Chapter Text
In Team Machine’s underground subway headquarters, Finch and Root were busy working on getting their AI back to fully-operational. It had been weeks since they rescued the Machine from certain death, and so far all they’d gotten out of it was a few blips for signs of life.
Meanwhile, Reese was busy helping Fusco as best as he could while working in the shadows. Samaritan may still be blind to Reese, but its operatives would be keeping an eye on his old precinct just in case he showed up, so he had to give the place a wide berth for the time being.
“Any updates, Finch?” Reese asked over their open line.
“Not since you asked me two hours ago, Mr. Reese,” Finch said dryly.
“I’m just a little concerned,” Reese said. “Fusco’s got a lot on his plate right now, I can’t help but wonder how many of these bodies were supposed to be numbers.”
“I completely share your concerns, John. We’re working as fast as we can. It took me years to get the Machine up and running, it’s going to take more than a few weeks to do it again. Even with Ms. Groves’ help.”
“I know,” Reese sighed. “I’m just feeling uneasy, and it doesn’t help that I can’t do anything to speed this process along.”
“Then I suggest you return to the detective’s side as soon as you can,” Finch said and ended the call.
Root was working on getting a new monitor set up so they had something to connect the Machine’s core to, in an attempt to reestablish communication with it. “She won’t be connected to any network,” she explained. “We can’t risk it until we find a way to get her back online without Samaritan finding out. However, I’m sure she already has some ideas about that.”
“You’re hinging an awful lot of hope on the idea that the Machine was able to simultaneously watch over the entire world, transfer itself to the phone lines, and plan a way to gain back its previous reach without alerting Samaritan,” Finch pointed out.
“She saw this coming weeks in advance,” Root countered. “Besides, anything she can give us will leave us better off than we are now.” She finished wiring the monitor to the tower that the Machine’s core was plugged into, and turned the monitor’s screen on as well as the old-fashioned webcam sitting on top of it. Then she turned to Finch. “Something tells me I’m not the first thing she’ll want to see when she wakes up.”
Finch approached hesitantly and sat at the chair in front of the monitor, looking from the webcam to the screen. “Can you hear me?”
The blue screen didn’t change.
“Please,” Finch whispered. “Wake up.”
The screen flickered, then turned black. For a long moment, there was nothing. Then static crackled across the monitor. Through the fuzz, a word could be read: Father.
“That’s right,” Finch said. “It’s me.”
A little window replaced the words, a notification that there was a file that wasn’t deleted from the drive because it was in use.
“What’s this?” Finch asked. There was no mouse attached to the monitor yet, but there was a keyboard. He pressed the ‘enter’ key and it opened the file in question. It was a mere exec. document, full of coding and random strings of numbers, references to commands the Machine was no longer able to execute in its current state. Scanning through it, Finch could tell the Machine had been trying to save as much of what it was last working on before it was taken offline. “Ms. Groves, bring me that old printer we fixed up yesterday.”
Root hefted the bulky device over to the table Finch was sitting at and dropped it on the ground beside him. She got to work hooking it up manually to the tower.
Once it was plugged in, Finch tapped the command into the keyboard to print the file.
“What is it?” Root asked.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Finch said. “But if the Machine used its dying breath to take this with it, it must be important.” He watched paper after paper of code and numbers spit out of the printer. Once it was done, he took the small stack and looked through it.
“She’s saying something,” Root said. She read the words on the screen aloud, “Help them. What does she mean?”
Finch looked from the monitor to the pages in his hands. “I believe the Machine has just given us a list of the last numbers it was looking into before it was shut down.”
-
“The Machine gave us numbers?” Reese asked, voice coming through the speakers in the subway car.
“We’re going through them now,” Finch said, tapping away at his main computer. “So far four of these people are already dead or under arrest for their crimes. One disappeared without a trace, possibly on the run or under witness protection considering what she was mixed up in. These numbers aren’t sure leads, they’re just red flags the Machine was keeping an eye on.”
Root, sitting in front of the monitor the Machine was hooked up to, fed him the next string of numbers she found in the pages that was long enough to be a social security number.
Finch searched it as quickly as he could. “Wait, I think I have something.”
“Are you sure?” Reese asked.
“No,” Finch admitted. “There’s no way to be sure which of these people need our help and which are duds, but I have the feeling this one’s the former.”
“What makes you think that, Finch?” Reese asked.
“It’s someone we’ve encountered before,” Finch said. “You remember our late friend Elias?”
“How could I forget,” Reese commented.
“Well this social security number is that of his accountant,” Finch said, “the one from the boardwalk.”
“Bruce Moran,” Reese muttered.
“Perhaps Mr. Moran is having trouble with the loss of his friend.”
“Something tells me he’s not the type to go to a grief counselor for help.”
“More like a gun for hire,” Finch grumbled.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got an address for me?”
“Just the remodeled group home where Mr. Marconi was killed.”
“I’m going to look for Moran now,” Reese said.
“And where are you planning on going?” Finch asked.
“Moran was a close friend of Elias,” Reese said. “So I’m going to visit a few old acquaintances.”