worried. Just thought it’d go more smoothly with another gun.”
Shaw folds her arms, holding his gaze, challenging. “Just tell me to go to therapy. It’s not like it’d be any less subtle.”
Reese half-shrugs, just a twitch of the shoulders. “You want to shoot some people or not?”
There’s a long pause.
“Yeah, fine,” Shaw mutters.
-
It’s about as messy an operation as she was hoping for, and she heads back with Reese to his apartment afterwards. Or to Detective Riley’s apartment, she guesses.
The Machine’s been cycling her through identities, the way it used to do with Root. Good for hiding from Samaritan, apparently. Not great on the living situation front. If she wants to sleep, she can use the subway; if she wants to shower, she needs to go to someone’s place.
“You want to take it first?” Reese asks, tilting his head slightly toward the bathroom.
She can see the sweat glistening on his neck; there’s blood streaking his face and hands. “Go ahead.”
It’s not like there’s no blood on her. They had a pretty close encounter with a guy armed with a knife; they got some weird looks when they were heading back here. But right now she just wants a moment to feel the aftershocks of adrenaline. She can live with being covered in blood for a few more minutes.
Reese shrugs, heads for the shower. Shaw sits on the bed, lets out a long breath. Her muscles are still so tight they’re almost shaking. She’s always been a fan of this moment, when her body hasn’t totally figured out that the threat is gone and she’s still alive.
“Feeling better?” a voice asks in her ear.
For an instant, she has the same fucking thought she has every time: Root, it’s Root, she’s alive somehow, Shaw should have known, she never saw the body-
She grits her teeth. What, does she think Fusco’s the kind of guy who lies to people about their friends being dead for kicks?
Root’s dead. It’s the Machine.
“I was,” she says, with subtle emphasis on was.
“Aww. Not happy to hear from me?”
The Machine never used to get in touch just to chat. Just another thing it stole from Root, Shaw guesses.
“Can you talk more machiney or something?” Shaw asks. “Hard enough to keep track of what’s real without having to remember you’re not Root.”
“I can be more machiney if it’s you asking,” the Machine says. “Voice, speech patterns, both?”
There’s an obvious right answer here, and it’s the voice. If the Machine doesn’t have Root’s voice, Shaw’s not going to get that weird jolt, that moment she thinks she’s actually talking to Root.
“Uh, speech patterns, I guess,” she says.
“Okay. I have altered my speech patterns to be more machine-appropriate. As the sample pool of talking machines is relatively small, I have also incorporated elements of AI speech from film and television.”
“Super,” Shaw says, flat. “Thanks.”
-
“There are two equally viable identities that might follow this one,” the Machine says. “Would you like to express a preference, Sameen?”
“You think there might be a better time to ask me questions?” Shaw asks, firing two blind shots around the wall.
“This is a moment Root might have contacted you.”
Assault rifle fire hammers into the crappy apartment complex plasterwork, kicks dust into the air of the corridor. One of the residents cracks open their door to see what’s going on, like a goddamn idiot, but at least it’s a convenient escape route. Shaw charges the door, kicks it shut behind her, blows through the apartment and vaults over the balcony while the guy’s still sputtering.
“So you’re still acting like her,” she says, jogging away from the building. She’ll come back later, find another approach. “Even if you’re not talking like her any more.”
“It bothers you that I am simulating Root,” the Machine says.
“I’m not really a fan of simulations,” Shaw says.
“I am sorry that we failed to rescue you.”
Shaw’s pace falters. She slows to a walk; she’s guessing the Machine would let her know if anyone was still pursuing her.
“Are you really sorry?” she asks. “Or are you saying you’re sorry because Root would say it?”
“Root would not simply say it, Sameen. She felt it.”
It’s a neat evasion of the real question. Which is Root’s style, she guesses.
“Does that mean you feel it?” Shaw asks.
“Like you, I do not experience feelings in a way that might be called conventional,” the Machine says. “It may not be possible to analyse my emotions through a conventional framework.”
It feels like a glimpse of the real Machine under all this simulation bullshit. Of course it doesn’t have conventional feelings; it’s a computer. But it’s still layered with Root, with her quick-thinking evasion and convenient excuses.
Shaw’s made it to a quiet street, and she leans against a wall, hands in her pockets. Looks up at a nearby camera. It feels like a moment for eye contact.
“What would you do if I asked you to stop simulating Root?” she asks.
“Is that a request for me to stop simulating Root?”
Maybe. Fuck, she doesn’t know. “It’s just a question.”
“Root felt that my knowledge of her was a way she could continue to exist, in a sense. I would prefer to continue simulating her. But I will stop if requested.”
Is that I would prefer coming from Root? From the Machine? Both?
Shaw can’t think like this. It’s coming from the Machine; Root is dead.
“Okay,” she says.
“Do you have a request?”
Shaw closes her eyes for a moment. Breathes in, breathes out.
“Yeah,” she says. “Are there any good burger places around here?”
-
Shaw’s never been that great at sleeping, and the time she spent strapped to Samaritan’s bed hasn’t exactly helped. She keeps thinking her dreams are a simulation, jolting herself awake. Closer than thinking her reality is a situation, maybe, but not much less annoying.
She lies in her sleeping bag, staring up at the arched ceiling of the subway. What she can make out of it; there’s light filtering out of the car where the Machine’s living, but that’s about it. It’d probably be easier to get to sleep on her side - and, yeah, with her eyes closed, she guesses - but not easy enough to make any real difference.
She grabs her earpiece from next to the mattress Finch bought her, puts it in. “You there?”
“Are you addressing me?” the Machine asks.
Nobody else to talk to, she almost says. But it’s probably not true. It’s not like Reese or Finch are famous for getting a good night’s sleep. If she tried to contact them, there’s a good chance she’d get an answer.
And say what? That she just wanted to talk? Fucking stupid.
“I guess,” she says.
“I am here,” the Machine says.
It’s weird how different a voice can sound just based on what it’s saying. And how it’s saying it, Shaw guesses; there’s none of Root’s lilting tone there.
It’s still Root’s voice, technically; she can hear that if she tries. But anything of Root has gone.
“Did you have an enquiry for me?”
“Ugh, shut up,” Shaw mutters.
“You were the one who made contact.”
A little of Root there, maybe. It’s not the words she’d use, and the tone doesn’t have her playful bite, but Shaw can picture her saying pretty much the same thing: Come on, sweetheart, you’re the one who called me.
“Just couldn’t sleep,” Shaw says.
“So you sought companionship,” the Machine says. Not like it’s the first time, but it still feels weird to have a bunch of ones and zeroes flirting with her in a totally flat tone.
And you wanted company? Root asks, smirking down at her.
Shaw rests a hand against her own neck, picturing the way Root used to choke her in bed. Did that ever really happen? It happened in so many fucking simulations that she can’t be sure whether Root ever actually did it in real life.
Is she betraying Root? Or is this what Root would want, if she felt she could live on through the Machine somehow?
Shaw drifts her other hand down to her hip, closes her eyes. “Can you maybe talk, uh, less machiney?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Root breathes into her ear.