Work Text:
Root has gotten used to running from place to place, on foot, in car, by plane, always moving forward, two guns tucked into holsters or gripped steadily in her hands; scrolling through a mental list of names, places, targets; the Machine buzzing directives or even just strings of information about the people around her in her ear. This silence in the subway, with the Machine quiet with no new people or cases around and John and Harold at some wedding working on a number, is unfamiliar; a strange feeling embeds itself underneath her skin and itches at her like an ill-fitting disguise, aching and simmering. It takes a minute to identify what has unsettled her, since it has never bothered her before: she is alone.