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“It’d be nice if we could go back.”
Root takes her hand then. Her hand is cold, Harold likes to keep the safe house a bit cooler than necessary. Or maybe it was the current occupant, the one they bothered saving on May 6th and hid away here. It was a strangely specific thought.
Shaw had stared a bit too long when she arrived at the safe house last week. Elias had been eating a strip steak at the dining table. She wanted to watch his plate shatter on the floor. It would have been a waste of a decent piece of meat, so she accepted his offer of a glass of wine instead. It was sour and bland.
If she went back, perhaps she would choose to appease her desire to hear the sound of breaking china instead. Is that far enough? How far back could she go? Perhaps the simulations had improved her imagination, it was easier than ever to remember dreams.
Perhaps she could go back ten months. Root’s arms are slack by her side. Her own hands grabbed the leather of Root's collar. Part of her is smug, because it's not often someone can take Root by surprise. She wants to see the look on her face, but as soon as she was pulling away the only thing on her mind is the elevator door.
Root has her hand on the back of her head. No. That was the time they kissed in the safe house. No. They never kissed at the safe house. It was the park. Root’s hand trembled taking her hand. Maybe she was cold. It was real, there was no chip. The elevator doors slam shut, and her mouth tastes slightly metallic. Maybe she went overboard with the kiss. Maybe Root deserved it, cause for goodness’ sake the woman wouldn't just let her go.
Several months before that, she could have just left. She’d be sipping wine in Barcelona. It would still be sour and bland. Shaw just didn't like wine. She didn't go. Destroying the vials didn't take all night. Decontamination did. They had to burn their clothes. Root’s hand trembled on the back of her head. She could put on the sweater she left in the spare gun drawer when they were done. It wasn't her drawer, it was for spare guns. Root was also welcome to the guns.
A year before that, she was walking away, and rubbed the bandage around her wrist. Shaw wondered whether Root pulled that speech to Harold out of her ass. Could machines really give parables about hope? She’d tried to drive smoothly, Root was doing a shitty job bandaging herself up. She rubbed her own bandage again. Root had cut the RFID out medieval style. It mostly sucked. Shaw could have done a better job.
How far could she go back? Greenfield was safe, mission accomplished. When her fist met Root’s face, her half second look of surprise was rather satisfying. It was less pathetic than when Shaw shot her in the nuclear facility. Did she miss? When was the last time she didn't shoot to kill? It was unbecoming of an ISA agent. The ISA betrayed her though. She didn't appreciate dying, but understood the underlying decision.
It was her first job with the Activity. She told the dying man that the park wasn't safe at night. What a horrible line. She’d have to work on that. It was the truth though. She hadn't killed a civilian before. She was sure-no- she shouldn't care if there was a reason, he was a traitor.
The park wasn't safe at night. But Root held the back of her head, and her breath was warm on her cheek. There was no chip, it was safe.
She wasn't sure why she chose the Marines, her father was an Army man. Her education qualified her to skip several ranks. She never told anyone at the hospital she was quitting. She just stopped showing up. A man in a suit always showed up to watch them train. George never looked impressed.
How far back could you go? She watches a peculiar scene unfold. Had she read it in a file? Did a taunting Brit tell her? Was it whispered to her in confidence, as a hand closed around hers? A young girl agrees to accept a ride home from the library. The guy’s a perp, Shaw was sure. How would they go about it? She’d shoot out his tires, and Reese would grab the girl. Except, it wasn't a memory. Wasn't a mission. She’d have been twelve back then, Sameen didn't shoot guns yet. Twelve year olds didn't go around shooting out tires.
How far back could she go? She’s eleven, and her father is holding her hand. Everyone is trying to leave the stadium at once. Their team lost, but the hot dog she had was good. Her mother had said that this was the age kids stopped wanting to hold their parents’ hand, it was embarrassing. To Sameen, it was efficient. She’d get trampled by the other football fans, if her father wasn't there to guide her. They get in the car, and the line of cars waiting to exit the parking lot stretched for miles ahead, a sea of red brake lights.
Time doesn't wait. You can't go back. Root is holding her hand. She has new callouses that Shaw doesn't remember, but knows well. H&K USP. She’s welcome to the spare gun drawer. There are men outside. Of course.
“They just don’t quit, do they?”