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The only explanation Reese can think of is that Finch is one of the espionage models. Presumably a decommissioned one, since on a personal level he isn't actually very good at espionage.
For legal reasons, most synthetics have some easily recognisable marker that they aren't human: an unnecessarily noticeable neck port, or just bare-bones metal instead of skin. The only time Reese has met one as convincing as Finch is in the field, where for obvious reasons it's helpful if a synthetic can pass for human. So it's either that or an anatomically accurate pleasure model, but in Finch's case the latter seems kind of unlikely.
'You can just ask, you know,' says Finch. He hasn't looked up from his computer screen; another human affectation, since he could probably just plug himself in.
'Ask what?'
'A straight question. It might even get you a straight answer, Mr Reese.'
Reese takes a leasurely sip of coffee. He's been traveling with Finch for just under three weeks now, on and off. In that time, Finch has voluntarily revealed two things about himself: he's synthetic, and he's unable to transfer into a more efficient body. That's why Reese is here. Efficiency.
'What's your favourite colour?' he asks, not rising to the bait.
'Infrared,' says Finch, and Reese can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
'Well, I'm glad we had this little chat,' he drawls, and goes back to his lunch.
It's as straight an answer as he ever receives from Finch. Which is to say: entirely unhelpful.
*
Two weeks later, Reese isn't any further along. None of the major manufacturers have any record of a synthetic with Finch's basic physical characteristics, and it's difficult to believe that someone as complex as Finch could have been built by an independent. He's a work of art. Brilliant, unassuming, and completely indistinguishable from the real thing. Although Finch would probably object the implication that he isn't "real".
'You need to get out of there,' Finch snaps. 'Now.'
Reese clamps a hand around his injured arm and glances at the security display. There are two agents on the level below, but he's only thirty seconds away from accessing their database of underground Makers. He should've left the building as soon as the latest Number got to safety, but he can never resist a chance to chase up a Finch-related lead.
Over the earpiece, he can hear the click as Finch connects to another network. That brings it up to five at once; he's probably exhausted. Reese should let him have a rest from piloting once he gets back to the ship. Just because Finch isn't human doesn't means he can skip sleep indefinitely.
'Mr Reese, I don't doubt your ability to take out two men with one hand behind your back, but I'd prefer that you did it for a legitimate reason rather than this little detective project.'
Reese refuses to be embarrassed that Finch knows what he's doing. 'Ready to give me that straight answer, Finch?' he asks, watching out the corner of his eye as the two agents make for the stairs.
'Resorting to emotional blackmail, Mr Reese?' He pauses. 'Yes, yes, fine. Now get out of there.'
Reese smiles to himself, and slams his chair into the door controls, hard. Sometimes the old ways are the best. On the security screen, the two agents almost run into the other side of the door as it fails to open for them.
'Emotional blackmail?' he says, opening the window. Seventy-eight storeys up, the wind whips at his coat and bites at the exposed skin of his face and hands. This isn't going to be fun. 'I didn't know you cared.'
*
A straight answer. Reese ponders the idea as he pilots a borrowed taxicab back to the ship. There's no particular reason for Finch to tell him the truth, and there's something appealing about finding out for himself rather than relying on Finch for all his answers. Then again, would Finch have allowed him to keep looking if he genuinely believed Reese might uncover something useful? It's hard to tell whether this is a test, or if Finch just knows Reese will never find out the truth on its own.
This train of thought dies a death as soon as he sets eyes on Finch. He's barely focusing on the navigation screens, his rigidly upright posture at odds with the exhaustion on his face. 'Move,' says Reese, not unsympathetically, and slides into the control chair to take them out of orbit.
Finch is silent until Reese switches to autopilot, and then stands to stretch his legs. 'Let me see your arm,' he orders.
Reese takes off his jacket and sits on the edge of the console so Finch can inspect his bandages.
'We need better medical supplies,' Finch mutters, fingers curling around Reese's wrist. 'It's all very well for me to keep gluing myself back together -- '
'Is it?' says Reese mildly, and doesn't ask about Finch's neck. Doesn't ask about his leg. Doesn't ask why Finch feels the need to "glue himself back together" rather than just transferring, because Reese suspects he wouldn't like the answer.
Finch looks up at him, wry and tired-eyed. 'Didn't you have a question for me, Mr Reese? Or is that against some code of honour.'
'Honour?' asks John, eyebrows raised, and Finch huffs out a breath of amusement.
'Have it your way,' he says, and lets Reese nudge him out of the control room and off in the direction of a nap.
*
In the end, he finds out by accident. They've just received a new Number, hidden in -- of all places -- the sky ads they have to fly through to reach the main dock on Silverhold. One of these days, Reese is half expecting to crack open a fortune cookie and find a Number printed inside.
'Is it just me, or is the Machine getting whimsical?' he wonders, as Finch opens up about twenty feeds at once, obliterating the entire navigation display.
'It's a Machine,' says Finch. 'Machines don't have a sense of whimsy.' But there's something about his tone that sounds almost... affectionate. Suddenly, a hundred instances of Finch and the Machine coalesce in Reese's mind. Finch, quietly thanking an empty room when he thinks Reese isn't looking. Getting increasingly frustrated at the idiosyncracies of the Machine. Rolling his eyes at some new and intricate code. Maybe --
'Finch,' he begins, heart pounding. 'Did the Machine build you?' It feels oddly clear to him now. The main reason why synthetics never seem quite human is because they don't grow up. They can learn, but they don't begin as children. But if the Machine made Finch, then that would almost be like him having a parent.
Finch turns to face him, feed screens forgotten for the moment. 'No, John. You have that the wrong way round.' He waits for John to work it out, and then sits back.
Reese turns the idea over in his mind. Yes. It does seem more fitting that Finch, with his quiet desire to help people and his even quieter lack of basic ethical concerns, would have designed something as all-encompassing and terrifyingly protective as the Machine. He'd made the Machine to be his eyes and ears, and then found Reese to be the hand that holds the gun.
'So why --'
'I think that's quite enough truth-telling for today, Mr Reese,' says Finch, cutting him off, and steers them down to land.