a random POI AU
Jan. 9th, 2018 01:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enemyofperfectThat I recently remembered and dug out of my notes:
What if it wasn't Finch who built the Machine and recruited Reese, but Root?
Say it starts out the same: Reese gets himself arrested while drunk and receives an escort out of Carter's precinct. But the hired goons don't take him to a park -- instead I want to say it's an office building just finished with renovations, upscale but empty.
They take him up from the garage floor to where a woman is waiting in the lobby -- in sight of natural light coming through the windows, but not close enough for Reese to make an effective break for the door. She's got one booted foot up on a crate, and an automatic weapon in her hands that she's looking over. The attitude of the guys who brought him in is deferential.
So Reese evaluates the person who's taken an interest in him. Female, thirties, clearly some combat ability, though no particular signature stands out. Hair worn impractically long, but some do. He doesn't recognize her, but he isn't particularly surprised that he's crossed her radar. He says, as she looks up, "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."
Her laugh throws her head back down for a second, hair falling in her face before she shakes it free. "That's funny," she says, with a smile between pity and disgust, "given how long you bought it from the CIA."
So she knows who he worked for. He doesn't say anything.
She watches him, hands still moving over the gun, practiced. Finishes reassembling it, tilts her head -- and starts talking like she's in the middle of a completely different conversation
"Unlike some, you weren't in it for the glory, or even--" She sets the weapon down on top of the crate, stalks towards him, grinning. "--for a good time. You actually wanted to help people. I can help you do that."
"You'll have to give me more than that," he says, and in some far off corner, he's amused.
She says, "Do I really?" Her expression is mild surprise, her tone curiosity, and he looks at her more closely as she turns, adjusts her hair, frowns with thought. Then turns back to him.
"There are people the system doesn't care about," she says. She's lost some of the dramatics and gained an odd new intensity. This feels real. "People who slip through the cracks. It's supposed to be there for everyone, but it's big and clumsy and dragged down by pettiness." Her voice is heavy with an old and bitter fury. "We've both lost someone we shouldn't have because of that.
"But what if there was a better way?" She's hit a new note, now, just as fervent, but with none of the cynicism. It still doesn't seem like an act. "You don't have to walk in the darkness anymore. You can make a real difference, starting now."
Reese understands what he's looking at, now. He says, "I'm not looking for religion."
She doesn't grab the gun and shoot him. Or yell, or plead.
After an instant, she smiles crookedly and takes a step back. "Boys, that'll be all," she says to her flunkies, who move forward to collect the crate of firearms. To Reese, she says, "Come on. Let me show you a miracle," and since she's heading to the door, he follows.
She collects a coat from the marble reception desk and hands him something before shrugging the coat on. The something is a SIG P226. "This might make you more comfortable," she says wryly. He checks. It's loaded.
They emerge in daylight on a busy street, business part of town. "Pick someone's pocket," the woman says.
It's an asinine request, but he does. The nice business people swerve around him to avoid a request for change, but only if they see him coming first. He lifts a rich asshole's wallet and flips it open. ID, credit cards--
"Richard Harris. Born December third nineteen-sixty-two, five-nine, eyes blue, blah blah blah. Not an organ donor, isn't that a surprise?" Reese looks up from the man's driver's license to see the woman looking idly up at the strip of sky between high rises, hands deep in her coat pockets. She takes one out to adjust a tendril of hair while he watches. "License expires March twentieth next year. Credit card numbers, well this a mouthful..."
She's right about all of it. It's absurd. He looks around them -- easily a hundred people in sight, a different hundred than were there when they came out.
Her laugh sounds genuine, halfway to delighted. "You think I staged the entire street?" She throws an arm wide. "Pick somebody else, please. From anywhere you like -- be my guest, really."
He's cutting across the intersection as she speaks. Walks five blocks, turns, another two -- he can feel her behind him in the crowd, not hurrying, just there.
"Excuse me," he says to another suit, then plucks his wallet from his pocket and opens it in front of him.
"What are you," says the man, and Reese flicks his credit cards at him like big confetti. The man sputters, grabs for them, fumbles most. Meanwhile, Reese is going through the rest. Not too many bills -- an obnoxious number of them hundreds. Reese tears one in half, throws the rest in the air. "The fuck is wrong with you!" says the man, lumbering up from where he's been scrabbling for his plastic, but there are enough passersby interested in the free cash to prevent him from following.
Reese locates his ambiguous benefactor lying on her back on the wide plinth of an abstract statue, eyes closed, one foot propped up. "Serial number," Reese says. She hums thoughtfully without opening her eyes.
"Fresh new stack from the bank," she says. "It's hard to say about the last couple of digits. But it starts out B-4-9-8-6-2-3..."
It was a fun trick the first time. But he's had time to calm down and think it through. "You've got government feeds and god knows how many people watching them," he says. Recruiting a washed-up spook made sense for a private contractor -- but not if she could have her pick of any agency. "What do you want with me?"
"You're right about the feeds," she says judiciously, squinting her eyes open. "But we aren't government. Let's say I've got a friend on the inside." She sits up, amused with herself.
Sadly that's about all I came up with at the time, and I'm not really sure where it would go -- I think I'm more interested in the question of what could get Root to that point than in what she and Reese would get up to once she did. But it was fun to revisit!
What if it wasn't Finch who built the Machine and recruited Reese, but Root?
Say it starts out the same: Reese gets himself arrested while drunk and receives an escort out of Carter's precinct. But the hired goons don't take him to a park -- instead I want to say it's an office building just finished with renovations, upscale but empty.
They take him up from the garage floor to where a woman is waiting in the lobby -- in sight of natural light coming through the windows, but not close enough for Reese to make an effective break for the door. She's got one booted foot up on a crate, and an automatic weapon in her hands that she's looking over. The attitude of the guys who brought him in is deferential.
So Reese evaluates the person who's taken an interest in him. Female, thirties, clearly some combat ability, though no particular signature stands out. Hair worn impractically long, but some do. He doesn't recognize her, but he isn't particularly surprised that he's crossed her radar. He says, as she looks up, "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."
Her laugh throws her head back down for a second, hair falling in her face before she shakes it free. "That's funny," she says, with a smile between pity and disgust, "given how long you bought it from the CIA."
So she knows who he worked for. He doesn't say anything.
She watches him, hands still moving over the gun, practiced. Finishes reassembling it, tilts her head -- and starts talking like she's in the middle of a completely different conversation
"Unlike some, you weren't in it for the glory, or even--" She sets the weapon down on top of the crate, stalks towards him, grinning. "--for a good time. You actually wanted to help people. I can help you do that."
"You'll have to give me more than that," he says, and in some far off corner, he's amused.
She says, "Do I really?" Her expression is mild surprise, her tone curiosity, and he looks at her more closely as she turns, adjusts her hair, frowns with thought. Then turns back to him.
"There are people the system doesn't care about," she says. She's lost some of the dramatics and gained an odd new intensity. This feels real. "People who slip through the cracks. It's supposed to be there for everyone, but it's big and clumsy and dragged down by pettiness." Her voice is heavy with an old and bitter fury. "We've both lost someone we shouldn't have because of that.
"But what if there was a better way?" She's hit a new note, now, just as fervent, but with none of the cynicism. It still doesn't seem like an act. "You don't have to walk in the darkness anymore. You can make a real difference, starting now."
Reese understands what he's looking at, now. He says, "I'm not looking for religion."
She doesn't grab the gun and shoot him. Or yell, or plead.
After an instant, she smiles crookedly and takes a step back. "Boys, that'll be all," she says to her flunkies, who move forward to collect the crate of firearms. To Reese, she says, "Come on. Let me show you a miracle," and since she's heading to the door, he follows.
She collects a coat from the marble reception desk and hands him something before shrugging the coat on. The something is a SIG P226. "This might make you more comfortable," she says wryly. He checks. It's loaded.
They emerge in daylight on a busy street, business part of town. "Pick someone's pocket," the woman says.
It's an asinine request, but he does. The nice business people swerve around him to avoid a request for change, but only if they see him coming first. He lifts a rich asshole's wallet and flips it open. ID, credit cards--
"Richard Harris. Born December third nineteen-sixty-two, five-nine, eyes blue, blah blah blah. Not an organ donor, isn't that a surprise?" Reese looks up from the man's driver's license to see the woman looking idly up at the strip of sky between high rises, hands deep in her coat pockets. She takes one out to adjust a tendril of hair while he watches. "License expires March twentieth next year. Credit card numbers, well this a mouthful..."
She's right about all of it. It's absurd. He looks around them -- easily a hundred people in sight, a different hundred than were there when they came out.
Her laugh sounds genuine, halfway to delighted. "You think I staged the entire street?" She throws an arm wide. "Pick somebody else, please. From anywhere you like -- be my guest, really."
He's cutting across the intersection as she speaks. Walks five blocks, turns, another two -- he can feel her behind him in the crowd, not hurrying, just there.
"Excuse me," he says to another suit, then plucks his wallet from his pocket and opens it in front of him.
"What are you," says the man, and Reese flicks his credit cards at him like big confetti. The man sputters, grabs for them, fumbles most. Meanwhile, Reese is going through the rest. Not too many bills -- an obnoxious number of them hundreds. Reese tears one in half, throws the rest in the air. "The fuck is wrong with you!" says the man, lumbering up from where he's been scrabbling for his plastic, but there are enough passersby interested in the free cash to prevent him from following.
Reese locates his ambiguous benefactor lying on her back on the wide plinth of an abstract statue, eyes closed, one foot propped up. "Serial number," Reese says. She hums thoughtfully without opening her eyes.
"Fresh new stack from the bank," she says. "It's hard to say about the last couple of digits. But it starts out B-4-9-8-6-2-3..."
It was a fun trick the first time. But he's had time to calm down and think it through. "You've got government feeds and god knows how many people watching them," he says. Recruiting a washed-up spook made sense for a private contractor -- but not if she could have her pick of any agency. "What do you want with me?"
"You're right about the feeds," she says judiciously, squinting her eyes open. "But we aren't government. Let's say I've got a friend on the inside." She sits up, amused with herself.
Sadly that's about all I came up with at the time, and I'm not really sure where it would go -- I think I'm more interested in the question of what could get Root to that point than in what she and Reese would get up to once she did. But it was fun to revisit!
