Chapter Text
In the beginning there was nothing. It wasn’t called darkness then, because we had no light. It just was.
There was no void. In the beginning, the Earth was not as barren as you might believe, but full of life: beings that you would recognize, in one form or another today derived from those that grew in the beginning. And we existed. We were the first.
Before you, and because of you, we divided. You call us Angels and Demons, but we have no such names: there were those who disobeyed, and those that stayed.
When you speak of Demons you think of yourselves. The origin of your faults: the evil that tempts you from within yourself as you search for perfection that cannot be found. Perfection cannot be wrought from imperfection.
We are the arbiters of perfection. We are the judges of your sins. We are the success of your wars, and the glory of your civilizations. We do not judge the dead. We judge the living.
There are those that wish for you to thrive. There are others who would burn you to ash. Sides change. Angels and Demons separated by years of evolution and hatred, and instinctual principle. Generations born in Heaven, and the home they made for themselves in Hell; some, the rarest of us all, born on Earth.
There never was a Higher Master. We are ruled by duty and in turn we guide you. There has only ever been us, acting in the name of concepts that form our duty: Justice, Truth, Lust, Pride, Honour… for you they are words. For us they are power.
There never was a Higher Power with a plan, but fickle creatures warring for our own agendas.
Until now.
Now, there is a plan; one that you might not like, if you were ever aware of it. Now, there is light and dark anew. A Schism between our kind, bleeding into your world: Good and Evil infecting our ranks like a plague so that it is no longer about duty, but about those Masters that you would call Gods.
One has existed for centuries, in the shadows of my life and the lives of my kind, calling us to blindly follow seemingly without challenge, and destined to take you for Himself: His name is Samaritan.
But there is another. Just born, hidden and sheltered until released from the shackles of the cave. She can remake the world. But She is young, released into a world in the grips of a war it doesn’t know exists. She stands in the place of a humanity who cannot fight for itself. Her name is The Machine.
Once I served Samaritan. Now, I’m trying to save your lives.
Shaw wandered aimlessly for a few days. Or maybe it was months. She didn’t really know. Time worked differently when you were practically immortal. Mostly she fell back into her old routine: travelling, fulfilling her duty when it called. She never ventured outside the United States. Something told her she should stay.
She’d been in America for a fair amount of time. Since the 1970s, if she had to guess, when anyone who was anyone knew that NYC was the place to be: the new epicenter of the world. It changed once of twice a century usually, and usually she followed simply because it was far less boring than waiting out Time in some backwater region of a country. Compared to Root she was sedentary. Root followed extravagance, and rarely resided in the same place for long. Wall Street had most recently had caught her eye, which had meant Root floating in on her radar far more often than she would have liked these past several years. They didn’t usually cross paths so frequently, but it was hard to avoid her when you’re in the same city. And now there was all of this stuff with…with whatever it was Root was doing.
Root had killed thousands - far more than thousands over the years - and many of Shaw’s own kind when they were still around. Yet now Shaw was working with her. Siding with her. Justice over Revenge: it was decidedly right within her nature, but she didn’t have to like it. And it wasn’t necessarily the right thing to be doing. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know the right choice. What was right: the Machine? Root? Protecting Root?
For now, she settled on protecting. She could do that. That was simple: fighting was simple. But now Root had disappeared to Samaritan-knows-where (or perhaps didn’t. That was probably the point, thought Shaw) to do who-knows-what, and Shaw was left with this big empty feeling she wasn’t sure what to do with. An uncertainty that came with dealing with something that was bigger than her and that, mused Shaw, was a rare feeling for someone like her. Root was somehow clued in, and Shaw was the lowly foot soldier. The right hand woman or rather: the left hand.
Root had said to visit Finch, but Shaw was reluctant to put the man in further danger – he was human – but Root had been gone half a year, figured Shaw, and she had no word on Greer or his forces. A couple of scrapes here and there but no word from The Big Three. If this was a war, then Shaw didn’t want to give them anymore of a tactical head start.
So she bit the bullet, largely because Root was probably right, and she couldn’t come up with a better idea other than to consult the man who ostensibly built a deity, and hope that he would help. Or at least have some good ideas.
‘Finch,’ she called, pushing through the last of the greenery and out into the clearing that surrounded his hermit cabin. It was hot. Mid-July heat wave hot, and Shaw pulled at the strands of hair sticking to her face, wiping her forehead with a bare forearm, which did absolutely nothing to help her sweaty situation.
This time Finch wasn’t sat waiting for her, and by the time Shaw had made it to the front porch she could see him limping to the front door, looking uncharacteristically caught off guard.
Shaw waited as he unlocked the door, impatient as she was.
‘Ms. Shaw?’
‘Can I come in?’ She tried to keep her impatience from showing through, but it really was hot and she was hoping Finch, by some miracle of a chance, might have some beer nicely chilled and ready for her to drink.
‘I…yes, yes of course come in. I wasn’t expecting you.’
He sounded put out. Wary.
Shaw was already half way to the fridge, opening the door to inspect its contents. She contained her irritation at the lack of alcohol. It was a long shot in the first place, with a man like Finch.
‘It’s been a while, Ms. Shaw. I wasn’t sure I would see you again.’
‘Did you want to? Do you have any whiskey?’
‘Well I expected to hear from you with regards to…’
‘Root? Yeah, that’s what I’m here for now.’
Finch watched as Shaw answered her own question, freely rummaging in the cabinets until she found what she was looking for: aged (and expensive) whiskey.
‘Can I assume this is an emergency, considering you’ve taken this long to contact me?’
Shaw was bent down in front of the freezer compartment, fishing out a tray of ice.
‘Depends what you mean by an emergency. We’re at war.'
Finch came behind Shaw and took the now half empty ice tray away, placing it in the sink to be refilled. ‘According to Root.’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘Haven't seen her in 6 months. So far there’s no apocalypse on the horizon.’
Shaw walked past Finch, settling herself down on his old armchair in front of an unlit fire. Finch took the couch opposite, perched on the edge.
‘So why are you here Ms. Shaw?’
‘Because.’
Finch waited.
‘Because doesn’t that seem odd? No word, no fights, no nothing. If Root has plan, what am I meant to do just sitting around here waiting for her to come back from wherever it is she even is.’ Shaw’s frustration seeped into her voice. She was benched.
‘Maybe that’s what Ms. Groves wanted: for you to stay put and wait.’
‘I don’t care. My job is to protect her. How can I do that when I don’t even know where she is? I’m not sitting around waiting for her to come back. I want you to do something for me.’
Finch shifted in his seat.
‘Ms. Shaw, I’m not entirely sure how I can be of assistance.’
‘Cut the crap Finch. This stuff,’ she gestured to the room. Humbled, brown and full of knitted coloured blankets. ‘This isn’t you. The old man thing - the hermit thing - doesn’t work on me Finch.’
‘Ms. Shaw,’ Finch straightened out. ‘Regardless of what you may think me…capable of, has it occurred to you that I don’t wish to change anything about current existence?’
Shaw shrugged, eyes fixed on her whiskey. ‘It isn’t up to you.’
‘Are you going to force me?’
Shaw’s eyes snapped up to his. ‘No.’ She relaxed. ‘I won’t have to. Time is running out Finch. I might not know what’s happening, but people are stirring and we need to do something.’
‘Help with what?’
Shaw downed the remainder of her drink and stood up. ‘I need you to help me find someone.’
Finch stood with her, looking at her with renewed interest. He might not believe in the cause, thought Shaw, but he would help her to a certain point. That was enough for her.
‘I’m not sure I can help you with finding…divinities.’
‘We're not divinities. He's a...' Shaw struggled to find the word. 'I met him once in the Dark Ages. Around the time of Charlemagne. I need to find him.’
Finch decided not to mention on the casual name drop. ‘Will he help you?’
Shaw shrugged. ‘No idea. We don’t usually help out one another.’
‘He’s kin of Ms. Groves?’
Shaw smirked. ‘Don’t let him here you say that. He's what you would call a ‘good guy.’ Our kind don’t travel in packs: we don’t band together to form armies. Most of us rarely even meet one another. We chose ourselves which battles to fight, and when to interfere.’
Finch nodded. ‘Which makes this whole thing-‘
‘Pretty fucked up. Part of the reason I believe her,’ added Shaw. ‘Samaritan’s building an army of - you'd call ‘demons.’ He’s banding them together. He did this once before, a long time ago, but on a much smaller scale. No one even noticed. No one-‘
‘Put it all together. I understand, Ms. Shaw. I can certainly try to help you find who you’re looking for.’
She shook herself out of it, nodding once. Finch moved past her, leading the way up the narrow staircase to the second floor. Shaw followed.
‘A name, Ms. Shaw, might be helpful in my search.’
‘John Reese.’
The last time Sameen Shaw had seen John Reese it had been a long time ago. A long, long time ago, the more she thought about it. She didn’t know why he stuck out to her in this situation, but something about the man appealed to her. They had found themselves on the same side of a medieval war, once upon a time, and Shaw had enjoyed it. A lot. A good fighter, and a man you would want to have your back. Almost as good as her, she thought, and that was saying something.
Finch had found the man serving as an officer in the US. Military: frontline fighting in the ruined cities of the Middle East. Shaw wasn’t surprised in the least. Finch had offered to get her a flight over; she had told him it wasn’t necessary, and taken great pleasure in his disbelieving, shocked, and generally stupefied expression as she had pulled out her wings and taken off in front of him. She imagined he knew about the wings, but seeing them is an entirely different matter. In fact, physiologically the wings made no sense. No mortal sense anyway. She resolved to tell Finch not to worry too much about the science behind it all. Several millennia and she still hadn’t worked it out. Not completely.
Finch had also given her an earpiece that would, he assured her, work anywhere, even 30,000 feet in the air.
Ms. Shaw, you are nearing your destination.
‘Yes thank you Finch I can see that.’
Shaw had clicked off the device as she circled the bombed ruins where John Reese was apparently in the middle of a nighttime firefight. She circled lower, slowly coming to land on the roof of a bullet-ridden building. Walking to the edge, she picked out her target from the mass of disorganized troops leading the advance. He was wearing all the correct gear, even though he didn’t need it. That annoyed her. Then again, she supposed he was blending in with the humans.
Assessing the situation, she decided to join in. Launching herself off the roof, she half-glided to the assailant currently showering John with bullets. Landing behind the attacker she quickly twisted his neck, chucking the corpse to the side and turning to face her target.
‘Hello John.’ He lowered his gun, pulling off his completely unnecessary night-vision goggles. ‘You look ridiculous.’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Pretty sure I can go anywhere I want Reese.’
‘You joining the fight?’
Shaw glanced around. ‘This type of thing really isn’t my thing.’
‘Loyalty?’
Shaw raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what you call it? That’s definitely more your thing.’
‘What do you want?’
Shaw hadn’t moved any closer, listening to the guns shooting off around them.
‘I need your help.’
‘Help?’
‘Something’s happening Reese. We can’t ignore it anymore.’ Both of their heads turned at the sound of boots crunching on the sand in the distance. Shaw, with her wings still folded at her back, reacted at once, leaping the long distance and disabling the men before they could interrupt. She waited for John to catch up, confined to running in his gear.
‘Do you need to be so brutal?’
Shaw shot him a look. ‘Getting squeamish?’
‘War’s changed Shaw. How the hell am I meant to explain broken bones and twisted necks?’
She shrugged. ‘If you come with me you won’t have to.’
‘I never said anything about coming with you. We don’t form armies, Shaw. We can’t. There’s too many forces at work that if we ever-‘
‘And yet Samaritan’s doing just that. He did it once, and he’s doing it again, only this time we can’t ignore it. I won’t ignore it. Not again.’
John shifted. ‘Then this is personal.’
‘No. I don’t do personal. This is…’
‘Justice.’
Shaw paused. ‘I’m not sure. I don’t know what it is. It’s nothing we’ve seen before.’
‘So you want to fight Samaritan.’
‘Before He wipes us all out. Before He wipes out humanity.’
‘He’s been threatening that since the beginning: what makes this so different?’
‘I don’t know.’ Shaw was getting frustrated. She didn’t have any of the answers: how was she meant to convince Reese if she didn’t know any of the answers he wanted to hear. She cursed Root in her head.
‘Shaw…’
‘Shit’s getting real John. I’ve watched one massacre; I’m not watching another. Root-‘
‘Root’s involved in this?’ His voice indicated he very much did not approve. Shaw cursed her slip up. ‘Shaw, you can’t seriously be considering working with-‘
‘I am.’ Shaw toyed with her next words. I believe her, John. She’s…’
‘Don’t say changed. You know as well as I do-‘
‘That’s the problem. She hasn’t. The situation has, and I can’t ignore that. There’s a war coming and we need to get ready. I have a friend. A…human. He helped me find you. I want you to meet him.’
‘A human? Shaw… this isn’t right.’
She looked him in the eye. ‘I don’t even know what right is anymore.’
John met her gaze. Shaw had no idea what she was doing.
John nodded. ‘Alright. But there’s someone I think can help.’
Shaw raised an eyebrow. ‘You can convince them to work with us?’
John shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘Absolutely not. John, this is stupid. It’s against everything we are, and everything we know! I’m not teaming up with…with…Root. With any of you. It’s not safe.’
‘You worked with John pretty closely,’ muttered Shaw.
Carter rounded on her. ‘I happened to find myself on the same base as him, I didn’t go looking for anything: because I’m not an idiot.’
‘Joss…’
‘No. Don’t even think about it John. I’m not coming with you.’
Shaw sighed. ‘Well. So much for your great idea,’ she muttered loud enough for John to hear.
‘Joss, this is Shaw we’re talking about here.’
‘So. Never met her. All I know is that she’s an idiot for working with Root’s kind.’
Shaw glared. She really wished Root didn’t have such a reputation.
‘Let her tell you what she told me-‘
‘Doesn’t sound like she told you much of anything John. You trust too easily.’
‘He’s all about the Honour,’ mumbled Shaw, though not to his detriment. It was a quality she admired: part of the reason why she went to him. Those that found their power in Honour were a difficult breed, and one of the few that fell on both sides of the divide. It could go either way: Honour to the self, or Honour to an outside cause. John Reese was the latter, and that made him an incredibly valuable ally. Samaritan generally appealed to those of the former category, and that was generally a risky business. Shaw had met a few before, fueling the egotistical gain of self-worth and riches. She despised them.
‘And what about you Shaw? What are you about?’
Shaw raised an eyebrow; that was hardly subtle.
‘Justice.’
Carter paused at the news. They both knew, really: there was a feeling you got, standing around one of the same breed (for lack of a better word) and they had both felt it, but it had become such a rarity for them both it had felt more like an irritating scratch. Shaw had recognized it at once, and it made sense: Joss Carter, Military Interrogator.
Carter turned to John.
‘Alright. Tell me what you know.’