"You let that Machine interact with the real world?"
Harold Finch felt a wave of dizziness as a sharp pain shot up his stiff neck, accompanied by what he could only imagine were the mocking laughs of the screws lodged in his cervical spine. His decision to wear heavy layers during summer now seemed utterly foolish. The heat trapped by his clothing felt like it was choking him, and the pores on his neck stung as if pierced by needles.
I'm suffocating, he thought. Look at this! Things are spiraling out of control!
But even the stifling heat and discomfort paled in comparison to the sheer madness of what Solomon had just admitted.
I'm suffocating, his mind screamed again. The Machine has played you for a fool!
Finch inhaled deeply, letting the sweltering air fill his lungs. He exhaled slowly, regaining some clarity. "H-h-how much can it do?" he stammered. "This is incredibly important!"
There was a monumental difference between the Machine appointing an executor and giving it access to the physical world. An executor could fail, but if the Machine had a body of its own, could it solve all problems independently? If that were the case, Finch feared he might lose any chance of understanding the Machine's true motives. Would that mean the Machine had, in some sense, become truly alive?
It was a deeply philosophical quandary, one that delved into the nature of life and soul. Finch's mind echoed with lines from Macbeth:
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
As Nietzsche and Heidegger waged intellectual warfare in his mind—armed with Thus Spoke Zarathustra and Being and Time, respectively—Finch's thoughts were tinged with an emotion he couldn't quite identify. It felt akin to a parent's complex expectations for their child: the desire for them to grow while dreading the inevitable distance that growth would bring.
He knew how powerful the Machine was. His sense of social responsibility and moral duty overshadowed any other considerations, much like ocean waves foaming white as they crash over a beach, covering the shells buried beneath.
"You don't need to worry too much, Mr. Finch. From my perspective, the body is like a finger to the Machine," Solomon said lazily, licking an ice cream cone. He knocked on his temple, wincing as he realized he'd eaten too much and given himself a headache. Turning to his side, he noticed Lorna making the same pained expression while holding her ice cream.
The park was eerily devoid of stray dogs or scavengers. Solomon chuckled at himself—it was probably the first time he had ever summoned a creature for the sole purpose of dealing with leftover food.
Harold Finch watched as Solomon held out the ice cream toward the shadow under the bench. Something invisible and terrifying began eating the food, bite by bite. The green-haired girl even reached out to pet the unseen entity.
It's some kind of dog, Finch concluded. At least, it behaves like one. Bear eats the same way and licks people's hands in just that manner. Canine differences shouldn't be too vast.
"And I've also placed limits on the body I gave it," Solomon said, pulling Finch's focus back to the conversation. "I'm not building some kind of robot, Finch. Remember my maids? The body I've crafted for the Machine is based on alchemy, augmented with mechanical components to allow it to receive commands remotely. But ultimately, I control it. I can stop it at any time."
"There are cameras here," Finch pointed out cautiously.
"I know, and so does the Machine," Solomon said, wiping both his and Lorna's sticky fingers with wet wipes. His tone remained calm and unhurried. "The body has human-like senses—sight, taste, smell, touch. That's what it wants. It wants to learn these things."
"It wants to become alive," Finch murmured.
"Exactly. You understand now."
"Then why do you need it?" Finch pressed. "You have magic, money, and knowledge. Why…"
"Finch, the world is a bloody massive place," Solomon interrupted, shaking his head as if pitying Finch's limited perspective. "It's really, really big. Humanity isn't alone in this universe. What happened in New York and London? Those were just small-scale invasions. In the future, the wars will be bigger, with more players and higher casualties. Sacrifices are inevitable. The Machine can help me. If I have to fight alone, I won't get anything done. So until it loses its value, I'll ensure its safety."
The tide receded, and the shells on the shore breathed in the salty sea air once more.
Finch let out a long breath. "That's... reassuring," he said, removing his glasses and wiping the sweat off the lenses. "Do you know where Root is? I don't want her to hurt Shaw."
"Root might be a lunatic, but in the Machine's plan, Shaw is critical—just like you and Reese." Solomon leaned back against the bench. "The Machine has detected a threat. But at this point, none of us know what the threat is or where it's coming from."
"Any advice?"
"Not really." Solomon shook his head. "Helping the Machine is already pushing the boundaries of my code of conduct. If my peers knew, I'd be meditating in the Himalayas as punishment. Thankfully, my position affords me some leniency. I'll give the Machine what it needs, but only if it's absolutely necessary."
Finch arched an eyebrow and rose from the bench. "Will you stay here much longer?"
"Why not?" Solomon shrugged.
"I want to shoot a rat!" Lorna exclaimed, seizing the moment to cut in. Solomon nodded approvingly.
"Or maybe a person," he added with a sly grin. "She needs to kill something, and shooting is easier than spear-fighting. I've already summoned the hounds. The hunt is just beginning." Solomon's smile widened. "Besides, I still have someone to recruit."
"Damn it. As much as I admire him, he's seriously rude," Solomon muttered, shaking his foot to dislodge some dried blood. Lorna clung to his arm, her face pale and uneasy.
They hadn't killed anyone—or even a rat. What they walked into was the aftermath of a massacre orchestrated by Frank Castle, the Punisher.
By some miracle—if getting shot twice and living counted as such—Castle had managed to leave the scene in one piece.
Solomon and Lorna had waited until the screams from inside the building subsided before stepping into the decrepit apartment. The hallway reeked of urine and rot, with cheap, oversized speakers blasting distorted music from several open doors.
If not for the child at his side, Solomon might've been mistaken for just another thug crashing a gang hideout. That might have put him directly in Castle's crosshairs.
"You need help, mate," Solomon called out to Castle. The Punisher's black shirt was soaked with blood, clinging to his torso like a second skin. "You look like you're about to drop dead. At least patch yourself up."
"No," Castle spat, his voice bubbling with blood. "Leave. Now. Get the hell out of here."
"We have mutual acquaintances: John Reese, Harold Finch, Nick Fury. I heard you shot Reese in the knee. I'm not here to stop you. I just want to hire you—to train…"
"Whatever."
Castle staggered out without even glancing back, leaving Solomon mid-sentence.
"SHIT! You're not even going to hear my offer?" Solomon yelled down the hallway, but Castle didn't respond.
"He's gone," Lorna said matter-of-factly.
"Fine. Let's go find some rats, then."
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