Chapter Text
Shaw's being shot at by four assholes in business suits who have probably never fired anything more powerful than a rubber band cannon and one asshole who has clearly had perhaps even more military training than she has and no compunctions about using it to leave Shaw and any unfortunate bystander who happens to get in the way in a bloody mess on the sidewalk.
The first snowfall of winter has melted and refrozen overnight into sheets of ice that coat the pavement smooth and slick and if Shaw were another sort of person she'd probably make some sort of comparison to a dance floor and the grace and skill of her life-and-death performance. She's not that sort of person, of course, so when Root's voice pipes in through her earpiece all breezy casual and distant amusement and "oh, sweetie, would you like a hand?" Shaw just starts swearing at her in German. It's a very satisfying language to swear in, and it's one of the very few European languages Root doesn't know, which makes it doubly enjoyable.
"You're odds aren't looking great," Root says, like she's commenting on the weather. Shaw ducks behind a dumpster long enough to reload.
"Flattery will get you everywhere."
"I'll keep that in mind. Forty seconds, mark."
Shaw glares at the security camera across the street and hopes The Machine passes the message along. One of the business suits skids out into the alley in front of her dumpster and Shaw puts two bullets in her kneecaps before she can regain her balance.
"Duck," The Machine says, cutting Root off in the middle of an absent minded innuendo. Shaw drops down just in time to avoid a chunk of brick that comes flying over the top of the dumpster. Or rather, from over the edge of the dumpster.
"That's just embarrassing," Shaw says, even as she's scampering back to get out of reach of the guy in all black scrambling out of the dumpster with three guns and a rotten banana peel. He glares at her.
"Less judging, more dying," he grumbles. Shaw shoots the ground where he's about to land and he kicks off the side of the dumpster hard, propelling himself in a controlled fall off to her left. She's about to turn to go after him, but Root's voice gives her pause.
"Ten seconds. To you're right, sixty degrees, Sam."
Shaw turns just in time to see the car fishtailing to turn sharply into the alley, tires scrabbling for a grip on the ice and breaks screeching.
"Want a ride?" Root coos. Shaw huffs.
"I was fine," she says, but she books it to the car, dodging more gunfire and a well-aimed apple core as she runs. She dives into the passenger side, letting the car's momentum slam the door shut behind her even as she pokes her head out of the sunroof to try and get a visual on dumpster guy or military asshole. Dumpster guy appears to have given up, but she trades a few parting shots with military asshole and manages to shoot another business suit right in the ass, so she figures the score is pretty even.
"You could have stuck around to help out," she says to Root, sliding back down into her seat. "do you know how hard it was to track this guy down.... what the fuck, Root?"
"Little busy, sweetie," Root's voice comes over her earpiece. Shaw stares at the driver's seat.
"No. absolutely not."
"What, are you getting picky about your dashing rescues now, Sameen?"
"No. What the fuck. How-- She definitely does not have a driver's licence. Do not tell me you somehow got a driver's licence."
"I could," The Machine says. Shaw frowns darkly at the empty driver's seat, even as the car slides neatly back into the regular flow of traffic. "Analog interface could--"
"No," Root says. "analog Interface could not. I never even took my own driver's test, I'm certainly not helping you take yours."
Shaw climbs over the console and settles into the driver's seat. She doesn't even twitch when the seat adjusts for her height without her touching a thing.
"Ok, you've had your fun," she says, "but I'd prefer not to die because somebody's security camera has shitty coverage."
"I a perfectly capable of controlling this vehicle," The Machine says. "My record of motor vehicle operation has a 100% success rate, and I am capable of optimizing your trip time. Ask Admin."
"No," Shaw says. "This is too far." She presses her foot on the gas. Nothing happens.
"You have just been involved in a high stress situation. Your body will soon be coming down from the adrenaline, reducing your reaction time. You also have a pulled muscle in your shoulder which will decrease the functionality of any shoulder checking."
"Listen, robot Overlord, I've been driving cars successfully for twenty-some years. Literally longer than you've been alive. Let me drive."
"If you are concerned about our comparative experience, would it not make more sense to allow me the opportunity to gain this experience so my performance will be more reassuring in the future?"
"Not while I'm in the car. Now hand it over."
"I am not holding--"
"I will turn off every camera in our bedroom."
"I have wireless access to all of your electronic devices. Including those of a sexual nature."
"I don't need toys to make things interesting."
Root cuts in to their conversation. "As adorable as you two are, I... may or may not be locked in a CIA facility and there may or may not be kind of a lot of guards on their way. Just. Fun life updates that would be avoided if you'd let me get a twitter account."
"No," Shaw and The Machine say in unison. Shaw feels her adrenalin resurfacing.
"Ok, play time's over, let me have control. I'm gonna be breaking some traffic laws."
"I can calculate the most efficient speed and route to reach Analog Interface's current location. There is no need to risk human error."
"Are you even capable of breaking the speed limit?"
"Would you like to find out?"
"Hashtag Gitmo," Root chirps.
"That's not funny," Shaw says.
"There are definite advantages to a motorcycle," Root muses. "Entirely unusable by adorable tiny girlfriends and adorable AI girlfriends alike."
Shaw clenches her teeth. Suddenly, her foot on the gas jerks the car forward. "Take your next left," The Machine says.
Shaw smirks. "About time. I'll be there as fast as I can, Root."
"Good to see you two getting along."
"We have mutual goals," The Machine says. Shaw reaches over to the glove box. A fresh package of zipties falls out as soon as she opens it.
"Yeah we do," she says.
"That's so romantic," Root says.
"That's... a word," says Shaw. "You know what else is a word, Root? Tiny. Tiny sure is a word."
"...Sameen? Sweetie?"
"Wow. Look at all these zipties."
"It is unfortunate," The Machine says. "How such primitive forms of equipment are entirely out of my domain."
Root swallows. "You know, on second thought, I can probably deal with the CIA on my own, I wouldn't worry about it."
"Next right," The Machine says. Shaw watches the needle on the speedometer climb higher.