Genetic
Adam could see the end of their relationship long before it reached the point of no return. As much as he'd like to blame it on any one thing—on Megan, on the Mexicantown Massacre, on David Sarif, on his drinking or his smoking, on Kubrick even—there wasn't just one thing. Instead there were many, little, small pieces that added and added over time into a large heaping pile of shit. Maybe some part of Adam recognized the fact that Megan used him—used his DNA, his forgotten history, his trust, his ignorance—or maybe some part of him never could accept how much Megan loved science and her job—and how little she really loved him.
Mechanical, augmented fingers tightened imperceptibly, but enough, that the glass cracked. Adam hastily set it down onto the coffee table before he shattered another household item in the mixture of grief and rage that wanted to swallow him whole. By that point, oh so long ago it felt now, Adam had known Megan for ten whole years. He thought he knew her well enough—he thought he knew her. He hadn't told anyone, before, but he'd even spent a portion of his new, shiny salary under David Sarif to get her a ring. He'd intended—
—it didn't matter anymore; what Adam intended, what Megan intended—none of it mattered anymore. Two years after the bullshit blew up in all of their faces, after Darrow and the kidnapping and the lies—none of it really mattered anymore, did it? Adam ran his fingers over his face and leaned into the couch with a tired sigh. Two years after it all blew up, three after that integral fight that saw Adam with packed bags on the curb, homeless, infuriated, betrayed. Almost twelve years, now, since he met her in that little coffee shop hours before he joined DPD's SWAT team, hours before the job he'd worked so hard to get landed in his lap.
Twelve years…it really seemed like a lifetime ago, didn't it? Twelve years was when it all started—Adam could definitely say twelve years was when his life began to hit the shitter and hit it hard. Not at first, and Megan wasn't necessarily the catalyst there, but it all began to hit home at roughly the same time didn't it? Now here he was, twelve years later, and finally he had more answers than questions and finally—
Adam looked toward the television, toward the information that had been forwarded to his infolink—and then that he streamed remotely onto the screen because having it all in his head, or on the computer, didn't do it justice enough. This was large—large and it deserved to be framed in a way he hadn't let himself—dared to let himself—Adam sighed explosively.
Twelve years, near to the day, he thought bitterly. Almost four years since he'd—and yeah, now, as the world was going to shit, as the world was shit really—now it all came home to roost. After everything now David had—and Pritchard, too, probably with his smug smile as he ripped into the servers and finances and—now it just hit him. Why now?
Sarif didn't have to tell him; what even was the point? At this juncture Adam had so much—Miller and Manderley and MacReady and Alex and the Collective—Janus—and Sarif just sends him all of—all this? Now? After Prague and ARC and all the shit Adam just—just—finished handling Sarif lands this in his lap. This. What was it? What was it, David? Some sort of sick penitence to give him this now? Some—ploy to get him to come back to—Adam had to force himself to breathe because as much as all that happened in Detroit and what led to the Aug Incident held, as much as what Sarif fucked him over with, as much as he'd felt betrayed by the man after everything—and after Megan, after what she did—Adam doubted there was anything truly leading Sarif behind actually enacting what he'd thought had been one of Adam's last wishes.
It had been two years of silence and unfinished business between the two because Adam didn't want to face up and own up to the man he'd—admired, trusted, adored in some respects—aside from the few short conferences between them that focused on his Augs and the shitstorm in Alaska and the pieces of his memory he still didn't have. Aside from platitudes and arguments that burned sick on the back of his tongue—and now this. David had to have known what he'd—he had to have. Adam breathed through his nose and bowed over the edge of the couch.
Maybe it was long overdue, in the end, a face to face between them. There were things Adam needed to say that a conference call wouldn't quite allow him to, and there were things David needed to say back. Adam knew that; and then—well Adam was coming to terms with the fact that as much as he was a machine these days, he was human too and despite his Augs, despite everything—didn't he deserve the chance at what he'd lost? Even if it were minor and small in the grand scheme of things—and hopefully Miller and MacReady wouldn't look at him and—others did it, anyway. Couldn't he, too? Couldn't he—Adam scrubbed his hand through his hair.
He needed to stop dithering on it, Adam grimaced. It was long overdue that he face this—face this part of his past, this part of—everything. He couldn't put it off, and now that he was out of Prague and that mess—not out of the entire mess, of course, because the Illuminati were still out there and there was still Janus to contend with, and of course he was an Aug, these days, and that was synonymous with monster to some people, and yeah TF29 still was working out of Prague too so he was still stuck in the city even if he didn't want to be. Second class citizens, mechanical humans—the legislation and segregation still nipped at his heels, especially here and being what he was, well, Adam could never quite escape it. That was fine. His bed had been made and he'd handle it, like everything else. Still there was a lull and that—that meant everything didn't it? It was time, Adam admitted. It was time and—and he should honestly deal with this now. He needed to. If anyone ever—Adam didn't doubt that David and Pritchard would—but he couldn't trust Megan, and he couldn't deny the risks involved with the Collective, or Miller's bosses, but—well, life wasn't worth living without risk, was it?
With little thought Adam pulled on Miller's contact information, synced his infolink to build a connection. He didn't bother to fully wait for it to snap into place—Miller could be in a meeting for all he knew, but he could start the groundwork for a message.
"Miller?" Adam said, and he knew he sounded like shit because he felt like shit. Having a breakdown as thorough as he'd just gotten through did that to anyone. "I…need to take some personal time." Adam chewed on his lip. "It won't affect my work, you have my word, but it's—private. Personal." Adam huffed a sigh. "Just…if you could get me the clearance for some time off I'd appreciate it. Shouldn't take long anyway." Adam eyed the television screen, and then cut the connection. If Miller wanted more he could contact him, or pull him into the office and they could talk—but Adam would prefer to keep this close to the vest. All anyone really needed to know was that he needed to clear the air about some shit with some people from before Interpol, things he'd been putting off.
God wouldn't Delara like to hear that; Adam, finally dealing with some of the shit he's closed off from the world. Adam snorted and shook his head with a bitter sigh. Oh, well, what did it matter. He needed to pack; he had another trip to London, it looked like. Hopefully this one would be less life threatening.
Harry kicked his feet as he swung back and forth, twisted onto the seat of the Surrey Park swings just enough to actually grasp at the chain, legs crossed around it even as he listed side to side. Another year of crazy adventures at school, another year of pretending he was normal and that the insane bullshit he got dragged into was normal. Another year he spent worrying his lip over it all, worrying if this would be the year the others find out. What would the Wizarding World think of their boy-savior if they really knew? He barely got himself out of getting checked out by Madam Pomfrey this year, after the Chamber and rescuing Ginny.
His arm sparked with pain and Harry grit his teeth. He resolutely didn't look toward the twisted, molten hole he'd received from the Basilisk fang. The Dursley's wouldn't bother to help him, Harry knew that much. He got lucky when he was eight—Harry doubted he'd be so lucky a second time. Harry was just thankful that Dudley's cast-offs hid the worst of it, and no one in Surrey would even spare him a glance. They didn't like him well enough before, and now? After his first year, after coming home to learn about the things he missed, being at Hogwarts—the prejudices that now burned sick in people, how neighbors stared at him like he was going to—no one cared.
It was sheer luck that the Dursley's weren't forced to get rid of him, Harry felt. Given peer pressure and the way the world was they had every right to kick him to the curb. They had every reason to, in fact, and yet somehow Harry remained at their tender care and mercies. Harry remained—and it left him confused and wary. The Dursley's weren't pleased with it, Harry knew. Neither were the neighbors. Freaks like him—they ruined a perfectly good neighborhood. About the only tick in his favor was that he kept to himself, and kept himself hidden. The lot of Surrey could pretend Harry didn't exist, that way, and Harry at least preferred non-existence to the stares and the distrust.
It was funny how people's opinions changed so easily. At first, when Harry was eight and he'd gotten lucky—and he'd gotten this gift—the people of Surrey saw him as something better. They saw him almost like a gift—and it burned the Dursley's fierce to get complimented over their treatment of him; to be acted like they chose to let Harry get—and then, after Hogwarts, after everything that happened almost two years ago now, here Harry sat the bane of Surrey's existence. Now he was the criminal that Surrey didn't believe the Dursley's painted picture of; now everything made sense. Harry bit his lip and tired to focus on just the swing, on the air flowing through his hair, and not on the twinge and spark that came from his bicep.
Harry sighed tiredly and leaned his head against the chain. He let the swing sweat rock him back and forth, back and forth, and let the feel of the metal chain—warmed from the summer heat, but not unbearable yet—dig into his flesh. Harry closed his eyes and lost himself into the motion. He'd long learned to ignore Surrey around him and just bask in the small things like rocking on a swing, the air against his skin, or even the touch of the metal chain.
People where beneath his notice; Harry didn't observe the people of Surrey any more than they liked to admit to his own existence. Not since his first year at Hogwarts, not since the summer after, and because of this Harry didn't see the stranger settle down beside him in the second swing. He didn't even really notice the way the chains rattled or the groan of leather under a weight far more than a child.
"You know," the stranger spoke up, and Harry jerked around in surprise to being addressed—no one in Surrey liked to address him, "that arm of yours—it's, ah, very nicely made." His shoulder protested the sudden movement, the way it ground the innerworkings together, but Harry focused on the stranger who stared down at him with a faint smile that's edges curled with something Harry couldn't name. The stranger looked specifically at his injured arm, peered at his hand with curiosity, and after half-a-second Harry could see the bright golden fingers that weren't flesh and blood fiddle against the hem of a suit-jacket, almost a little—nervous?
Harry blinked, stared at the fingers—and the stranger chuckled.
"I know, I know," he said and rolled his wrists as he did so, catching Harry's attention again so that the teen jerked his head back up to stare at the greying face as the stranger eyed his own hands. "The gold makes them a little gaudy, I've been told. I have to say though I've always had a fondness for pretty things, why not make my hands among that number?"
Harry grimaced; a part of him screamed 'stranger danger' with the flow of pretty words and suave smile. Did this guy even realize how he sounded—and to a teenager?
"Although," the stranger continued into Harry's silence, unperturbed by it, "as nice as the craftsmanship is, I can hear it whine from over here." Harry jerked and cradled his arm away from the stranger, eyes wide. "I take it you injured it, then?" the stranger murmured with a sigh. "You know, son, it's dangerous to let that damage go untreated." The stranger bent over his knees and placed his elbows onto his thighs. "Your parents might be upset you damaged it, but I bet they'd be even more upset you didn't tell them, right?"
Harry's eyes widened and he looked away. The Dursley's would be pissed either way—what did this stranger know? For a moment Harry gnawed on his lip; he could he the man sigh in his not-response. He could hear the man shift back and shove his hands into pockets, but Harry sat there and thought. He couldn't get help for the arm, he'd be fine on his own thank you. It wasn't like he really had parents there anyway. Sure the Dursley's would be pissed it was damaged, but they'd be more pissed if Harry brought it to their attention.
"Come on, kid," the stranger said softly. "You have to know how dangerous it is to leave your arm like that."
Harry curled in on himself. He knew—yeah, he definitely knew, but did he really have a choice? He kept his head ducked low and mumbled, "No one cares, anyway," mostly to himself.
"No one—" the stranger seemed to sputter for a moment, surprised. "Now that just can't be true," he said. "After all your parents got you that arm, didn't they?" Harry curled in further, and for a second the stranger seemed to stare and then—deflate. "Ah. They didn't." Cautiously Harry nodded his head and the older man sighed explosively. When at first he didn't say anything, Harry raised his head to peer back up at the stranger from beneath his fringe.
The stranger was staring at him, lips curled into a frown and face twisted with some emotion Harry rarely put together in regards to himself—concern, it looked like? His brow was furrowed and his fingers toyed with the expensive hem to his jacket and his sleeves almost absentmindedly. Harry wasn't sure what to say—people just didn't come and speak to him, and Augs—one so expensively dressed and expensively maintained? They just didn't come to Surrey anymore. Not since the Incident where neighbors died in screaming bloodshed. The little sleepy neighborhood still hadn't quite recovered.
Still Harry watched, curious, as the older man got up and then down on his knees. Green eyes furrowed down because Harry could tell—that was an expensive suit, now dirtied by the pit of sand and dirt and wood chips that pressed into knees. Carefully augmented hands held out, and Harry's eyes snapped right over to them. He stared at the black and gold that wrapped around like leather gloves, only sleeker and shinier and far more expensive. Harry tilted his eyes back up to the stranger, curious.
"Can I…?" he asked, and reached for Harry's arm. Harry didn't stop him, although he stared and stared and that was probably the wrong thing to do because this was a man with money. He was Harry, orphan boy-savior with an augmented and broken arm, stuck in an unloving household. Freak of the highest order. Still the stranger reached out and gently tugged at the sleeve of Dudley's cast-offs to get a good look at the arm made of metal and painted like flesh.
A part of Harry should probably have been more weirded out, more concerned that some rich stranger Aug off the street wanted to look at his damaged arm, paid such attention to him, but Harry found himself far more confused by the entire mess over concerned. Things like this just didn't happen to Harry, unless it had something to do with the magical world. Even then it was more people falling over themselves, not this—whatever this was.
Gently Harry watched as those golden, gilded hands articulated his fingers, and then rotated his wrist. He listened to the strange hum and tsk to himself in thought, and then gently pushed up his sleeve until he caught the sparking edge of the melted wound on Harry's bicep. For all of a second the stranger stared, and then let the shirt fall down and carefully smoothed it over the damage and gave Harry a worriedly strained smile.
Harry thought he heard the man hiss, "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," under his breath as he got to his feeth and brushed off his knees. He pulled Harry off of the swing and carefully brushed dirt off of Harry's shirt, and then smoothed down his birds nest of hair.
"Alright, kiddo," the man said, and he gave Harry a wide smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "That is some…pretty significant damage. It has to hurt, right?" Cautiously Harry nodded. "Well, how about a deal. Since your…family probably doesn't know, how about I get that fixed up for you?"
Harry frowned. "Why…?"
The stranger sighed and dropped back down to Harry's level. He actually sat in the dirt and shook his head. "Truthfully, kid? You remind me of someone I care a great deal about," he said. "Now Adam, he's a work of art these days. Always was, honestly, but he has this whole deal where he doesn't bother to get things taken care of until—well." The stranger gave a wry smile. "The amount of times I needed to make sure he patched up right? Far too many. And you—!" He gestured up and down Harry. "You're young—a kid! Wounds like that—they can have lasting effects. I don't know about you but—nerve damage?" The stranger tsked and shook his head. "I don't want to even think about what this is doing to the rest of your system, son. So…what do you say?"
"But…why?" Harry questioned. "I'm just…nobody."
"Kid, son," he sighed heavily. "You're not 'nobody,' you see?" Gently, enough to not jostle or damage Harry's arm further, he patted the prosthetic hand. "This is a Sarif model, right?" Carefully Harry nodded. "Which means…hm, London bombing? Four, five years ago? How old are you, son?"
Harry chewed on his lip. "Twelve," he said.
"You were…eight? Nine?" he prompted softly.
"Eight," Harry said with a whisper.
He nodded, slowly, and gave Harry a small smile. This one did reach his eyes. "Did you know, son, that there were only three eight-year olds who got a Sarif model arm prosthesis in the wake of the London bombing?" a second, Harry shook his head. "Two of them were donated," he continued calmly. "Only one required a full shoulder down model and requested a custom flesh-toned job. Sarif models tend to come in black, white, or gold primarily, you know? Flesh tone is…interesting. Memorable." Harry bit his lip and glanced down at his hand, and then over to the strangers. "I know my own work, son," he said softly to the teen. "Let me fix it up for you, hm?"
After a second Harry raised his head to look at—and it took a second before it hit home. He knew the stranger looked familiar, except—he hid his hands. Before he kept the Aug out on display, now it was so subtle and—Harry chewed on his lip.
"Mr. Sarif?" he asked, almost hesitant.
"Hello there, son," David Sarif smiled and lightly poked Harry on the forehead. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
"Oh," Harry mumbled. "I…" He frowned. "Why are you…um, here?"
"I was in the area for business," Sarif said, and climbed to his feet, "when I saw an adorable little boy sitting all lone on the swings, with a gorgeous arm." Gently he led Harry from the playground and toward the car that had been idling on the side of the road.
"Did you—" Harry started, and then paused and cut himself off.
"No," Sarif told him softly. "Not until I got a good look at that arm of yours. What happened to it, son?" Harry ducked his head, embarrassed, and Sarif chuckled. "Ah, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, of course—but you will let me take a look at it? Get it fixed up for you?"
Harry glanced at Sarif, curious and a little worried. He whispered, "Please?" because honestly it hurt and he'd worried about what he'd do with the arm ever since he hurt it. He didn't want to lose his friends because he happened to be an even bigger freak than they ever knew. A part of him just knew if they ever found out, about his arm—he'd be treated like a pariah worse. It had taken work to hide it this far from them, and now damaged? That was practically impossible.
"It'll be my pleasure," Sarif said lightly, with little fanfare, settled Harry into the car.
"So what's the deal about this personal time?"
Adam breathed through his nose and closed his eyes while he felt the airline rumble from the seat.
"No, no, I'm not saying—look, you've definitely earned some vacation time, Jensen, I'm not saying that you haven't. It's just…you're known for going off the reservation. I want to make sure this isn't some personalized vendetta."
He hadn't taken a commercial airline in years; not since Sarif Industries and the start of his constant VTOL flights from Malik, which later turned into VTOL flights with TF29—no, Adam hadn't been on a commercial flight in years. He couldn't say he'd missed them.
"It's not."
"Reassure me."
The cramped space was problem enough for a man with a towering height of six-one. Add in fairly immobile limbs that hid weapons of mass destruction, and the current flavor of distaste for Augs, made the entire space feel even more cramped.
"Sarif contacted me several months back. There's some paperwork mess to handle with the folding of SI assets into Tai Yong Medical."
"Paperwork can be handled remotely. That doesn't tell me why you're planning a trip to London, now."
Of course Adam could have taken up first class; Sarif all but offered to buy him the best ticket he could get. Still the look—not just from the airline and her crew, but from fellow passengers—left a lot to be desired. It was better to just hide himself in the back, cover his augs with gloves and clothes, and maybe stick a decent hat over his head or a pair of normal shades and not his eye-shields.
"You're right. It's not just paperwork. It's personal, Miller. Sarif and I—it's complicated."
"Uncomplicate it."
"…I'd rather not."
Of course flying 'incognito' raised a lot of red flags for people as it was, given that his passport and all of his identification noted down what he was for anyone to see. Whenever Adam tried to be sensitive to humans—as if he wasn't one, anymore—it always seemed to backfire in some way. He either came off as the terrifying ogre that civilians would run from in fear, or he came off as hiding something as a maybe-terrorist. Traveling like this took work that Adam hated these days. He'd been spoiled with VTOL flights.
"He was your employer, surely that's not too hard to uncomplicate?"
"…Sarif was more than that."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
"I thought that—"
"Things changed, Miller. I'm not here to talk about it."
In some ways taking a commercial flight was more attention grabbing for all that it wasn't. Adam didn't doubt that the Illuminati would be just as aware of his actions as they were among TF29, or even when he ran around as Sarif's personal attack dog. Trying to hide his own movements from the ever-illusive group was near impossible—and Adam didn't feel the need to. It wasn't like his heading out to handle personal business really would have garnered much interest, anyway. Not with Megan at VersaLife, and her research, or Brown among the Santau group—or even TF29's movements and actions against them; never mind the fact that they had to focus on swinging votes into their own favor to control any Aug on the streets. Then there was the Collective and Janus to consider, too—no, Adam guessed that maybe they'd be a little to preoccupied to look at his day to day. He hoped. It wasn't like he was that important aside from being a walking weapon, anyway.
"Alright. I was going to approve it anyway. God knows you've earned it."
"Mm. Thanks."
"Just stay the fuck out of trouble, Jensen."
"…no promises."
The biggest issue Adam felt was that his conversation with Miller gave away more things than Adam ever wanted to share. He might trust the bastard, but that didn't mean he worried over how much Miller's bosses ended up hearing from Miller about Adam—or how much got shared as local office gossip. There was still the mole to consider, and the fact that Manderley definitely held ties to the Illuminati, among other little niggling doubts. Yeah Adam found Miller to be an alright sort all things considered—a bit too easily led by the nose, but then who would want to believe their boss could possibly be pulling the strings to fuck you over? Adam found himself in the unique disposition and mindset for just that, but he'd discovered others rarely felt the same.
Of course then Adam talked with Sarif himself about the arranged flight, how long it would take him—so on and so forth. Sarif said Pritchard would pick him up at Heathrow, and for a moment Adam thought he'd heard a kid on the other end of the line, but Sarif carefully derailed those thoughts. Some of the things the man suggested left Adam on edge—his teeth ached from a gnawing worry that wanted to crawl up his synthetically reinforced spine—but Adam couldn't quite get the answers he'd wanted out of Sarif at the time before the plane took off.
Common courtesy dictated that Adam dropped the call and not contact Pritchard until they were landing, by which point it'd be hours later and that gnawing worry would turn into a full blown edged panic. Hopefully Sarif could quell his concerns. He'd hate to find himself falling back into the familiar pattern of grief and rage that had consumed his life for almost three years now. Not when he'd finally, finally, started to pull himself back on track and feel just that bit more human again.
Despite this being his first commercial trip in some time Adam hadn't packed a lot—rather he packed little enough that anyone might've mistaken him off on another job for TF29 if they didn't know that Adam regularly kept little on him. Having gone through the mess first from SWAT, to SI, then Panchaea, Adam long learned that little was more in the end. Settled above the seat in the overhead bin was all he needed—his laptop, some spare clothes, and a few basic toiletries. If he knew Sarif as well as he did Adam doubted he'd need any more than that, so when the plane finally settled down and Adam could disembark—although not without skeptical looks from not just the flight staff but also from the local agents on the ground at Heathrow—he did so with little trouble.
Adam tilted his head toward the grey, London sky and sighed heavily. He latched onto Pritchard's contact with barely a thought and a tiredly murmured, "Pritchard."
"Jensen," Pritchard droned—fuck if Adam hadn't forgotten how much the other man's voice both annoyed and relieved him. Either during the mess of getting out of the facility in Alaska, to Pritchard asking for his help to hack into Santaeu group in Prague on behalf of Sarif, Adam found himself missing and hating the familiar, nasally drawl. "I'm waiting outside."
"You actually came to pick me up?" Adam drawled back, only the slightest bit of incredulity in his tone as he searched out for whatever car Pritchard seemed to be driving now.
"Yes, well, Sarif's busy," Pritchard grumbled, "and it's not like I have anything better to do apparently. Don't get used to it."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Francis," Adam said, and he allowed the faint tint of amusement to run through him at Pritchard's frustrated huff as he found the car. "Fancy ride."
"Blame Sarif," Pritchard grumbled, and the infolink connection snapped shut the minute Adam pulled open the door. "I'd much rather something more practical."
"Really?" Adam arched an eyebrow and let his eye-shields pull away. He eyed Pritchard in a way that he hadn't been able to when in Prague. Video communication only offered so much information, and Adam much preferred pulling his data on the people around him in person. He noted the elevated heart rate and the spike in Pritchard's breathing with concern, but filed it away to be handled or talked about later.
"Yes, really," Pritchard said as Adam pulled the door shut and set his suitcase down at his feet. "And buckle up, damn you. Weren't you a cop?"
Adam huffed a laugh, but complied. There Pritchard was, always fussing about one thing or another, and god if it didn't relax some sort of tension Adam didn't even know he had. He leaned back into the chair and sighed, tiredly.
"Forgot how commercial flights sucked," Adam mumbled.
"Oh boo, hoo," Pritchard said back as he pulled the car into drive. "Welcome to reality, Jensen, not all of us get free VTOL flights whenever we please."
Adam rolled his shoulders. "Wasn't saying I like VTOL any better. Never had a taste for it until Sarif, really."
"Yes and lucky you."
"Doesn't Malik fly you and Sarif around now? Since, you know, you still seem to be working cyber security for him?"
Pritchard narrowed his eyes. "He's a client, Jensen. I told you this."
"Mm, sure, a client." Jensen's lips curled into a pleased sort of smirk. "That you are still assisting."
"Oh shut up." The car turned off onto the freeway and into traffic. "Don't be surprised if Sarif offers you a job," Pritchard added.
"That what happened to you?"
"He's getting lonely," Pritchard grumbled.
Adam turned his head out toward the window and frowned. "I don't need you getting into my personal life, Francis."
"Who said anything about your personal life?" Pritchard snarked back. "Besides, I wouldn't be too surprised if you found yourself considering it."
"I have a job," Adam pointed out tiredly.
"Yes, and wonderful job it is. Glad you're done with that mess in Prague."
"Still in Prague."
Pritchard twisted in his seat, surprised, and Adam arched an eyebrow. "What? I thought they would've pulled you out of that hell hole given their sentiments against Augmented."
"Whole reason why I'm still there," Adam shrugged. "Jobs the job."
Pritchard frowned. He grumbled a, "You would be better off anywhere else," and Adam appreciated the sentiment. He probably would be better off, but Prague was where he was and working for TF29 meant taking steps toward Janus and the Illuminati, both. Steps that needed to be taken.
"How is he?" Adam asked after they lapsed into silence. Pritchard switched lanes and picked up on the gas.
"Like I said," Pritchard sighed. "Lonely." He leaned back into the seat. "I try to do what I can, but…I'm no you, Jensen."
Adam snorted. He mumbled, "Somehow I'm not surprised you got caught up in his charms."
"Oh shut up," Pritchard grumbled back, but Adam picked up the rise of heat toward Pritchard's cheeks and chuckled to himself.
"What about the file he sent me?" Adam asked, and he kept his voice low, brows furrowed. "What can you—"
"I found the kid," Pritchard said and immediately cut off anything Adam had to say. "Was going through old charitable donation shit Sarif got up to before you were hired, found a kid from the London bombing incident in 2025."
Adam frowned and mumbled, "Shit that set off the riots in Detroit."
Pritchard nodded. "Was given an arm to replace the one he'd all but lost in the bombing," Pritchard said, and his voice grew a bit softer as he spoke. "Found the records in a mix of shit that hadn't yet gotten over to Tai Yong Medical. Sarif had me pull it."
"Neuropozyne?" Adam questioned.
"Never needed it," Pritchard said. "No one thought a damn thing of it, at the time, but now…."
"After Megan's research, the attack on Sarif Industries…" Adam sighed and closed his eyes.
"Yeah."
"You certain?"
Pritchard frowned, and said tiredly. "Yes, Jensen. It's him. Paternity test matches." He eyed Adam. "He's definitely your kid."
Adam leaned forward as best he could with the seatbelt and buried his face into his hands. He mumbled, "Fuck," because what else could he say? What else could he add to the mess that was already in front of him, already there? Here he was, hunting down the Illuminati, working for TF29, smack in the middle of Aug terrorist plots and segregation—and now, now was when Sarif finally makes good on that one promise. Now is when Sarif—when Pritchard—and fuck Adam wasn't equipped to deal with this. He was just now finding his footing, just now getting used to everything and—and the gnawing worried fear ever since that night, the truth of the matter; that Megan—
God Adam hadn't dared even hold his breath since the attack on SI, since his augmentation—since Panchaea. What was he supposed to do with a kid? Should he? His life wasn't sunshine and happiness and there was a chance—a risk—
"Fuck," Adam hissed into the quiet, and it summed up everything nicely.
I couldn't think of a title, and this random ass idea popped into my head because Mankind Divided was free on the PSN this month so I decided: why the fuck not? And oh dammit all I'm stuck in in this shit, now, thanks. I have a thing and Deus Ex apparently hits on that thing with a thousand percent. So I've been devouring what I could—and I need to remember to go and comment on some stuff I found that is absolutely divine; apparently this little niche fandom is just—unf.
ANYWAY. I don't know if I'll ever really write more to this or not; it was kind of an idea and *shrugs* if people like it, maybe? But my focus is on the Don't Write Me A Postscript series and I've been a little out of the loop for crossover stories but—well, there were barely any Harry Potter ones, and that's my staple so…I figured why not?
I went through about three ideas for this. One was Adam was actually Harry Potter because that's my go to number one, this one though I settled with because I'm getting a little tired of the Harry = X Character From Other Series trope and decided to just fall in with the child one instead. Besides this seems like a rather interesting idea to run with, so why not?
There are some background shit I didn't touch upon with this story because more that I dove right into Adam's headset. The original point of plan was to dive in after his and Megan's breakup, but apparently Adam had other plans and it turned out to be post Mankind Divided instead. I'm still devouring the media for this series right now so not all of my information is correct, I know. I technically haven't beaten the game—hell I'm not sure how it ends yet to be honest, or if Janus is good or if Miller is secretly part of the Illuminati or what—but I have an idea of where and how it is leading toward things. I mean it's not that hard to pull the plot from the threads, after all….
No, I haven't played Human Revolution, either, although I plan to pick that up for PS3 when I have the funds. Only reason why I have Mankind Divided right now is the free for PSN Plus thing, and by god if I'm not in love with the story. I have no idea about the Deus Ex franchise as a whole aside from Adam Jensen's story—what little I did know was to hear that "Human Revolution" was apparently really hard or something? I vaguely remember that being talked about when they released the Director's Cut. I also remember thinking "oooh, fancy," and wanting to get a copy, but not having the funds. So.
There is hints of Jensif here, because that was a thing, because goddamit I don't know why I like the idea of the pairing. Megan and Adam was a hot mess that neither is still over, really, and they need to get that dealt with. Pritchard and Adam are…it's a weird relationship I'm running with. Their kind of a mix of siblings to Sarif's 'daddy' but also not? And they both apparently now having a thing for Sarif fucking muses. So IDK. Shits happened.
Sarif came off as a creep but he's not, honest. He just…he's really eccentric. Creepy in some ways and secrets and dealing with his own hot mess, but eccentric. Not…predator creepy. Just weird eccentric man in his fifties creepy.
Maybe, some day, I'll feel happy to actually just write the whole shit out—who knows? Now back to enjoying Black Light and getting pissy with the Breach while I work on the next bit of Don't Write Me A Postscript.