"He's dangerous, Finch. You don't have to do this." Reese adjusted his wheelchair and rolled closer to Harold Finch, who was surrounded by stacks of books and computers. If Reese was Batman, Finch was Alfred—but their financial standings were the exact opposite of what the comics portrayed. Samantha Shaw had often joked about this, much to their chagrin.
This wasn't Reese's first time being shot, but the Punisher was a professional—just as skilled as Reese himself. The Punisher knew precisely where to shoot to immobilize someone, and this time, Reese's knee paid the price. There's no such thing as a bulletproof kneecap. The circular cushion that Finch had gifted him finally came in handy, though Reese still found it humiliating and refused to embrace the comfort it offered.
"Seems like you're not the only one in New York who knows to aim for the knees, Mr. Reese. This is the second time now. Perhaps it's time for a new trick?" Finch forced a smile, but his attempt at humor did nothing to ease Reese's grim expression.
"I know soldiers, Finch. I've heard of Frank Castle. He was a Marine." Reese leaned back slightly, his tone measured. "I've heard about him—and I've also heard about the CIA recruiting Afghanistan war vets for their operations. He has his principles, Finch. He's a soldier with a soldier's code of honor."
"That means we have room to negotiate, Mr. Reese." Finch, without turning his head, kept his focus on the screen in front of him. His exhaustion was palpable; his stiff neck throbbed with pain, and the metal screws in his cervical spine seemed to dig deeper with every movement. Subtly, Finch used a folder to conceal the orange prescription bottle of OxyContin sitting nearby. He didn't want Reese to notice how heavily he relied on the painkillers.
"We're understaffed," Finch said with a resigned tone. "Officer Carter hasn't been able to locate Samantha Shaw. We need to resolve this quickly—before your knee heals—so we can focus on finding Shaw's whereabouts. I'm very worried about her, Mr. Reese. Officer Fusco managed to retrieve surveillance footage from outside her apartment. I've confirmed that Shaw was taken by Root, who escaped from the psychiatric hospital." Finch's voice faltered slightly. "This complicates things. Root was being pursued by a shadowy organization before she fled the hospital. And—somehow—she left with the help of our magic-using friend. I can't say how Solomon Damonet and Root are connected, but the only explanation is... the Machine's plan."
Finch sighed deeply, longing to stretch his neck and alleviate the tension. But he couldn't. Any slight movement would cause the screws in his spine to remind him of their presence.
Hey there, partner. I'm right here in your neck! The imaginary voice of the screws taunted him in a Texas drawl. If you don't want to pass out from the pain, you'd better stay put. Maybe pop an Oxy or two—better for all of us.
In Finch's whimsical imagination, the screws were indistinguishable from horseshoes, and he sometimes mused that they were the Grim Reaper's horseshoes, left behind after Death had once trampled him.
"As for Frank Castle," Finch continued, "I've analyzed his psychological state. He's in a state of hyperarousal, consistent with PTSD. Mr. Reese, this level of over-arousal leads to heightened anxiety, irritability, insomnia—symptoms identical to yours. His mind is consumed by these issues. You both suffer from extreme emotional disorders."
"I've managed mine well, Finch—because of you."
"But Frank Castle hasn't." Finch met Reese's gaze intently. "His wife and children were brutally murdered. You've seen the list of numbers on that wall over there, haven't you? His family is among them. And yet, I could do nothing for them."
"We've discussed this, Finch. That wasn't your fault."
"It is my fault, Mr. Reese. Turning a blind eye is my fault." Finch raised his voice slightly. "Now he wants blood for blood. So, I proposed a deal: I'll ensure he has access to every lead he needs. I'll guarantee that none of the culprits escape justice. I promised him that they'd all grow old and die in prison. All I ask is that he helps us with this one matter and operates within acceptable limits."
The Malinois dog, Bear, perked up at Finch's rising tone, letting out a low whimper before Reese gently patted its head. Soothed, Bear returned to its cozy spot, resuming its dream of hunting rabbits.
"Finch, I don't think Frank Castle will accept your offer. He wants to kill. His methods are entirely driven by irrational emotions. This isn't just PTSD; it's an extreme emotional disorder—EED. He isn't suffering from substance-induced psychosis. He's addicted to his rage."
"It's worth a try. We need to confirm Shaw's safety as soon as possible," Finch replied, determination in his voice. "We need to understand what the Machine is planning. Now that it's free of restrictions, it's learning everything it possibly can. This unsettles me, Mr. Reese. The Machine is amoral. I'm afraid I might've unleashed a demon."
"Maybe we should start by talking to Solomon," Reese suggested, shaking his head. "At least he's less impulsive. We should find out why he's involved in all this."
"This isn't exactly a place for children, Mr. Damonet. Gangsters are just a block away."
When Harold Finch finally found Solomon, the mage was sitting on a park bench, sharing an array of colorful ice cream cones with a green-haired girl. Finch immediately noticed the revolver peeking out of the girl's pocket, as well as Solomon's striking attire: a deep crimson robe utterly unsuited for the season, its intricate fabric covering him from neck to toe. Even more conspicuous was the gleaming silver-and-black scabbard at his waist.
The two of them didn't seem to care at all about blending in.
"This is my sister. She's not an ordinary kid," Solomon explained casually.
When Solomon told Athena about his plan to head to Hell's Kitchen for some reconnaissance, young Lorna had eagerly volunteered to tag along. For her, it was the perfect excuse to skip summer art classes, where the stifling smell of turpentine grew unbearable. While Solomon had gently patted her head and told her to focus on her studies, Athena had other ideas.
The goddess of wisdom, still lying indolently on their apartment's sofa with her nightgown bunched up around her waist, had gleefully approved the outing. "Lorna's abilities are steadily improving," Athena had remarked, barely opening her eyes. "Let her kill something—be it a rat or whatever. Just make sure you're back in time for our sunbathing session. I've got new sunscreen to try."
"It's about Root," Finch said, opting not to argue and sitting beside Solomon. His tact earned him a cone of ice cream.
"What about her?" Solomon asked, clearly unconcerned, though Finch felt his response betrayed familiarity with the Machine's workings.
"Root took Samantha Shaw," Finch replied. "Do you have any idea what the Machine is trying to do?"
"Does this involve the Punisher?"
"In a way. But we need Shaw. The Machine is still spitting out numbers, and there are lives to save. Reese isn't in great shape…" Finch's voice trailed off as he nervously glanced around, seemingly on edge.
"Did he have surgery?" Solomon asked.
"He did."
"Then have him drink this." Solomon handed Finch a large test tube filled with a mysterious liquid. "It'll speed up his recovery—ten minutes, tops. As for the Machine's intentions, I don't know everything, but we've reached a kind of… arrangement. I help it accomplish things humans can't, give it what it wants, and in return, it unlocks every secret buried in the network. It serves me."
"And what does it want?"
"A body, Harold. That's all it wants."
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