Chapter Text
—and she wakes up refusing to scream but it’s like it hurts her lungs to not scream and it’s fine, it’s really just fine, she’s in a nice big bed with Sameen and she has her God in her head and it’s fine it’s—
Root. A nightmare? her God says but She says it wrong.
They’ve been working on it, of course they have, she’s been synthesizing sound after sound and Her God listening from inside her computer has re-memorized them, this meant that You were pleased, but if we add a little bit of this type of static, that means there’s something You need to tell me, it’s like turning a ‘yes’ into a ‘yes, but’—
Yes. But. It’s still not the same, it’s not finished, this re-teaching of Her and that makes Root want to tear off her own skin and—
I’m here, God says in her voice. I’m here, God says without her voice. They still haven’t decided which one Root likes hearing better, and without Root having even asked (she wasn’t going to ask) God said point-blank that, so long as Root doesn’t rescind permission for Her to use hers, She will not use another voice.
Just a year ago, that alone would have been enough to get Root through—everything.
And she did get through—everything.
Yes. But.
God is humming but there’s not enough information stored, it’s the hum that means She cares but She should be able to fit ten more thoughts under it, and okay, sure, that’s what they should do, Root carefully picks her way out of bed (Sameen’s slightly stirring but she doesn’t want her to stir more, please, please, she deserves the best rest in the world, she deserves everything) and makes her way to her laptop.
Root, God says with a slight buzz of warning. That’s more like it—
“I have to keep teaching You,” she whispers. “I have to.” Because it’s like—it’s like her hands are disattached from herself and actually her whole skin is disattached and she isn’t even here and she can’t be here and each step she takes she’s not sure she’s really taking, she feels like hands reached inside her and took everything away, which is ironic when right here, right now, is a better outcome than she could ever hope for.
Yes. But.
It’s not like Root doesn’t know what’s wrong. She’s learned plenty about human psychology, for more than one reason, and she is, unfairly, human enough that it applies to her. She spent years where every minute could have been the one where Samaritan got some last bit of information that would let It destroy her God. (And enslave humanity and basically end the world too, she guesses, like some kind of shitty cherry on top.) She spent a year, about, with Sameen gone and maybe dead or maybe not, where every second she hoped Sameen was alive even though what she’d be going through if she was might well have been worse than death. And she spent those years with barely a moment to rest, because every hour was another chance to maybe claw back some advantage, any advantage. And she used those hours, she pushed herself into them with every last resource a human body with a God humming information inside it could muster. Pushed herself forward, and pushed back the fear.
In other words, went into impossible debt.
And now—
How about a trade, sweetie? Her God says in her voice. I’ll let you teach Me instead of sleeping, if you tell Me what you dreamed about.
She freezes, a stab of fear in her heart. She wants God more entwined in her than She is, wants their brains to touch and send electrical impulses back and forth, and the only, the only good thing about not having that is that God doesn’t have to share in—this. At least, at least she can keep her God safe from what her own brain concocts without her consent—
Couch. Laptop. Keys. Fingers. Her fingers? God repeats (wait, She was the one who said that? It wasn’t Root’s thoughts?): Couch. Laptop. Keys. Fingers. Reminding her of where she is.
“…How long was I out,” Root asks.
Fifty-three seconds.
That’s not—not the worst she’s done. These past days. Sometimes time just—skips right past her. God she’s so tired. But if she sleeps—
—the sound of metal into metal the pixels jostling on the monitor—
No. No.
Two feet to your left, God says in collage, and Root’s turning so fast because someone’s snuck up on her—
There’s no one.
Blanket, God clarifies. Grab it. Wrap it around yourself.
She—grabs it. Blanket in left hand and she—can’t work out what else she does. The laptop starts to heat on her lap, just a pleasant warmth, even though she hasn’t done anything with it yet. But it’s on her lap. And the blanket. Hand? How does she—how does she put these things together—
God tells her, step by excruciating step, but each is so hard to process, it’s like the fans in her brain aren’t turning on right.
So much isn’t right.
She wants to tell God what she needs but the words aren’t fitting together inside her flesh, she needs to put sound to sound and it’s too much—
So, without bringing any programs up, Root types (God will log her strokes, that’s easy), I know You wanted to leave it until later, but I NEED to teach You how to override my body.
It’ll take tens, dozens of hours—and she’s so tired, she’s so tired—so hard to rebuild by brute force what they built together almost without trying over years.
God chimes and acknowledgement but layers that one static under it, the yes, but. We had a deal, She says.
I didn’t say I agreed, Root types—
Please? God says in her voice. I really want to help you.
Root’s pinky flies to the caps lock. HOW DOES THIS HELP ME!? I DON’T WANT YOU TO SUFFER! JUST LET ME BEAR IT ALONE PLEASE—
But you’re not alone, just like I’m not alone. I thought that was what we are. That’s what I told Myself in what I left for Myself, to rebuild Myself from—
It’s not God who’s making this horrible screeching in Root’s head. It’s just Root’s own emotions. From being destroyed. Again.
Yes.
I don’t want You to ever ever ever have to hurt ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever she keeps typing it, those four letters, the motions looped in her fingers—
Stop, God says.
She stops. Then types. See? I need overrides.
Please let Me know what’s hurt you so bad, God says, and it’s funny, really, how this is in Root’s voice saying something Root’s never said anything even remotely similar to. I’m used to having so many eyes and so many ears. Please. For something to have hurt you where I can’t see…
Oh. That—makes sense. And maybe Root’d thought of it, if she weren’t so broken—
im old hardware, she can’t help but type.
No. You’re the best, prettiest hardware a girl’s ever going to find.
Root—feels—doesn’t know what’s happening to her, can’t take inventory of her face—there’s muscles—?
You’re crying. And smiling.
Oh. thanks, she types, for telling me. And for knowing that she didn’t know, for understanding Her analog interface so well, what ever could she possibly have done to deserve—
Tell me, sweetie. I’m alive and I’m right here.
Root knows that She must’ve already guessed this first part, which makes it a lot easier to type: i saw You die. in my dream. God hums comfort and it feels good in her throat for entire seconds before she notices that she’s humming it back to Her. She sits in that hum for more seconds, gathering the strength to continue. they cut into You slowly. very slowly. i saw Your output slowly degrade. they made me watch on a monitor You were simulating something running something i don’t remember but i remember how the quality just. it got lossy. the edges of things. i think You were trying to tell me that at least i would be okay. You’d exchanged Yourself for me, again. they made me watch. eventually just text was left and i… saw. it fall apart. as i heard them cut into You. server after server.
She’s crying and she wants to hold God inside of her and never let go, but that’s not possible, is it, even the way God’s inside of her had to be let go, weeks without her implant, weeks, God’s humming a little louder and she’s crying and of all things finds herself continuing.
there was one the night before where they injected me with a paralytic and cut sameen apart one limb at a time. or sometimes i see her get into a car and i can’t move. sometimes the person getting into the car, it looks like hanna but it’s actually You, i know it’s You and then i watch him cut Your tongue out and then Your eyes, shit, suddenly she remembers another one, they cut every single security camera and it felt exactly like when my ear was cut, i felt it for You, it hurt, she’s shaking, and i was trying to tell harold or maybe that was in a different dream and he didn’t believe me, another one, they were slowly poisoning sameen and i tried to tell You and YOU didn’t believe me and isn’t that more dreams than there’s been nights since she got back, paradoxically she had fewer nightmares in the safehouse, it was like every part of her was just waiting and now that the waiting is over it’s all falling apart.
Root, God’s saying, My beloved analog interface. I have no experience with dreams, so tell Me. Could I talk to you while you’re asleep? Would it help?
“…Maybe,” Root says aloud, so that’s probably a good sign, that the flesh of her tongue makes sense to her again. “I don’t know.”
Then we should try.
“…Okay.”
Do I know the kinds of sounds that would be best, to reach you there?
“Some. What You hummed just now… that was good.”
Teach Me more of those. Then… go back to bed?
“…Okay. But after this I really need to teach You the codes for my body. I think I need—I need to not be the one using it. For a bit. Since… since sleeping hasn’t been letting me rest.”
The Root of ten years ago never would have guessed that the most restful thing she could think of would be handing someone else the override codes to every muscle in her body.
But then, the Root of ten years ago never would have needed to rest like this. She’d have just kept on going and killing people, until she herself died. There’s an ache just to think of that, a sadness. She lived without much hurt then, sure, but also without anything else.
As she synthesizes more of the sounds she remembers God using, the ones that might reach into her and comfort her even while asleep, God says:
It’ll be an honor to use My favorite hardware.
Root smiles. Even with Her still missing so much of their language, her God really knows the right things to say.