Kill Process | A Person of Interest Adventure

Glitches

Harold Finch sat alone in his dimly lit underground workshop, the glow of monitors casting pale light on his worn face. He stared at the screen, eyes heavy from exhaustion but alert with concern. Something was wrong—he knew it deep in his bones. Over the past few days, The Machine had been generating strange numbers, cases that made little sense. Finch had spent countless hours running diagnostics, scouring through the code he had built from the ground up. But nothing. No errors, no sign of external tampering. And yet, the glitches persisted.

He rubbed his eyes and leaned back, his thoughts spiraling. "What is happening to you?" he whispered, as if The Machine could hear him, as if it could answer. But there was only silence. Silence and numbers—strings of numbers that weren't adding up. Numbers that, for the first time in a long time, Finch didn't trust.

The familiar sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. John Reese entered the workshop, his tall frame moving with purpose, a mixture of concern and focus on his face. "Finch," Reese began, his voice low but urgent, "We've got a number."

Finch looked up. "Is it another anomaly?"

Reese shook his head, though his expression was uncertain. "It looks like a standard case. But we're not sure. There have been a few... discrepancies."

Finch's heart sank. More glitches. More signs that something was seriously wrong. "What kind of discrepancies?"

Reese hesitated, folding his arms. "The number The Machine gave us—it's for a man named Peter Calloway. Owns a small tech firm. But Shaw and I both noticed that his file came through fragmented, like it was incomplete. Almost like The Machine hesitated before sending it."

"Hesitated?" Finch's mind raced. The Machine didn't hesitate. It was efficient, calculating, a flawless mechanism built to predict threats and prevent crimes. But lately, it seemed... indecisive.

Reese continued. "Shaw's already doing recon, but if The Machine is starting to give us incomplete intel—"

"We could be walking into a trap," Finch finished for him, standing abruptly. His chair scraped against the floor, the sound jarring in the quiet space. "I need to run more diagnostics. Something isn't right."

Reese nodded, his face impassive, but his eyes sharp. "I'll keep Shaw in the loop. We'll handle Calloway, but Finch—" He paused, his gaze heavy with unspoken questions. "Whatever's going on, we need to fix it. Fast."

Finch gave a short nod, though inside he felt anything but confident. "I'll find the problem."

As Reese turned and left, Finch's fingers moved quickly across the keyboard. He accessed the server's deep archives, the endless lines of code that made up The Machine's consciousness. For years, he had safeguarded it, nurtured it, and controlled it. Now, for the first time, it felt like something was slipping beyond his grasp.

The Machine was more than a tool, more than a program. It was an intelligence. He had designed it to think, to learn, to evolve—but never like this. The glitches weren't just technical errors. They were signs of change.

Suddenly, the screen flickered. Finch froze, watching as the familiar green interface shifted, flashing erratically before stabilizing. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a string of numbers appeared—seemingly random but somehow... purposeful.

Harold stared at the numbers, his mind working to interpret them. But no matter how hard he tried, they didn't make sense. They weren't a Social Security number, not a coded message. They were something else. Something new.

He typed frantically, searching for clues, cross-referencing the number against The Machine's databases. But the results came back empty. It was as if the number had no meaning at all. And yet, The Machine had generated it.

"What are you trying to tell me?" Finch murmured, more to himself than anything. He waited, listening to the hum of the servers, hoping for an answer.

Just then, the phone rang—the emergency line. Reese.

"Finch, we've got trouble," Reese's voice came through the line, tense and sharp. "Calloway's not just some innocent tech CEO. He's been building hardware for Samaritan."

Finch's heart skipped a beat. Samaritan. The rival AI, the enemy that sought control through surveillance and domination. If Calloway was working with Samaritan, the stakes had just gotten much higher.

But something wasn't right. Why hadn't The Machine flagged this sooner? Why the hesitation, the incomplete data?

"Get out of there," Finch said quickly. "We can't risk it. The intel isn't reliable—"

"It's too late for that," Reese interrupted. "Shaw's already in. She's going to get eyes on Calloway, but Finch... I think The Machine missed something."

Finch's blood ran cold. If The Machine had missed something critical, the consequences could be catastrophic.

"I'll try to stabilize the system," Finch said, his voice steady despite the panic rising inside him. "But John... be careful."

Reese hung up, and Finch turned back to his screens. The numbers flickered again, more erratic this time. It was as if The Machine was trying to communicate, trying to break through some unseen barrier.

He felt a knot tighten in his chest. Whatever was happening, it was beyond just a glitch. The Machine was changing. And Finch wasn't sure if that was something he could control—or even understand.