Mock exams...
Darren McGrady
Some people hadn't just been saved by Primary Asset n°1. Some people had had their whole life turned around from a grim future because John Reese had intervened, and not just let them go once they weren't in danger anymore. Some people had gained hope, on top of more time to live, thanks to the Machine's first operative.
John Reese had been aware that his fight was a never ending one. Sometimes the Machine wished he could see what had truly become of the lives he had saved.
But because he would never be able to, these people would come to show him, no matter it being too late now, what they had become.
Darren McGrady had slept until eleven a.m., three days after Primary Asset n°1's demise, when the Machine contacted him. He had been rehearsing late the night before with his jazz band.
The young man, just over nineteen years old now, scrambled as he could out of his bed, started to eat breakfast, and turned his computer on to check his e-mails while trying not to choke on a biscotta. His eyes scrolled past the group's news, which he would read later, once he wouldn't be hearing his own trumpet blaring in his head anymore. He read a message from his foster mom, whom he still visited every two weeks, and checked that his order for a new Art of War on Amazon had worked fine.
Eventually he noticed an e-mail from an unknown individual, Ernest Thornhill, which was strange because he kept this address personal.
The young man looked at it nonetheless, and immediately recognized the first date in the e-mail. There was no way he'd ever forget the day Andre Wilcox and his guys had been arrested. His vengeance for Travis' death...
Darren McGrady opened the attached file, and for an instant he was happy to recognize the ronin on the picture. He had hoped to hear about the man more than a few times, always grinning at his own enthusiasm, back then, but he had barely crossed path with him more than thrice. Once, he had just seen in walking down the street and disappear without a sound, the next time the man had been there for his graduation and they had spoken for a dozen of minutes, and the last time, he had seen him, but with a police badge on his belt.
He hoped the ronin, as he still called him in his mind, had found what he looked for.
Then the young man noticed the exact nature of the document on his screen.
He closed his eyes; he'd have to shorten the next rehearsal to be there on time, but John Reese deserved it.