Chapter Text
Harold fiddled with his napkin, sitting at the table outside the cafe. It was a nice day, sunny with a light breeze, and the cafe was pleasant with a yellow awning and the smell of fresh bread wafting through its doors, but Harold felt anything but peaceful. He felt cold and stiff, like he’d been turned to stone.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he murmured, quietly enough to be heard by the Machine but not to draw attention, “No one else would understand.” He briefly thought of John, who had been with him for the better part of his journey. But even John would not fully understand everything he had to say, or accept it.
“Not much of a conversation, as you can’t talk back,” Harold mused, “That’s my fault, but I’ve been thinking, and I know you have, too, about how all this plays out.” He chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully. “About what happens next.” He thought back on the simulations. “I’m sure you’ve made a million different versions. I know some very bad things are coming.” Taking a deep breath, he added, “I know I’m probably going to die.”
He paused. It was likely, almost inevitable, that the fight against Samaritan was going to cost Harold his life. “I accepted that a long time ago,” he said, staring blankly at the table. It was true, or at least it had been true. His line of work had always been dangerous, whether he was out in the field or not. And before he’d gotten involved with John, he had been all right with his imminent demise. He was still afraid- of course he was afraid, of death, of the unknown- but he’d made peace with his life. With his decisions.
That was all before John.
The thought of John brought him to his next point. “But I was wondering, if in any of those many versions, the people that I’ve roped into helping me… my friends… whether they get out alive.” He swallowed. “Is that a path? That we’re on?”
He looked up at the security camera on the wall and its blinking red light. He knew he wouldn’t get an answer, but he still waited. As if waiting would make any difference. As if it would change the answer.
After a few moments, he sighed. “I suppose I may have made that impossible. But… if it is… if any of them survive… I wanted to ask.” Harold closed his eyes. “I have to ask, whatever happens… take care of John.” His heart twisted. “Miss Shaw and Miss Groves can take care of each other, but John needs to be looked after. And if I’m not there…” He looked back up and pleaded, “Help him. Please.”
When the waitress approached his table, he wiped his eyes and cleaned his glasses, taking a steadying breath.
“Double shot and a cappuccino,” the waitress said as she set down the cups. With a smile, she added, “Good to see you back.” Harold gazed up at her, confused. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“I’m afraid that you are confusing me with someone else,” Harold replied carefully, “This is the first time I’ve been to this establishment.”
“Oh, sorry,” she said, “it’s just that I thought I recognized your order, too.”
Harold forced a polite grin despite his growing nervousness. “What a coincidence.”
As she walked away, he quickly gathered his things and grabbed a book of matches from the bowl on the table. He suddenly had much on his mind aside from coffee.
He paused briefly when he stood, and looked back at the camera. He could only hope that it would obey his instructions in his absence the way it had when he’d been kidnapped. “Goodbye,” he murmured, “and thank you.”