#RUNNING ... ROLEPLAY.EXE. ( in character )

[fatherofmachine-a]

@griim​ gets a Plotted Starter!

After Harold received GEMMA HARDING’S number, he considered her the runner up for the most MINUSCULE digital footprint he’d ever seen. However, what he was able to find ... it allowed him to make some reasonable guesses as to her home life, her childhood. Mostly that something had CLEARLY been very wrong from the first glimpse—she’d only been given a name, a social security number, a proper identity when she was two years old and the person who’d given it to her hadn’t been either of her parents. Her mother hadn’t been listed, but ... what Harold did find about her father, well ... it WASN’T difficult to assume that he may be the reason she was in danger.

There had already been ONE attempt on her life thus far and Harold had managed to cut off their comms—but not without a loud, SCREECHING noise that pierced through their ears, which was more than distracting enough to aid in Gemma’s escape. CLEARLY they were running out of time and Harold couldn’t keep protecting her from afar, so ... he’d tracked the phone she had on her to a motel.

It was immediately obvious that she was DEEPLY shaken, on edge; a feeling Harold understood all too well. He knew approaching her would be ... challenging. She was like a wounded animal, ready to STRIKE at the first thing that moved toward her that she didn’t recognize; it made his heart twinge painfully in his chest. This young woman had gone through MORE than her fair share of hell and here she was, still tangled up in it, trying to evade the traps. Harold had anticipated some kind of defensive response, but it didn’t stop the IMMEDIATE spike of anxiety that pierced through him when she drew a knife on him. Her gesture was loud and clear— stay back, unless you want a knife lodged into you.

Harold froze where he stood, blue eyes wide and brows lifting sharply in alarm; slowly, CAREFULLY, he spread his hands out, indicating that he was unarmed. “Miss Harding, please—you don’t know me, but my name’s HAROLD. All I wanna do is help you,” a quiet, wavering breath escaped him as he briefly glanced down to regard the knife, then back up to meet her eyes. “I know you’ve got no reason  to trust me, but I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

[fatherofmachine]

➤ OPEN FOR MUTUALS!!

Panic began to churn within Harold’s chest at the SIGHT of two very dangerous-looking men tailing their number.  Only ONE solution came to mind that didn’t involve violence and truly,  that was the only option Harold HAD,  without John.  His uneven,  LIMPING steps came faster as nimble fingers CURLED beneath his own coat and with a few short ( and perhaps fumbling  ) tugs,  he draped it over his left arm.

❝Wait!—you FORGOT your jacket! ❞

A WARM,  friendly smile bloomed across Harold’s features as the person he was calling turned to regard his approach.  He moved in CLOSE,  pressing the heavy coat into the other person’s hands before he took a FIRM (  albeit still gentle ) hold of their upper arm,  just above the elbow.  He moved to lead them onward,  a SMILE still gracing his features;  but as Harold spoke,  his tone was QUIETLY urgent.

❝You’re in DANGER,  follow me.❞

[themetest-fm]

TAG TEST - ADMIN.

[fatherofmachine-a]

“Sometimes, despite your best efforts, you can actually be quite charming, Finch,” punctuated by a cheeky grin.

WESTWORLD IV - SENTENCE MEMES | @anurbanlcgend

Harold could hear that grin through the comms loud and clear. Dark brows knit together as eyes narrowed, followed by the left side of his mouth tugging sideways; a playful, albeit exaggerated reaction of mock disbelief at the words. Harold scoffed.

"Sometimes?" A rhetorical question, with a hint of mock offense. "Accompanied with the information I have at my disposal, I'm always charming, Mr. Reese." Harold was half joking—people had always been ... difficult, but over the span of working the numbers with John, they'd begun to make a great deal more sense. He wasn't anywhere near as confident as he sounded, but ... he was getting there.

[fatherofmachine]

“I can’t ever expect your forgiveness.“ (Maybe after years passed and he finds out what shes been up to?)

@griim | ALTERED CARBON IX; sentence prompts ( ALWAYS ACCEPTING ).

   His gaze, long-since having grown weary—especially within the last two years—swept down, a subtle tilt of head following to indicate that he was listening. Gemma had returned to them, but only after she heard Greer speak their names aloud, conveying his—Samaritan's, really, but their goals were one and the same—desire for their capture ... or their death. Harold had no doubt whatsoever that it would end up being both.

   Naturally, the others had taken unfortunate, but necessary, precautions when she arrived to ensure her finding them wasn't some kind of trap. Confiscating any firearms, her phone, as well as patting her down to ensure she didn't have some other way to communicate with Samaritan. While Harold certainly didn’t like that it was necessary, Gemma’s decisions over their years apart didn’t give them much choice in the matter.

   The chill of New York city seeped into every inch of the subway; the concrete especially and in doing so, ensured it too would penetrate deep into damaged vertebrae. A piercing cold pain that had worsened as the night wore on bombarded Harold, but ... he was beginning to get accustomed to it. "We all make mistakes," He offered after a long pause, speaking with a measured, careful tone. "I've made more than my fair share.”

   Shifting his feet stiffly, he turned the computer chair where he resided in order to face her, blue eyes sweeping upward to catch Gemma's own. Dark brows arched upward with emphasis, the expression conveying something wary; something heavily guarded. Harold, along with the others, were much less living than surviving as best they were able and any slight misstep could ignite an all-consuming, searing flame. They would all vanish without a trace; The Machine may be the only one of them that would survive that, but it would no doubt be consumed as well. Just ... differently. The Machine as he’d created it would cease to exist all the same. The mere idea of it sharpened his resolve, however—he could not let that happen.

   “Trust is something I don’t come by easily, Gemma, and for good reason. That’s our most pressing concern. I think it’s time we have a talk about Samaritan.”

[fatherofmachine-a]

@anurbanlcgend​ CONT.

The steady beep of the heart monitor had become little more than a drone in the back of John’s mind, a tiny little message from Harold saying I’m still alive, Mr. Reese. At least that was how he imagined it in the hours he spent sitting in the chair, alternating between watching Harold, watching the door, and watching out the window for any approaching operatives. Occasionally he spared a glance upwards to the patient camera the nurses used.

Are you still up there? he thought once. He opened his mouth to say it, hesitated as the sound caught in his throat, and closed his mouth again, returning to watching the window.

Reese spent hours that way. He needed medical care too, and at least one of the nurses coming and going tried to talk him into it, but he couldn’t explain to them the life altering fight that had just went down, that he didn’t know if they were still safe, that he had to keep an eye on Harold, that he had to make sure he was safe above all else.

At some point, exhaustion won out and he nodded off in his seat, leaning his head against the windowsill. Everything hurt, a full body ache that made it hard to pinpoint the major injuries—a consequence of having a missile bring a building down on your head, he supposed—with the exception of his left leg. It was… it wasn’t doing good, crushed under rubble and then some. He’d have to have it checked out, eventually, but now wasn’t the time. First he had to make sure Harold was fine, and then he had to make contact with Shaw. Then he’d worry about his leg.

“…John?”

The voice brought him out of his sleep and dreams of fire and gunpowder with a shocking abruptness, sitting up sharply, sending pain corkscrewing around bones, fractured and otherwise, and badly bruised muscles. A soft grunt escaped him, bringing a hand to his stomach, bruised from the multiple gunshots his vest had caught, but he was already looking over at Harold.

“I’m here,” he said, a little hoarse, and cleared his throat as he stood up unsteadily on his good leg, before limping over to the bed with a little assistance from leaning on the end of the hospital bed for support. He slid onto the bed next to him, even now as he was wracked with pain being mindful of Harold’s injuries. He reached up to rest a hand on his chest, but his other hand came up to take Harold’s hand nearest to him. “You’re awake.”

They talked a little, John filled him in on what he knew so far, that they were safe for now, that he hadn’t made contact with Shaw or Fusco yet [ I wanted to focus on you went unspoken. ], and an emphasis on I’m okay when Harold turned his attention to it, even though he’d just watched John limp, heavily, from the chair to the side of Harold’s bed. Still, a smile settled onto his features. Tired, world worn and exhausted into the bones, but a smile all the same.

But for the moment, Harold seemed okay to let it go, at least, instead disentangling his hand and reaching up for John. John, who put up no resistance at all, leaning down gladly to capture Harold’s lips with his own. One hand came up, an instinct at this point, to slide beneath Harold’s neck, calloused fingers brushing across old scars with as much tenderness as an ex-assassin could possible muster… which turned out to be quite a lot, as he braced Harold’s neck, ensuring it didn’t bend any as they kissed.

The sweeping relief the kiss started with drained into a kind of desperation as his other hand, the one that had previously been clutching Harold’s hand, slid up to cup the side of his face, fingers curled gently around the warm skin of his cheek and the side of his neck, his thumb resting lower down on his chin as they sat there.

Some of Harold’s scent, the smell of tea and incense that hung so heavily around him, had mostly been replaced by something more sterile, iodine and alcohol or some other disinfectants, along with the stony-cement smell that hung around John, still clinging to his suit despite his best attempts to brush off.

When they parted, he still leaned in, even as his joints and his bones and his muscles ached at the position, so he could rest his forehead against, the end of his nose brushing Harold’s.

“I think we’re okay,” he said, eventually, in a low rasp so quiet it was almost impossible to hear beyond them. “I think we won.”

   The ONLY THING Harold remembered about reaching the hospital was that he'd somehow made it there on foot. Everything else was either entirely blank or a blur. He'd lost a lot of blood, been in far more pain than he'd EVER experienced all at once—which, for someone with chronic pain, that was saying something. And yet, somehow he'd made the trek down from the top of the building, through the streets of New York, where he remained unconscious in a hospital bed, for the moment.

   Harold hadn't known then if he'd ever see John again; in fact, despite his desperate hope, he practically BET on it being incredibly unlikely. When he began to stir, all of his senses gradually coming back to him as consciousness encompassed him once more, he'd expected to be alone. Those who would have stayed until he awoke were gone, he'd thought, and truly, he didn't blame the others for not being here. They had their own lives to rebuild, their own wounds to heal.

   As blue eyes fluttered open, however, Harold turned head and shoulders stiffly, glancing around—and it felt like his heart had practically leapt into his throat at the sight of John’s sleeping form. He was perched on a chair, his head resting against the windowsill ... and he looked like hell, even if the sight of him at all, STILL ALIVE, was the most incredible thing he could've asked for. Harold felt an overwhelming surge of emotion swell in his chest, curl in his throat enough to make his eyes burn. He cleared his throat softly before finding his voice.

"... John?"

   John awoke with a start at the MERE SOUND of Harold’s voice and he couldn’t help but wince at the clear pain the movement caused; but the sound of John’s voice caused another twinge of emotion, so much desperate love and relief. 'I'm here,' he'd said, sounding absolutely as pained as he looked. Of course Harold noticed the way he moved, the CLEAR INDICATORS that he was in worse shape than Harold was now. He resolved himself to convince John to get the help he needed.

   At first, however, they discussed the situation at hand; all the while, Harold easily twined their fingers together when John took his hand, rested his other atop the wrist of the hand resting against his chest. They needed to touch bases with Miss Shaw and Fusco, Harold found out what exactly had happened to John—which was when he did try to bring attention to his injuries, but ... he emphasized how fine he was. Harold let out a quiet sigh ... before disentangling one of his hands to reach for him, coaxing him to lean in so that he could capture John's lips with his own.

   A sweeping, bone deep relief encompassed him, as if kissing John was like a long drink of water after having been SEVERELY dehydrated. Things intensified quickly, however, and Harold's other hand came up to curl into the lapels of his ruined suit jacket. A soft, wavering sigh escaped him as they parted and Harold could FEEL the way the answering pain made him wince—he tried to stifle it, but ... he knew John too well for that.

   "Yes," he agreed, speaking just as softly between them, briefly allowing blue eyes to flutter shut. "I believe so." They lingered there like that for a few minutes, Harold allowing himself to simply BASK in John's presence, knowing that he was here and he was alive. Now, he had to try and CONVINCE the most selfless man alive to get his injuries taken care of. He glanced up to regard John’s features, breathing in a scent that was DISTINCTLY John underneath ( a smoky musk scent, very frequently with a hint of gunpowder ), but partially shrouded by the dusty cement smell that clung to him. Harold slid his hands up to hold John's face between them, gently urging him to look up.

  "You've gotta get yourself checked out now, John. I can handle contacting Miss Shaw and Fusco—my phone's in reach, I won't exert myself. YOU, on the other hand, nearly got crushed to death by a collapsing building," Harold affectionately smoothed his thumbs over John's cheeks and his eyes closed again, albeit TIGHTLY this time as dark brows tensed. "Please, John. I ... suspected you might not be here when I woke up. I need you to let them take care of you."

[fatherofmachine-a]

RETURN ZERO. ( CAUTION,  SEASON 5 SPOILERS !!!  )

PAIN was nearly everywhere  &  a SHIVER wracked Harold’s frame every now  &  then,  as he was feeling a great deal more affected by the cold than he normally  would be.  He wasn’t certain he CARED much,  anymore.  

The fingers of his left hand clutched TIGHTLY to the suitcase,  the one he believed was to be used to upload the VIRUS into a satellite that Samaritan had retreated  to.  In his RIGHT hand,  he held a firearm .... something that Harold had REFUSED to even touch,  until now.  He hadn’t needed to actually use  it yet  &  he HOPED it would stay  that way.  

With the tremors  that had long-since settled within his hands,  Harold couldn’t shoot straight if he’d TRIED (  &  he wasn’t  good at it to begin with ).  He’d been SPOOKED by a thud behind him a moment earlier  &  he’d turned with a PAINFUL start,  holding the gun up with a shaking  hand—–but no one had been there.  Now,  his back was facing the door  &  he slowly  limped forward.

❝ Are you there ? ❞

Harold’s words DRIFTED above the high,  frigid  wind upon the rooftop—–but his own voice sounded STRANGE within his own ears ... distant.  He’d spoken SLOWER than he’d intended to,  almost dreamlike.  Breathing was STEADILY becoming a challenge ( as he was breathing heavily  through his open mouth ),  even as his limping steps slowed considerably.  

❛ Yes, ❜  Root’s The Machine’s voice  answered within his earpiece  &  it elicited a flood of RELIEF to wash over him,  to know that She was still listening.  ❛ I’m sorry—–is this .... NOW ?  ❜ 

Pausing mid-step,  dark brows NARROWED briefly as ... the question didn’t make any sense.   Looking back upon this moment,  his reaction could EASILY be attributed to the gunshot  wound ;  SEPSIS tended to make cognitive ability suffer  considerably.  Tired CONFUSION was audible  as Harold replied,

 ❝ .... What ? ❞

The Machine’s words weren’t  so hesitant this next time.  She answered matter-of-factly DESPITE the ICE-9 virus steadily destroying  Her from the inside out.  He KNEW that She had a limited amount of time left  &  truthfully ... he didn’t want  to let Her go.  He wanted to SAVE Her,  like She had saved him,  &  countless others.  Harold couldn’t save Her this time,  albeit,  &  he knew that.  

 ❛ My mind  is beginning to SLIP,  Harry,  ❜  She clarified  &  the added use of Root’s nickname  for him caused a heavy ACHE to stir  within his chest—–Harold had begun to get USED to it,  but it still hurt.  ❛ Am I speaking to you NOW,  in this moment ?  Or is this one of my MEMORIES ? ❜

 Something  about these questions caused a BRIEF upward curve of lips,  FONDNESS somehow unfurling within him,  pushing  through the pain.

 ❝ Yes,  to the EXTENT that it is possible for me to be  certain ... this IS now. ❞

Harold was now approaching the rooftop edge  &  blue eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds,  letting out a QUIET,  but strained  gasp as another pulse of PAIN reverberated throughout his entire body—–that’s what it had felt  like anyway,  with the mix of his normal nerve pain  &  the gunshot  pain.

 ❛ Ah,  thank you, ❜  The Machine added,  sounding relieved Herself to have an anchor.

Brows LIFTED with a vague  sort of emphasis in reply as,  Harold knew She’d see it—–or,  he .... HOPED She could still  see,  for the most part.  Reaching the buildings electrical radio frequency equipment  ( stationed as four metal boxes all connected to one another  &  held upright by metal beams ),  Harold simply leaned  against the largest one,  allowing his head to tilt back somewhat.

 ❛ We have eight  &  a half minutes .... give or take.  ❜

Exhaling SHARPLY,  Harold barely inclined his head before offering,

 ❝ ... Then I’m gonna REST for a bit, ❞

A pause  &  he breathed in through his nose,  shifting somewhat  &  wetting his lips that constantly seemed to remain uncomfortably dry.  The thought of his FRIENDS (  or,  the ones that were left  )  weighed heavily  upon his mind  &  upon what was LEFT of his tattered heart,  the feeling twisting  like barbed wire within his chest.  Closing his eyes,  Harold continued,

 ❝ I know  what happened to JOHN ... but the others .... D’you think that they still—– .... did they MAKE it ? ❞  He DESPERATELY hoped so,  but .... it was too difficult to outwardly express it.

The Machine’s pause was LONGER,  which left Harold feeling immensely anxious.  He knew what was going to happen to Her,  but he was DREADING it  &  it was painful  to hear Her struggle.  He was to lose three  people that he loved,  incredibly DEEPLY.  He likely wasn’t going to be around much longer to grieve,  though,  was he ?  ❛ I’m ... sorry,  Harold ... I’m ... not sure ? ❜ 

  ❝ I understand ... you have to keep track of  E V E R Y O N E ...      All those people  over the years ... did you LEARN anything ?  ❞

A somewhat pained  breath of a laugh escaped as the question hung between them—–it was VAGUE,  but he believed that She would understand exactly  what he’d meant.  His own mind was almost fogged  &  overloaded with PAIN,  which made it ... difficult  to put his thoughts into .... more precise  words.  The Machine answered within a second,  but ... DESPITE the swiftness,  Harold could hear  the strain in Her voice.

 ❛ I learned .... that EVERYONE dies alone.  There was more to it than that,  but .... I can’t remember.  It was something someone said. ❜

Blue eyes narrowed  thoughtfully—–THAT wasn’t  exactly the insightful,  complex answer he’d been hoping for.  Although,  Harold supposed having BUILT Her to watch humanity’s mistakes,  their cycles of violence,  that would certainly be a reasonable takeaway.  &  yet ...

 ❝ I had HOPED that you might have gleaned something a little  less ... MORBID. ❞

 ❛ You built me to predict  people,  Harry.  But to PREDICT them,  you have to truly understand  them  &  that proved to be VERY difficult indeed.  So I began by breaking their lives down into moments.  Trying to find the CONNECTIONS,  the things that explained  why they did what they did.  &  what I found was that the MOMENT that often mattered the most  ....  the moment where you TRULY found out who  they were .... was often their LAST ONE. ❜

Having straightened somewhat as The Machine had begun to EXPLAIN,  Harold listened  &  throughout all of the pain,  he felt something .... different.  It was MORE than mere fondness,  but in fact an almost all-encompassing affection,  perhaps a feeling of PROUD  closure,  in a way.  Throughout his life,  he had never truly believed  that he’d created an Artificial Intelligence that TRULY had any kind of emotion,  any kind of core empathy,  morals,  DESPITE his best efforts.  

This,  however .... along with the time they’d spent simply ... talking,  Harold realized that he’d been WRONG.  His Machine was not only greater  than himself,  than humanity in terms of KNOWLEDGE,  understanding .... but She was more human than he ever could have believed possible.  Harold was suddenly ACUTELY aware  of how truly PROUD of Her he was,  within that moment.  Nodding his head as She finished,  Harold offered,

 ❝ Fair enough.  I’ll be INTERESTED to hear your thoughts,  then.  Because .... in ADDITION to this being now, ❞

Reaching down,  he PRESSED against his abdomen which had been pulsing  with pain for HOURS now.  Blood  had long-since soaked through his vest  &  the copper-like smell had come to his attention a long time ago .... he’d KNOWN it was there,  felt it,  but .... as he pulled his hand away  &  actually SAW the bright red tarnishing the pale skin of his fingers,  it seemed all the more REAL.  More real,  despite  all of this feeling like it could be half  a dream.  A simulation.  

Harold knew  it wasn’t.

 ❝ ... I think it’s also PROBABLY the end. ❞

[fatherofmachine-a]

@thewhiirlwind​ | DOCTOR LACHLAN’S NUMBER’S UP !!

A nervous FLUTTERING sensation had been continuously sparking  within Harold’s chest since the moment  John had asked him to take Dr. Lachlan to the safe house.  He’d been SUCCESSFULLY evading  making contact,  the refusals slipping from his mouth with casual ease  &  they hadn’t been QUESTIONED.  This time,  however ... while he’d attempted  to argue (  albeit WEAKLY,  as Harold knew for certain that John was right  ),  it had been ultimately USELESS.  

Dr. Lachlan had been the one to do his most crucial  spinal surgery shortly after the ferry incident—–Harold had not only been PHYSICALLY wounded,  but quite severely emotionally  &  psychologically  wounded as well.  It had been a VULNERABLE time for Harold,  personal,   &  he was reluctant  to unintentionally reveal any of it ... NOR was he particularly  inclined to nurture the fondness he’d felt for his former Doctor,  either.

Once he’d arrived,  Harold took steadying,  careful  limping steps forward until he stood DIRECTLY in front of the apartment door.  It was  ... a little strange  to have to KNOCK,  given how much breaking  &  entering  was required for what he’d been doing for almost 2 YEARS now  (  &  a part of him  didn’t feel  particularly COMFORTABLE about that ).  

Knuckles lightly rapped upon the door—–&  when Dr. Lachlan slowly pulled it open,  the IMMEDIATE recognition  &  shock  sent a nervous PANG throughout Harold’s upper body  (  &  as he tilted his head back somewhat to LOOK UP,  he was once again  taken aback by how tall the man was ).

  ❛ Uh,  hi,  Mr. Wren, ❜

The Doctor began,  sounding mildly CONFUSED  &  Harold's brows lifted in reply ;  he was briefly SURPRISED that Dr. Lachlan remembered the alias so quickly,  without hesitation,  but ... remembering how incredibly ATTENTIVE  &  intuitive he was,  Harold supposed he shouldn’t have  been surprised at all.  Although,  his STANDING on the doorstep instead of being in a wheel chair  was likely QUITE the sight,  especially given his professional insight.

 ❝ Hello, ❞

His greeting was softer  than he’d INTENDED  &  while he’d intended to offer a polite  upward curve of lips,  Harold had to dampen it  slightly as it bloomed a bit BRIGHTER than he’d wanted  it to—–but thankfully,  Dr. Lachlan made the CONNECTION before Harold had to clarify anything.

  ❛ Wait.  Are you the friend I’m waiting on ? ❜  

 ❝ INDEED—–but,  I’m afraid  we’re on a bit of a clock. ❞

As Harold spoke,  his tone contained a slight  FRIENDLY lightness to it,  his expression still illustrating the DISTANCE at which he kept almost everyone,  but ... it was a great deal less severe now,  since Dr. Lachlan had seen him last.  Along with that controlled distance was,  perhaps,  the SLIGHTEST tinge of fondness,  of familiarity.   Harold held himself DIFFERENTLY,  too.  With a calm sense of poise,  elegance,  of CONFIDENCE,  but not without urgency.  Within the hospital,  he had LITTLE choice in appearance for the most part,  but now he was free to wear the expressive-looking,  but LOVINGLY crafted three piece suits that adorned his frame.  The silver,  rounded glasses he’d worn before were GONE in favor of a pair that was,  instead,   black  &  square-rimmed.

He held the air of someone who knew exactly  what he was doing  &  what he was GOING to do.  Someone who held more INSIGHT  than he was supposed  to have,  but he had meticulously COAXED it from the hands of authority anyway.   Underneath all of that,  however,  was a whisper of softness,  of sincerity ( DESPITE his apparent need to keep everyone at arms length ),  something underneath that was AUTHORITATIVE,  albeit,  with softer edges. 

When the Doctor stepped further inside,  INVITING him in,  Harold inclined his head before somewhat stiffly  following.  As the door closed behind them,  he turned to regard Dr. Lachlan with raised brows before he added,

 ❝ My SAFE HOUSE is where we’re headed —–if there’s anything you NEED,  now would be an appropriate time to retrieve it. ❞

[fatherofmachine-a]

@thewhiirlwind​ | PLOTTED STARTER FOR:  GABRIEL

The DARKNESS,  trickled  with the revived city lights,  blanketed the library,  creating a COMFORTABLE  &  quiet atmosphere.  Harold had attempted  sleep hours ago but to no avail,  the pain that ALWAYS resided within his lower back,  hip  &  left leg having dissolved  into disquieting pins  &  needles that made drifting off almost IMPOSSIBLE.  His upper body,  however,  was manageable ;  cold pain that SEEPED into damaged vertebrae  &  sent icy tendrils  throughout his chest  &  limbs,  sometimes even feeling as though they SUNK into the marrow of his bones.  Fingers GLIDED over keys as he made progress on the work from the job of his eldest  alias (  Harold Wren,  Insurance underwriter )—–MIND-NUMBING,  but it kept him busy.

He'd been about halfway through  the work when the sound of something COLLIDING once against one of the distant bookshelves in one of the other rooms  (  followed almost instantly  by the sound of a couple books crashing to the floor ) STARTLED him.  There was a long,  tense pause before Harold lifted his voice,  somewhat tentatively,

❝ ... Mr. Reese ? ❞

But there was NO ANSWER.  Closing his eyes tightly for a few seconds,  allowing PANIC to sweep  over him in waves before managing to regain some control,  Harold remained still.  Exhaling quietly,  SLOWLY,  he stood eventually,  the pins  &  needles within his leg immediately  beginning to thrum uncomfortably with every limping step.  NOTHING,  however,  could possibly prepare him for who—–or,  perhaps WHAT he would find.  In the dim light,  Harold could only see a PERSON standing there,  in-between the bookshelves,   attention seemingly focused  on placing books back upon one of the shelves.  The ones he'd heard DROP,  he could guess,  but it certainly  didn't ease his rising PANIC.

When the person TURNED,  the mild  light from one of the windows ILLUMINATING him,  he seemed to startle  somewhat as their eyes met.  He'd noticed the WINGS as they'd convulsed  slightly with the apparent startle  &  Harold had been almost certain  he was hallucinating.  The man ( being ?  he wondered distantly ) was INCREDIBLY TALL,  several heads  taller than Harold  &  suddenly,  he felt a terrifying wave of vulnerability,  of insignificance.  Brows TENSELY lifting whilst blue eyes narrowed  with unease,  he attempted to STIFLE the panic  that scraped against his nerves.  Harold managed to find his voice soon enough—–&  he sounded a great deal  more calm  &  stern than he FELT,  which was a relief.

❝  I SUPPOSE I should say thank you  for putting them back where they BELONG, ❞

He began,  his curiosity feebly  lifting beneath the almost SUFFOCATING panic,  but he was ... ignoring the fact that the man had WINGS,  for now.  One step at a time.

❝ What you're doing here,  whatever you're LOOKING for  &  how you got in here,  however ... THOSE are more pressing  matters,  I think. ❞

[fatherofmachine-a]

@akiyamascn​  | ▸PLOTTED STARTER

Harold was EXHAUSTED,  in more ways than one.  It felt as though his emotions had been rubbed completely raw,  the wound now carefully bandaged but the TWINGE of pain  with it’s memory still prevalent.   Kuro had come to him about a month ago,  maybe  two,  to seek Harold’s help.  He’d been apart of a DOD project called Project Olympus,  in which he had NANITES practically ingrained  into his nervous system.  He was,  essentially,  part Machine  &  the project had been created as a WEAPON;  a weapon that Samaritan could take control of.

They’d created a CRYPTO LOCK of sorts,  where Kuro would be overloaded by so much data  that he wouldn’t be able to function,  let alone be CONTROLLED.  Samaritan had predicted  this,  however,  &  it had stopped the process before  it could prevent the A.I. from taking control.  Thankfully,  Samaritan was UNABLE to discover their base or any other particularly useful  information that would help in hunting them all down,  but ... the fear had been suffocating. 

The IMMENSE,  overwhelming  distress that had filled Harold to the brim,  how his insides felt as though they were barbed wire,  carving into anything within reach  &  making it difficult  to BREATHE .... 

It’s strange,  how APPARENT  &  clear  ones emotions about another person becomes when they’re in danger.

Harold had managed  to REACH him,  somehow,  long enough for them to force him unconscious—–&  if by force unconscious,  you mean John abruptly punching  Kuro hard enough to knock him out,  then you would be CORRECT (  ❛ ... He said  ‘do something’. ❜  ).  Only within a Faraday cage  &  with Miss Groves’  help,  they were able to create a JAMMER that prevented anything  from reaching him (  they’d had to craft an exception for their mesh network ).  

SAFE now from Samaritan’s influence,  they’d moved him to the safe house where he’d lain unconscious,  but able to WAKE whenever his body initiated it.  Kuro STIRRED,  finally,  &  Harold had moved to his side,   slowly sinking  into the seat that had been placed next to the make-shift hospital bed,  lips parted.

Their eyes met  &  a sweeping  sense of RELIEF engulfed him almost completely  &  he couldn’t stifle the barely wavering sigh that accompanied it.  Harold’s features softened  considerably  &  thin lips bloomed into a teetering smile before it shrunk into something smaller,  more  ... subtle.  His chest felt tight  with expanding WARMTH,  affection,  so much of it that Harold didn’t know what to do with it all. 

PAUSING to control  the sound of his voice before it lifted between them,  his words were almost TENDER  in their softness as ... he couldn’t  stifle it all,   but he could force it into something a GREAT DEAL less ... obvious.

 ❝ ... Hello  there.  Welcome back. ❞

[fatherofmachine-a]

@thewhiirlwind​  | PLOTTED STARTER FOR:  RENARD  ( YES,  ANOTHER ONE )

The moment  Harold had connected these phones to the newly created MESH NETWORK,  one that Samaritan  couldn’t trace,  nor listen in on—–he was guilty of immediately  thinking of Renard,  which elicited a sharp PANG of longing  within his chest.  

It had been weeks  since they’d seen one another   &  while they bridged the gap as best they could via phone calls,  they were BRIEF  &  incredibly vague.  Harold was beginning to hear the TENSION within Renard’s voice as he spoke,  knowing  that anxiety was curling tight within his gut like barbed wire,  even if hearing Harold’s voice soothed it considerably.

While he had the SUBWAY PROJECT to occupy his mind,  Harold seized the first opportunity to contact Renard.  He sent a text—–

Borough of Manhattan Community College 199 Chambers St, New York, NY  Office number 206

-H

It was EARLY EVENING when Harold heard the doorknob turn,  the door click  open,  a handful of familiar footsteps before the door was closed again.  As he glanced upward,  it felt as though his HEART had leapt  into his throat,  a dense fluttering sensation engulfing his chest—–

A SMILE bloomed across Harold’s features,  bright with relief,  affection,  ELATION  before it shrunk somewhat,  as if he were attempting to control himself.  He stood from his chair,  took a few LIMPING strides around his desk  &  paused,  blue eyes wide  &  churning with warmth.  Taking in a wavering breath,  he managed to find his voice,

 ❝ Hello, ❞

Harold said simply,  sounding almost nervously giddy,  RELIEVED.

[fatherofmachine-a]

@kingwrites​ said:   " are you hurt?  harold, are you hurt?  talk t' me. " - elliot 

 ❝ I’m—– ❞

Harold began,  his voice STRAINING,  a sharp  pain (  which left a dull ache within the wake of each PULSE ) engulfing the majority of his senses. 

 ❝ Unfortunately,  yes—– ❞ 

A shift of his upper body sent another PIERCING wave  &  he barely  stifled a pained noise.  Realizing that he was somewhat in shock,  Harold attempted to regain himself,  to calculate damage—– WHERE had he been shot ?  There was so much pain all intermingling,  mixing,  that for a solid couple of minutes,  it was DIFFICULT to tell.  Eventually,  taking note of his own hand pressed  just bellow his collarbone to the far right,   he’d been shot close to the shoulder.  

 ❝ Nothing overly DANGEROUS,  It just—–really hurts, ❞

His breathing trembling  &  coming out harshly,  Harold leaned against the wall behind him,  the back of his head resting against it  &  he allowed his eyes to fall shut for a moment.  Dark brows TENSED whilst thin lips pressed together tightly as another wave  of PAIN shot through his upper body with the movement.

 ❝ I’ll be fine. ❞

Harold added breathlessly,  NOT sounding very convincing.  It was moments like these ( albeit few  &  far between )  that made him almost  wish he hadn’t disbanded his healing ability.

[fatherofmachine-a]

@thewhiirlwind​  said:  “I got a late start this morning. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”   From Renard,  post possession verse |  WESTWORLD III SENTENCE STARTERS !!

Lingering  within the doorway,  Harold stood,  left hand casually curled around the door frame whilst his right had DISAPPEARED into one of his pockets.  Renard was standing in the kitchen,  looking incredibly  exhausted  &  somewhat PAINED.  Partially tilting his head to the left,  dark brows tensed  &  Harold felt a painful  tightness within his chest,  affectionate longing to be able to COMFORT unfurling  &  expanding.

 ❝ I suspected  you could USE the rest,  I didn’t wanna wake you, ❞

His tone drifted between them QUIETLY,  softly—–it was painful  to see Renard struggling like this,  to see his natural light DIMMED by trauma  &  misery.  Harold had to admit,  perhaps only to himself,  that it pained him that Renard had moments where he believed he had to handle any  of this ALONE.  As if he believed he was burdening  Harold with his pain,  RELUCTANT to allow himself to lean against him when he needed  the support. 

He loved this GENTLE man so desperately,  so incomprehensibly,  Harold would do ANYTHING to alleviate even a fraction of his pain—–in fact,  he would do anything  for him PERIOD.  The intensity of it was frightening,  now with the intimate knowledge of what it could feel like to lose him.  It further ignited a fierce  need to PROTECT Renard with everything  he had.

Letting his hand fall from its placement on the door frame,  Harold took the few limping  steps it took to reach Renard,  right hand REACHING for him as fingers lightly grazed  against his jaw.  The gesture was a little  tentative ONLY to give Renard the freedom to pull away,  if he wanted to—–but he very rarely,  if ever,  wanted to.

 ❝ What can I do ? ❞

The question gentle,  fully encompassed with his CONCERN  &  his earnest  affection,  despite its natural subtlety.  A brief pause followed before Harold added,

 ❝ You know  you can wake me if you NEED to, ❞

Phrased like another QUESTION,  but it didn’t  sound like one.

[fatherofmachine-a]

(  Originally answered here,  regarding Finch’s first encounter with @modifiedcode​‘s Root.  I figured I ought to re-post this as meta-ish thing,  like I did with the Reese one.  I also tweaked this one a bit  &  added more. )

                             PERSONALS,  DO NOT REBLOG !!

FEAR.  Fear,  anger  &  a sickening disgust was what he’d first associated with her,  the moment  his gaze had met hers.  The sharp  fascination  &  curiosity that would eventually  develop wouldn’t emerge until MUCH later.  Shock  &  terror  ripped through him as the sound of gunfire TEARING through flesh  &  bone violently  wrought Harold’s world,  his senses,  to a brief stand-still.  Alicia,  the person he’d been speaking to mere seconds ago,  was abruptly,  lifelessly  SLUMPED against the passenger seat  &  door—–Harold couldn’t see  the blood,  not from this angle,  but the nauseating hot,  copper-like scent of it left him with NO DOUBTS of it being there.  Movement outside of the passenger window had him turning  without thinking about it,  blue eyes WIDE.  He only just recognized his mouth had fallen open with shock  &  he pressed thin lips together tightly.

For a moment,  all he could hear was a dull RINGING  &  any other sound was muffled  by it ;  he’d only acknowledged the sound of the back door of the car opening  &  closing AFTER her  voice rose from the silence.

❛ I thought she’d  NEVER shut up, ❜

For a BRIEF few seconds,  he couldn’t  comprehend what it was she’d said—–NOT that he couldn’t hear her,  the ringing was beginning to diminish  &  he could hear the words  just fine.  It was the CASUAL sound of her voice,  how she spoke as though they  ( she  &  Harold ) shared some sort of private JOKE.  One arm still extended outward behind him,  that same wrist settled upon the steering wheel uselessly whilst his other hand GRIPPED the center console to keep himself turned.  His head  &  neck had JERKED painfully in response to the gunshot  &  now,  the lasting pain of the movement began to seep into the rest of his upper body … but,  Harold was FAR too preoccupied to notice just yet.

TURING ( or,  whatever her real name was ) was practically beaming at him,  the look of it almost CHILD-LIKE with how manic it appeared.  His own dark brows were narrowing,  as were his eyes  &  his mind was WORKING again,  moving incredibly fast,  as if to catch up from the momentary pause.

❛ So nice to finally meet you,  Harold.   You can call me  ROOT. ❜

With her INTRODUCTION,  Root  moved in close,  her firearm pointed directly at him  &  her wide SMILE never faltered.  Harold swiftly began to solve the puzzle of how they reached this point  &  the longer he looked  at her,  the more HORRIFIED he became.  Once he finally spoke,  his voice sounded STRANGE to his own ears ;   almost detached,  still riddled with pure shock  &  he could hear the latter within his own ragged breathing.   The DISGUST that had long-since begun to churn within him spiked  at the sight of how her DELIGHTED smile had shifted into something mischievously smug.

❝ … You hired HR yourself ?   You were willing to RISK your  own life  to FIND me ?  ❞

Her dark gaze flickered downward,  but only for a few seconds.  

❛ I did this ... corporate training thing once, ❜

Root began,  barely  rotating the firearm held tightly within her hand as if they were having a CASUAL conversation rather than the reality .... which was her essentially  holding him at gun point.

❛  I was blackmailing the CEO,  long story,  but  .... they did this exercise called the trust fall.  Where you close your eyes and  f a l l   ... &  wait for someone to CATCH you.  I  knew  you boys wouldn't let me down. ❜

She’d trusted  that he  & Mr. Reese would save her life,  she’d had FAITH in them.  Coming from her,  it only TAINTED the statement  &  Harold simply leaned farther away.

❛ C’mon,  Harold.   We’ve got  SO MUCH to  talk about. ❜

Root nearly BOUNCED in her apparent excitement,  her firearm still pointed in a silent threat …  &  Harold understood the command  without her needing to specify further.  She seemed to take notice of the body then,  albeit …  &  BEFORE they departed,  Root discarded Alicia’s lifeless body on the concrete ground bellow,   MUCH to Harold’s disgust.

[fatherofmachine-a]

@chaosveined​ |▸PLOTTED STARTER

❛ Find my name,  &  perhaps I’ll come.  Call it out  &  perhaps I’ll find you.  It might be a fun game.  & you certainly seem the type to try,  the type to try,  the type to try.  Consider it my DARE to you. ❜  

-

Harold had NEVER been very good at backing down from a challenge,  let alone a DARE.  The way she’d crafted the words made it sound like MANY had tried  &  failed  to find the folklore,  the MYTHOLOGY that had been crafted in order to describe who she was—–it took him,  roughly,  about a MONTH,  perhaps a month  &  a half of searching  before he finally found it.  He’d scoured the digital realm for it,  initially,  DESPITE his doubt of it residing there.  When he’d found nothing,  he INSTEAD turned to libraries,  shops,  a museum or two,  all of the places he knew to check when he couldn’t  find what he needed on computers.  

EVENTUALLY,  he did  find it.

It was an ANCIENT scroll,  inked words now faded  written upon fragile,  crinkled papyrus—–it was written ENTIRELY in the runic alphabet.  Albeit,  some  of the runes weren’t as recognizable,  the symbols containing a slight deviation that Harold had never seen before.  Harold WAS NOT overly knowledgeable about Old Norse,  but he could absolutely tell that it was .... STRANGE,  unusual.  

It took days  for him to make ANY kind of sense out of the writing  &  even then,  it was only bits  &  pieces.  Luminescent gaze LINGERED upon a word—–no,  it was a name  &  with this realization,  the pieces came together seamlessly.  Everything he’d learned about her during their ENCOUNTER swarmed the name itself,  blending into it  &  he knew  with absolute certainty that THIS was it.  No other name that he’d even considered  during his search fit,  not like this one.

The next evening,  once he  &  John had finished  with saving another number (  &  while John was engaged with tying up loose ends with Detective Fusco ),  the scroll had caught his eye,  having been CAREFULLY laid out atop his desk.  He’d made a space  for it specifically where it WOULDN’T be disturbed or touched until it was the right moment.  Taking the time to mute  his earpiece so that he COULDN’T be overheard,  he glanced around the room at what he could see without   moving head  &  shoulders.  He seemed to hesitate,  if only for a few seconds.

 ❝ Muninn, ❞

Harold spoke it ALOUD as she’d suggested,  his voice lifting  into the silence around him with an air of confidence.  Remaining seated within his desk chair,  he waited,  listening.

[fatherofmachine-a]

11. Pulling Kuro into Harold’s lap !  And not platonically ;)  @akiyamascn​​ PLATONIC TOUCH MEME !!

The case they’d all FINISHED had been a difficult one ( but, with the rising stakes, weren’t they ALL becoming incredibly difficult—–& more dangerous ?  )  &  along with a few nearly sleepless nights,  Harold was exhausted.  His usual bouts of pain were an unyielding mix of sharp pangs  &  dull,  prickling aches that often felt as though they were ingrained into his very bones ;  all of which had long-since been filtered into background static.  

Harold had decided to recline atop the bed in the safe house after he’d arrived  ( &  after removing his jacket  &  his shoes ),  working on his laptop attempt to distract  him from EARLIER anxieties that still  lingered (  the clack  of keys providing SOME comfort ) .  The sound of landing  &  missing blows,  the GUNSHOTS,  was always  anxiety inducing,  but ... it was WORSE now.   What had developed between himself  &  Kuro was still INCREDIBLY new  &  in the back of his mind,  Harold wondered how  they’d managed it within such a freshly DANGEROUS world.  

The sound of the SECURE door unfastening  &  closing had been the only  indication that anyone else had entered.  After a short time,  Harold felt a familiar  presence lingering close by  &  blue eyes lifted from the screen to settle upon his partner’s hazel.

❛ Hey,  Harold, ❜

Kuro’s voice LIFTED  quietly from where he’d begun to make his way through the doorway to the bedroom  &  already  he seemed to be dressed rather comfortably.  Finally,   they had time to BREATHE,  to allow the pained tension to melt away within ONLY each other’s presence  &  the LONG string of seemingly unending worry finally came to an end,  for now.  Kuro was SAFE  &  not seriously injured,  for the most part,  as he’d approached  (  save for the PAIN likely radiating within his hip from the strain,  which was illustrated by how he moved )  &  Harold felt a sweeping sense of RELIEF.  

 ❝ Hello, ❞

The greeting was QUIET,  soft,  &  as Kuro sank down next to him (  somewhat painfully  )  on the edge of the bed,  Harold winced,  albeit minimally.  After closing the laptop  &  placing it atop the night stand,  he REACHED for him  &  Kuro seemed more  than happy to meet him half way.  The CLOSENESS soothed over Harold’s own now dwindling  anxiety,  noses brushing  &  there was BRIEF hesitation ;  as if Kuro were silently  asking permission.  In reply,  Harold tilted his chin upward slightly in a QUIET encouragement  &  with that,  any hesitation or concern simply melted  away.

The first press of lips was SLOW,  almost careful,  but as one kiss came to an end,  only to be followed by ANOTHER,   the underlying intensity that came as naturally to Kuro as BREATHING became apparent.  His hands lifted so that one rested somewhat delicately against Harold’s cheek whilst the other moved to the back of his neck  &  fingers almost immediately slid through short tresses there.  Harold responded with a quiet,  but no less SHUTTERING,  breath of a sigh against partially scarred lips.  

Fingers curling into the fabric of his partners’ shirt,  Harold TUGGED ;  the pull was gentle,  but no less FIRM  &  he seemed to understand exactly  was it was Harold was asking without needing ANY further explanation.  It took time for them adjust in a way that was COMFORTABLE for the both of them,  but soon enough Kuro’s knees were planted on either side of Harold’s hips  &  feeling  the weight of him was almost BLISSFUL. Sliding his arms around Kuro’s middle,  Harold relaxed  (  as much as he was able,  anyway )  into kisses that he was more than happy to return.