gonerunningaway: A green chameleon with a dark brown baby chameleon curled on its horn (Default)
Kelly ([personal profile] gonerunningaway) wrote2013-09-25 06:48 pm

FIC: what unconscious communication one mind may have with another (POI)

Title: what unconscious communication one mind may have with another
Author: [personal profile] subluxate
Fandom: Person of Interest
Characters/Pairings: Root (formerly Samantha Groves)/Vine (formerly Hanna Frey)
Disclaimer: Person of Interest belongs to many wonderful people, none of whom are me. No disrespect to the canon is intended.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 639
Warnings (highlight to view): References to guns and violence.
Author's Notes: Cyberpunk AU. Because apparently that’s what I need to be writing. Probably there will be more of this. Sara, this isn’t the fic you’re looking for. The title is from Selected Stories of Robert Barr, by Robert Barr. Many thanks to for her beta, as well as for graciously allowing me to appropriate Vine.
Summary: Twined ever closer, they can burn the world.

Ever since that day in Texas, the day Hanna died and Vine was born, Root and Vine have entwined. Root grew into Vine, and Vine gets her life from Root. No matter what their current mission might be, no matter if Vine is shooting or Root is sending sly tendrils out through the net, they feel each other.

Root’s the one to find out about it, of course. She spends far more time investigating on the net, sending probes and bogging people down so she can get what she wants, finding the information she needs for that machine, the one she calls glorious; Vine goes out and does in a different way, one that works and protects them, one that protects little girls who don’t have a Root to grow from.

When Vine comes home on this day, she sees Root, typing furiously, looking between all her screens. She has a setup of three: one that’s actually a flat-panel widescreen TV and two flat-panel monitors on either side, all controlled by the same keyboard and mouse. Vine’s computer, when she bothers with it, is a laptop Root picked out, immediately reformatted, and protected completely. Vine has faith that nothing can send up shoots.

The typing in itself is nothing new; if Root wasn’t typing, Vine would be worried. Vine picks up her spray bottle and begins spritzing her ferns. She can harvest the fiddleheads soon.

“There’s a procedure,” Root says, like she’s been speaking the whole time; in her mind, she probably has been, “and we can afford it. It would be perfect for us. No one else could ever even touch us.”

Vine wanders closer, testing soil dampness and making mental notes of which need more heat and light, which should be trimmed, which are ready for their fruit to be picked or to be pulled as early root vegetables. “What?” She keeps the spray bottle well away from Root’s equipment, no matter how near she gets.

Root looks up at her and smiles, the dazzling true one she only gives Vine. “I’ve already set it up,” she says, as though she knows Vine will agree.

Vine will, of course.

She points to her monitor, and Vine bends to read. Neural implant… vision matching… aural links… broadcast on a unique frequency…

“When?” she asks.

They have to have their hair shaved for the procedure, which means they pick a selection of wigs and scarves; they can be whomever they want until their hair grows back. Makeup will take care of what the wigs won’t. Even after they have their own hair at decent lengths, they can tuck it up under the scarves and transform.

They’re in the same operating room, each with her own neurosurgeon, nurses, anesthesiologist, and biocomputer engineer. Before they go under, Vine reaches out, and Root’s fingertips are already there.

In Recovery, Vine’s slow to wake. Despite her lassitude, she can hear the beep of machines, one overlapping another and both just as close to her.

Vine, she hears, a bare hint of worry in the voice. She identifies it after a moment.


She can’t see Root’s smile, but she can feel the way her lips curve up, as though Vine’s own were doing the same. She feels the catheter taped to her hand and the blood pressure cuff around her arm, and she feels another blood pressure cuff on another arm inflating, the tape around another catheter itching.

We’re going to find the Machine, Root sighs happily.

We’re going to take the world, Vine corrects. This time, it’s her lips that curve into a smile.

Vine is Root, and Root is Vine. Not merely source and stalk, twining through life and through the net, not anymore.

Now, they can burn the world.

She can feel just how much Root likes the idea.

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