Fic: Tactical to Practical (1/3)
Title: Tactical to Practical
Author: Gixxer-Pilot
Beta: Wicked-Jade (though any and all mistakes are mine)
Summary: Reese told Leon Tao he didn’t play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, “Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York.”
Author’s Notes: It goes without saying that I’m a humongous nerd. I mean seriously, I’ve wandered in from the Star Trek reboot fandom. It doesn’t get much geekier than that. I’m also a huge fan of video games, specifically first person shooters. And now, I’m also a huge fan of Person of Interest. Combine those three things, toss in my love of humorous, light-hearted bromance stories and the apparent result is this fic.
Comments and criticisms are welcomed - since this is my first attempt at a PoI story, I just let my fingers do the walking while I test-drove voices and characterizations. Hopefully it doesn’t suck. In either case, enjoy!
Disclaimer: So this is how it goes: if you recognize it, I don’t own it. I’m just along for the ride, as it were.
Chapters | 1 | 2 | 3 |
========
2012
“I take it you’ve gotten our latest number settled back in her home?”
“I’m fine, Finch. Thanks for asking,” Reese replied, a lit of amusement wafting through his demure tones. Shoving the gate aside, he strolled into the library and hung his coat on the rack before he joined his partner at the room’s central table. “And Sarah Westridge can sleep well tonight, knowing her husband has abandoned his plans to kill her for her inheritance.”
“I don’t suppose the two bullets you left in Jeffery Westridge’s kneecaps, along with a laundry list of contusions and broken bones, had anything to do with that persuasion, did it?” Finch asked dryly without bothering to look away from his computer screens.
“He insulted the Army Special Forces. I couldn’t let him get away with that.” John paused, adding for effect, “And he wanted to kill his wife. Both were unscrupulous actions.”
Finch harrumphed under his breath. “Even if he’s a Force Recon Marine who called the Green Berets, ‘Pansy-ass wannabes who never saw any real action,’ was it really necessary to resort to that level of violence?”
“I was there to save his wife. Showing him Army trumps the Corps was a two-for-one. Pretty efficient I think,” Reese said, snagging a bottle of water from the mini fridge and twisting the cap open. He took a long pull and asked, “Do you think it was too much?”
Harold shot his employee a scathing and disapproving look. “I’ve just seen his x-rays, Mr. Reese. I can, without a doubt, confirm that it was overkill.” Finch shifted in his chair. He hated to feed the beast as it were; he knew cases of domestic abuse was a glaring hot-button for John, but Finch found he couldn’t stop the affirmation from tumbling from his mouth. His lips set in a grim line, he looked Reese in the eye and said, “Even if Westridge deserved every bit of what you gave him.”
John’s eyes wafted over towards the cracked board the two men used to track the progress of their cases. Finch had taken all Sarah Westridge’s information down prior to Reese’s arrival. He cleared his throat, cutting through a bit of the tension in the room and moving towards more neutral topics. “Nothing new, Finch?”
“No, strangely,” the billionaire replied, tapping away at the keyboard.
“Well, then I think I’ll head home. I have firearms to clean.”
Finch barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “Actually Mr. Reese, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like you to table that plan.” Finch’s hands stilled instantaneously, his posture going rigid all at once. “I’ve made an appointment for you and I would very much appreciate if you’d keep it.”
Reese stopped abruptly and executed a textbook about-face. He sauntered back towards Finch, his expression flicking between incredulity and outright surprise. “You’re not trying to set me up on a date, are you? Because the last time you did that, things didn’t go well.”
“Heavens, no. Miss Angelis was a Number, not a potential match. And Miss Morgan is…Miss Morgan,” Finch said, not bothering to suppress the shudder than ran through his body. “No, I was hoping I might convince you to lend a hand to a company I’ve recently acquired. Their research and development group could make use of your rather unique skill set and expertise.”
“A company? What would one of your companies need me for?”
“It’s rather a complicated matter I’m afraid. You see, this is a fairly well known company with very lofty expectations weighing on it. Recently, there have been some internal struggles; dismissals of top leadership, lawsuits, half the company’s employees resigning abruptly, that sort of thing.”
“It’s a rudderless ship,” Reese supplied, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash next to Finch's leg.
“To put it mildly, yes.”
“And those mass resignations? Most of them were what type of employees, exactly?”
“Research. Specifically, those who focused on making the product as realistic as possible.” Finch stood up, rubbing at a particularly stiff bundle of nerves near his left oblique. Hobbling over towards the small cabinet used to house random photos and documents, Harold selected a manila file and produced a piece of paper with printed list of names. He held it out to Reese, returning to his chair as the paper changed hands. “The resignation of those twenty-three people may have very well sunk the company. They were halfway through developing their latest project, but without their essential employees, meeting their obligations will be a tall order to say the least.”
Reese’s eyebrows furrowed together as he read off the names on the list. “So if this company is going down faster than the Titanic, why buy it? That’s not like you.”
Finch’s fingers stopped typing for a split second. He turned his entire torso to face Reese, and with a lift from the corner of his mouth, he said coyly, “Let’s just say I was being optimistic.”
Reese shook his head, pointing the list of names at Finch. “You hired me to improvise. You don’t do anything that’s not perfectly orchestrated.”
Busted. Finch’s face fell. Quickly masking his surprise, Harold turned back to his computer screens. “Well yes, Mr. Reese. Though I perused the company’s financials and business proposals filed with the SEC since its inception before I made my offer, my decision in this case was far more utilitarian than anything else.”
Reese titled his head down, giving Finch the universal (or at least the John Reese) sign for ‘go on’.
Harold laid the palms of his hands gently on the desktop, stating somewhat haltingly, “To be perfectly frank, it’s to keep you from killing people unnecessarily.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Thanks to you, I don’t do that anymore, Finch.”
“No, you don’t outright kill them. You either kneecap them or you just, as Detective Fusco puts it, ‘Break their faces’. I’m sure Mr. Westridge can attest to your prowess in that area.”
“Well, it works,” Reese said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Why mess with success?”
Finch sighed. “That is exactly my point. Although I’m far more solvent than most of the world’s governments, I do prefer that my resources go towards more positive projects every now and again.”
“Isn’t that what the Machine was for?”
“Yes, but the Machine is a macro element. This would be more of a micro-scale project.”
Reese let his eyes wander up to the ceiling, cataloguing each crack, spider web and water stain of the old building. He returned to ‘his’ chair, the one adjacent to Finch’s table, sprawling in it inelegantly. John drummed his fingers against the pockmarked and scarred wood while he eyed his employer critically. “You’ve never had a problem with my methods. Why bring it up now? You knew what you kind of man you were getting when you hired me.”
Finch sighed, looking down at his hands resting insipidly in his lap. “Yes, yes I did, Mr. Reese. Please accept my apologies - the harshness of my statements were uncalled for.” Finch shifted in his chair, shoving aside the keyboard and camera joystick. Looking Reese in the eye, he said earnestly, “Think of it is as ‘something to do’, John.”
Silence. And then, after a long pause, John’s head tilted back and forth. “All right. I’ll bite. This company? What is it?” Reese asked.
Though he tried desperately to temper his enthusiasm, the relief that flowed through Finch’s frame was obvious. “Tell me: have you ever heard of a developer called Infinity Ward?”
A pause as Reese searched his memory for any such name. “No. Can’t say I have.”
“I’m not surprised, if I’m honest. You’re not exactly their target demographic, though men our age are hardly ignored by their marketing strategists.”
“Finch,” Reese began, leaning into Harold’s personal space. He blinked a couple of times as a smirk crept up the corners of his mouth. “What is it?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I showed you,” Harold said, pulling the keyboard and joystick closer to his chest. He punched in a couple of commands on the keyboard and in an instant, the screens cleared of the Machine’s data, replaced instead by images that made up the utter chaos of combat. The speakers well integrated into the wall hummed to life, spitting out the soundtrack of a battlefield; the rat-tat-tat of small arms fire melted in with the urgent shouts of the combatants as the scream of jet engines roared through the sky. Explosions rocked the screen, sending debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.
Reese’s eyebrows jumped a couple of notches on his forehead. Had he really gotten that old? John knew that computers and video games had come a long way, but this was incredible. He could almost feel it - the heat on his face from exploding ordinance, the sweat running down his back and under his body armor, the pounding in his chest that was his own heartbeat as adrenaline coursed through his system. His fingers twitched as he watched the screen, his muscles wanting desperately to reach for the magazine release on the rifle that wasn’t actually in his hands.
“What you’re watching is Infinity Ward’s last offering, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I thought, with experience from your former MOS and some of the more…clandestine experiences, you’d be able to offer the much-needed insight. I’d like you to work with the project leads to help them craft a realistic storyline,” Finch told him, almost as if he were reading the reheating instructions on last night’s pizza.
Literally ripping his eyes from the demo, John pointed one finger towards the screen as a couple of brightly colored printed pages, the game’s summary, appeared under his nose. “You want me to help develop a video game?” he asked as he accepted the literature from his boss.
“Yes, Mr. Reese. I do. Will that be a problem?”
“That depends. It sounds like there’s a lot of work to be done here.”
“The time commitment will likely be minimal. Expect planning meetings, perhaps a few brainstorming huddles and maybe a motion-capture session or two, just to make sure the illustrators are getting it right.” Finch held up a hand. “I will ensure that anything you do for Infinity Ward will not interfere with your work on the Numbers.”
John’s attention returned to the game. His eyes sparkled and, before he could stop it, a full-fledged smile bloomed across his face. Tilting his head to the side, he said succinctly, “If you can guarantee that, then no, it won’t be a problem.”
In fact, this might actually be…fun.
Imagine that.
========
Next Up: Fusco has a horrible, no good, rotten, very bad day. And it’s all courtesy of John Reese.
Author: Gixxer-Pilot
Beta: Wicked-Jade (though any and all mistakes are mine)
Summary: Reese told Leon Tao he didn’t play video games. While that might be true, Harold has other plans. Or, “Finch buys a company to keep Reese from kneecapping the rest of New York.”
Author’s Notes: It goes without saying that I’m a humongous nerd. I mean seriously, I’ve wandered in from the Star Trek reboot fandom. It doesn’t get much geekier than that. I’m also a huge fan of video games, specifically first person shooters. And now, I’m also a huge fan of Person of Interest. Combine those three things, toss in my love of humorous, light-hearted bromance stories and the apparent result is this fic.
Comments and criticisms are welcomed - since this is my first attempt at a PoI story, I just let my fingers do the walking while I test-drove voices and characterizations. Hopefully it doesn’t suck. In either case, enjoy!
Disclaimer: So this is how it goes: if you recognize it, I don’t own it. I’m just along for the ride, as it were.
Chapters | 1 | 2 | 3 |
========
2012
“I take it you’ve gotten our latest number settled back in her home?”
“I’m fine, Finch. Thanks for asking,” Reese replied, a lit of amusement wafting through his demure tones. Shoving the gate aside, he strolled into the library and hung his coat on the rack before he joined his partner at the room’s central table. “And Sarah Westridge can sleep well tonight, knowing her husband has abandoned his plans to kill her for her inheritance.”
“I don’t suppose the two bullets you left in Jeffery Westridge’s kneecaps, along with a laundry list of contusions and broken bones, had anything to do with that persuasion, did it?” Finch asked dryly without bothering to look away from his computer screens.
“He insulted the Army Special Forces. I couldn’t let him get away with that.” John paused, adding for effect, “And he wanted to kill his wife. Both were unscrupulous actions.”
Finch harrumphed under his breath. “Even if he’s a Force Recon Marine who called the Green Berets, ‘Pansy-ass wannabes who never saw any real action,’ was it really necessary to resort to that level of violence?”
“I was there to save his wife. Showing him Army trumps the Corps was a two-for-one. Pretty efficient I think,” Reese said, snagging a bottle of water from the mini fridge and twisting the cap open. He took a long pull and asked, “Do you think it was too much?”
Harold shot his employee a scathing and disapproving look. “I’ve just seen his x-rays, Mr. Reese. I can, without a doubt, confirm that it was overkill.” Finch shifted in his chair. He hated to feed the beast as it were; he knew cases of domestic abuse was a glaring hot-button for John, but Finch found he couldn’t stop the affirmation from tumbling from his mouth. His lips set in a grim line, he looked Reese in the eye and said, “Even if Westridge deserved every bit of what you gave him.”
John’s eyes wafted over towards the cracked board the two men used to track the progress of their cases. Finch had taken all Sarah Westridge’s information down prior to Reese’s arrival. He cleared his throat, cutting through a bit of the tension in the room and moving towards more neutral topics. “Nothing new, Finch?”
“No, strangely,” the billionaire replied, tapping away at the keyboard.
“Well, then I think I’ll head home. I have firearms to clean.”
Finch barely restrained the urge to roll his eyes. “Actually Mr. Reese, if it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d like you to table that plan.” Finch’s hands stilled instantaneously, his posture going rigid all at once. “I’ve made an appointment for you and I would very much appreciate if you’d keep it.”
Reese stopped abruptly and executed a textbook about-face. He sauntered back towards Finch, his expression flicking between incredulity and outright surprise. “You’re not trying to set me up on a date, are you? Because the last time you did that, things didn’t go well.”
“Heavens, no. Miss Angelis was a Number, not a potential match. And Miss Morgan is…Miss Morgan,” Finch said, not bothering to suppress the shudder than ran through his body. “No, I was hoping I might convince you to lend a hand to a company I’ve recently acquired. Their research and development group could make use of your rather unique skill set and expertise.”
“A company? What would one of your companies need me for?”
“It’s rather a complicated matter I’m afraid. You see, this is a fairly well known company with very lofty expectations weighing on it. Recently, there have been some internal struggles; dismissals of top leadership, lawsuits, half the company’s employees resigning abruptly, that sort of thing.”
“It’s a rudderless ship,” Reese supplied, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash next to Finch's leg.
“To put it mildly, yes.”
“And those mass resignations? Most of them were what type of employees, exactly?”
“Research. Specifically, those who focused on making the product as realistic as possible.” Finch stood up, rubbing at a particularly stiff bundle of nerves near his left oblique. Hobbling over towards the small cabinet used to house random photos and documents, Harold selected a manila file and produced a piece of paper with printed list of names. He held it out to Reese, returning to his chair as the paper changed hands. “The resignation of those twenty-three people may have very well sunk the company. They were halfway through developing their latest project, but without their essential employees, meeting their obligations will be a tall order to say the least.”
Reese’s eyebrows furrowed together as he read off the names on the list. “So if this company is going down faster than the Titanic, why buy it? That’s not like you.”
Finch’s fingers stopped typing for a split second. He turned his entire torso to face Reese, and with a lift from the corner of his mouth, he said coyly, “Let’s just say I was being optimistic.”
Reese shook his head, pointing the list of names at Finch. “You hired me to improvise. You don’t do anything that’s not perfectly orchestrated.”
Busted. Finch’s face fell. Quickly masking his surprise, Harold turned back to his computer screens. “Well yes, Mr. Reese. Though I perused the company’s financials and business proposals filed with the SEC since its inception before I made my offer, my decision in this case was far more utilitarian than anything else.”
Reese titled his head down, giving Finch the universal (or at least the John Reese) sign for ‘go on’.
Harold laid the palms of his hands gently on the desktop, stating somewhat haltingly, “To be perfectly frank, it’s to keep you from killing people unnecessarily.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Thanks to you, I don’t do that anymore, Finch.”
“No, you don’t outright kill them. You either kneecap them or you just, as Detective Fusco puts it, ‘Break their faces’. I’m sure Mr. Westridge can attest to your prowess in that area.”
“Well, it works,” Reese said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “Why mess with success?”
Finch sighed. “That is exactly my point. Although I’m far more solvent than most of the world’s governments, I do prefer that my resources go towards more positive projects every now and again.”
“Isn’t that what the Machine was for?”
“Yes, but the Machine is a macro element. This would be more of a micro-scale project.”
Reese let his eyes wander up to the ceiling, cataloguing each crack, spider web and water stain of the old building. He returned to ‘his’ chair, the one adjacent to Finch’s table, sprawling in it inelegantly. John drummed his fingers against the pockmarked and scarred wood while he eyed his employer critically. “You’ve never had a problem with my methods. Why bring it up now? You knew what you kind of man you were getting when you hired me.”
Finch sighed, looking down at his hands resting insipidly in his lap. “Yes, yes I did, Mr. Reese. Please accept my apologies - the harshness of my statements were uncalled for.” Finch shifted in his chair, shoving aside the keyboard and camera joystick. Looking Reese in the eye, he said earnestly, “Think of it is as ‘something to do’, John.”
Silence. And then, after a long pause, John’s head tilted back and forth. “All right. I’ll bite. This company? What is it?” Reese asked.
Though he tried desperately to temper his enthusiasm, the relief that flowed through Finch’s frame was obvious. “Tell me: have you ever heard of a developer called Infinity Ward?”
A pause as Reese searched his memory for any such name. “No. Can’t say I have.”
“I’m not surprised, if I’m honest. You’re not exactly their target demographic, though men our age are hardly ignored by their marketing strategists.”
“Finch,” Reese began, leaning into Harold’s personal space. He blinked a couple of times as a smirk crept up the corners of his mouth. “What is it?”
“Perhaps it would be better if I showed you,” Harold said, pulling the keyboard and joystick closer to his chest. He punched in a couple of commands on the keyboard and in an instant, the screens cleared of the Machine’s data, replaced instead by images that made up the utter chaos of combat. The speakers well integrated into the wall hummed to life, spitting out the soundtrack of a battlefield; the rat-tat-tat of small arms fire melted in with the urgent shouts of the combatants as the scream of jet engines roared through the sky. Explosions rocked the screen, sending debris and shrapnel flying in every direction.
Reese’s eyebrows jumped a couple of notches on his forehead. Had he really gotten that old? John knew that computers and video games had come a long way, but this was incredible. He could almost feel it - the heat on his face from exploding ordinance, the sweat running down his back and under his body armor, the pounding in his chest that was his own heartbeat as adrenaline coursed through his system. His fingers twitched as he watched the screen, his muscles wanting desperately to reach for the magazine release on the rifle that wasn’t actually in his hands.
“What you’re watching is Infinity Ward’s last offering, Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3. I thought, with experience from your former MOS and some of the more…clandestine experiences, you’d be able to offer the much-needed insight. I’d like you to work with the project leads to help them craft a realistic storyline,” Finch told him, almost as if he were reading the reheating instructions on last night’s pizza.
Literally ripping his eyes from the demo, John pointed one finger towards the screen as a couple of brightly colored printed pages, the game’s summary, appeared under his nose. “You want me to help develop a video game?” he asked as he accepted the literature from his boss.
“Yes, Mr. Reese. I do. Will that be a problem?”
“That depends. It sounds like there’s a lot of work to be done here.”
“The time commitment will likely be minimal. Expect planning meetings, perhaps a few brainstorming huddles and maybe a motion-capture session or two, just to make sure the illustrators are getting it right.” Finch held up a hand. “I will ensure that anything you do for Infinity Ward will not interfere with your work on the Numbers.”
John’s attention returned to the game. His eyes sparkled and, before he could stop it, a full-fledged smile bloomed across his face. Tilting his head to the side, he said succinctly, “If you can guarantee that, then no, it won’t be a problem.”
In fact, this might actually be…fun.
Imagine that.
========
Next Up: Fusco has a horrible, no good, rotten, very bad day. And it’s all courtesy of John Reese.