"You need me!" Root said gleefully, her laughter echoing in the dim, cavernous space. "She told me so."
The AI created by Mr. Finch had chosen Root as its operative, and she had devoted her entire being to the deity lurking in the digital ether. Root referred to the AI as "she," while Solomon called it "it," highlighting their vastly different perceptions of the machine. To the average person, Root's beliefs seemed outright deranged, but they piqued Solomon's curiosity about the code Finch had written.
What kind of technological marvel could create an AI so advanced it bordered on sentience? Even J.A.R.V.I.S., Stark Industries' cutting-edge AI, paled in comparison. And J.A.R.V.I.S. had been developed by the genius Tony Stark—a fact that made it unfair to compare, given how much of Stark's focus was on mechanical engineering. Nonetheless, while Google's AI was still fumbling its way through the digital world, J.A.R.V.I.S. had already achieved independent reasoning far beyond most state-of-the-art AI systems.
"My knowledge of computer science is abysmal," Solomon admitted openly. "I'm only good enough to build municipal-grade websites. The sight of code makes me shed hair out of sheer stress. My doctor says it's psychological. I prefer magic runes over programming scripts any day. Now, let's get moving. Your deity needs servers, and I still need to build it an alchemical body."
"I'll follow her orders," Root said as she trudged alongside Solomon through the rubble-strewn path. Although they were underground, the chill in the air was palpable, and the debris beneath her feet jabbed uncomfortably at her soles. They had left the asylum in such a hurry that they hadn't managed to retrieve any of Root's belongings.
"Dumbness Curse works well," Solomon explained as they navigated the ruins, "but not everyone falls for it. There are always a few stubborn individuals capable of maintaining control."
"Magic," Root said, brushing hair out of her eyes. "It's something she can't analyze. Magic doesn't fit into her logic, just like aliens. She classifies such phenomena as 'unknown threats,' like monsters under the bed. Every now and then, they reach up with cold hands to grab your ankles. You're one of those unknowns, Solomon."
"At least I don't hide under beds grabbing people's ankles. That'd be a low point."
"It's just a metaphor. You should have more literary awareness. Didn't Eton teach you that?" Root's ability to change topics was as sharp as a staircase descent—swift and direct. Before Solomon could protest her jab at his literary education, she had already moved on. "Why can I still receive her signal underground?" she asked. "As far as I can tell, there's no communication network set up here. Are we beneath New York?"
"Geolocation via the network isn't always reliable, but the cables do run from New York," Solomon said, steadying her as they stepped over a collapsed section of reinforced concrete. The crumbled wall had once been adorned with intricate mosaic tiles, their designs now shattered. Flecks of colorful light reflected faintly in the dim glow from afar, shimmering like stars.
Root, momentarily entranced, felt as though gravity had vanished. She imagined the lights as stars shining in an underground sky, tempting her to leap into the abyss below.
Curious, she prodded at the fragmented "stars" with her toes, unconcerned about cutting herself.
"This is beneath Rome," Solomon said. "Not far above us is the Vatican."
"You're quite the gentleman," Root said, snapping out of her reverie. She leapt over the debris and rejoined Solomon on the darkened path.
"Eton's archives are mostly on paper, so your machine can't access them. But I can tell you I was the assistant to a disciplinary master," Solomon remarked casually, though his tone carried the bravado of a pub boast. "Not that I handed out many punishments. The headmaster avoided targeting students with powerful connections. I hated Saturday choir practice the most. That was insufferable."
A silence fell between them, leaving Solomon to dwell on his words. He found the lull awkward, a reminder of his less-than-stellar conversational skills during one-on-one interactions. Unbeknownst to him, Root was too engrossed in the AI's messages to notice.
When they neared the illuminated buildings ahead, Root broke the silence.
It was clear she had received key information from the AI. The machine had likely advised her to learn more about Solomon before fully cooperating with him. Not because it trusted him, but because Root was simply too valuable a tool to lose.
A flock of turkeys waddled across their path, one even pecking at Solomon's boots.
"These are the druids' animals," Solomon explained. "They're part of the druids' training here. And now you've seen my portals in action."
"I'm starting to understand your capabilities," Root said. "Is this global? If so, I'd like to buy some clothes." She tugged at the loose hospital gown she was wearing. "I left all my things back at the asylum."
"No problem. Maya Hansen will assist you. She's your new colleague—I'm sure you know who she is. Once the servers are installed, I'll need your help setting up a fiber-optic network to connect us to the surface." Solomon paused, slightly embarrassed. "This is a personal request. I'll pay you for it."
"Much appreciated," Root replied with a smile. "By the way, Homeland Security has its eyes on you. They've seen your face."
"It doesn't matter," Solomon said with a sly grin. "Magic contracts ensure consequences for breaking terms—immediate ones. Someone's already violated theirs, and I know who. They'll discover my name, but they won't be able to speak it. As for those approaching my apartment… S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra both work quickly, but S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents are better. If I can't have something, neither can they."
Root's smile widened.
The asylum food had left her looking slightly gaunt, but her warm, radiant smile remained. It was an expression that could have charmed anyone—except Solomon, who knew better. Root wasn't just a little unhinged; she was far more deranged than he was.
"You've outplayed those agencies, Solomon," she said. "So, your home's surrounded by agents dying in the line of duty. Doesn't that bother you?"
"You're overestimating my kindness again, Ms. Root."
"How old were you when you first killed someone?" she asked abruptly, her eyes gleaming with mischief. The unexpected question caught Solomon off guard.
"Why ask that?"
"Don't want to say?" Root raised an eyebrow, her tone teasing, as though she were toying with a matchstick ready to ignite.
"Why do you assume I'm an impulsive adolescent?" Solomon frowned. "Testosterone may drive recklessness, but if I couldn't control it, I'd never have mastered magic."
"Really? If you don't mind, I can offer you counseling. I'm a licensed therapist, after all."
"No need. I'm already certified insane."
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