Fata Morgana
Different. That word glittered in Adam's peripheral vision as pain shot through him, quickly dulled by some unknown fluid in an IV stood next to him. Swimming through sludge, his mind tried trudging on, oblivious to his current bedridden state. All around him was beeping, lights. The former annoyed him, pricking eardrums, the latter its soft glow blinded him, squinting was all he could do. His eyes felt swollen, sore, like he'd been punched.
A testament to him pissing off the wrong person?
Wait...
Vision pawed at him, memory hazy, throwing themselves round in chaotic dance inside his head.
Fusion, a start took him as he gazed into the mirror, full length by David's request.
"Oh god," Adam blinked, new emerald orbs bleary, body weary. He sagged forward, reflex automatic to brace himself again cool glass. The arm he braced himself with was not his. This was not his limb. Not his body. He looked down, frantic, anger fizzling to awkwardness, emotional state all over the place.
Altered? Yes.
Fixed? Not at all.
"Why," Adam cried in his head, afraid to cry it allowed. David's voice resonated in his head. He wasn't sure if the man was even in the room. All he could do was focus on the body the was before him, this abhorrent mass of flesh and metal.
Son, we did this to save your life. I couldn't let you go.
Adam scoffed.
You kept dying Adam, I couldn't stand it.
Adam cried.
"And you think I can stand this? Would I ever have agreed to this?"
David's silence was poignant.
"Thought not," Adam spat.
Horror, that was the word Adam had in his head.
"You violated me. When did I consent to this?"
His visage crumbled, reflection showing skin flaking off, into hands that were still not his. Porcelain shards rained down, splotches white on black, like dandruff. David wasn't there in the mirror, only when he looked over his shoulder. His former boss' human hand found its way onto his shoulder.
"Get the fuck off me."
David drew back. Adam let out an ear-piercing screech as he attempted to turn, grab his arm and twist it.
I knew what I was doing was immoral, abhorrent, I didn't do it with those in mind, however. I began contemplating my actions long before I enacted them. I knew, Adam. Megan gave me her research results. We...
Adam screamed, coughing harshly, throat unused.
"I knew it. She was just like you, didn't care for anyone other than herself. The only thing that mattered was my DNA, and that was fucked up beyond repair. And then you fucked up my body. Why do people screw me over? The fuck did I do to deserve this?"
I did everything, Megan only contributed research. I trusted that, I was the catalyst, not her. You're angry at her for no discernible reason.
"NO REASON? Do you know what she did? She LIED. Every day we dated, every time I looked at her like she was an angel, every time we fucked, she lied. Am I the only one who thinks lying about love is pathetic?"
He scoffed, metal fingers scrunching. He stared at them, one by one, they folded, exactly like a human's would. Why did he need joints and knuckles, unless he were a...
The file...
Adam cried, tears spilling over, sloshing his chest. Salt hit wounds, seizing his form. Hunched over, he could do little to control himself.
"I saw the file. I'm a weapon, aren't I? Your 'Magnum Opus,'" he looked at weaving metal, varying intensities of black signalling muscle, veins, skin, "a brute."
Forgetting this was all in his head, he looked into the reflective material, spluttering spit on it, his form little flesh, almost all metal.
David frowned, looking at his augmented arm.
Weapon? You were security Adam, you were my security, my worker's safety. Military grade, best money could provide.
"Oh please! It wasn't your money. It was investors. You sold me off to the highest bidder. Who the fuck owns me? You only have the leash, David, not the collar." The agent butt in. "Could I die if I strangled myself with it? Could they kill me? This, this isn't okay. I can't."
Saline dripped off his nose. He touched it, his face, from what he could see, perception blurred, was fairly untouched, save for an odd, hexagonal shape above his left eye, ending below his hairline. His hand touched these nodules at the side of his eyes. Darkness took him, for a split second, everything went dark. He tapped the glass, ping strikingly audible.
Shades?
What was he, a 'Man In Black?'
His reflection told him that all he needed was the suit, and he'd be an honourable member...
"One thing," Adam turned, sniffling, snot pooling in his nostrils, "why? Actually why, not some bullshit excuse, like 'You were going to die.' You hacked me apart, and I felt it. I felt my flesh being carved, heard bone being sewn through. I fucking felt it, You chose to keep me alive, despite my body not wanting to be, I wanted to die, that was taken away. My rights are no longer my own. I am exasperated, torn between hitting you, or the mirror. I don't like what I see. Smeared blood, bandages oozing pus, yellowed flesh, swollen eyes, look like I've had the shit kicked out of me."
He faced Sarif's form.
"People I trust harm me, maim me, put me in a corner, expecting me not to fight." Derision graced sad features. "I can't say any of this to you. My head is messed up, everything is scrambled, yet, you just stand there, throwing that damn ball. Throw it to me."
David's knowing Fatherly tone dampened down Adam's anger, abating it, a balm for raw sorrow.
I already did, son. I gave you a chance, a second go at life. It wasn't a choice for you, though, did you really wish to die? Namir took away the woman you loved, the employees you sat with, chatting about everything and nothing. You're heart is in the right place, no matter what happens, you always fight. A corner is only a corner if you back yourself into it.
The man he thought of as a son collapsed before him, convulsing, constricted throat forcing out gasps. Adam, a full blown panic attack charged him, he waved fabric in front of a bull and it flew at his creation, smashing ribs into his lungs.
Vivid thoughts of Adam, spliced open from the viewing window, surgeons gloves brown and red, iodine mixing with life, the very thing leaving the agent as his mentor looked on.
Forgive me?
Why was he questioning his decision? It wasn't made in jest, seconds of thought, this was serious. A move so drastic, conjecture wasn't considered.
If this got out, it would be headline news all over the world. All the money in existence couldn't hide his creation for long.
Why would he hide, when he had Dr Frankenstein and his creature in his grasp?
Adam almost launched himself from his bed from the force of waking up. His eyes attempted to scan the room but his head was foggy. All that greeted him was Freud, sitting on the edge of his bed, head tilted slightly. The puppy kept his distance, tail still, very unlike him. Freud's disposition was happy-go-lucky, yet, now, it looked as if the canine knew something wasn't right.
Back ramrod straight, Adam smoothed down hairs, loud breath hissing in the solemn solitude of his room.
"Hey, little guy. C'mere."
Freud tottered to him. Nuzzling his hand, Adam felt his fur, though, not like he could when his arms were flesh and blood.
The man put on a funny slogan tee and boxers after getting up, considering carnelian vice, a pack of cigarettes conveniently sat beside a glass on his table. Familiar clicking halted his hand, mind closing fingers, telling him to 'stop.' He turned, Freud had followed him, a small pink ball in his mouth. Weariness sat him, the need for comfort, something to focus on had a hand pat the cushion beside him. Grey paws, the sight of fluffy pink ears eased a smile onto the agent's lips. Freud jumped, dropping the ball, nudging it toward him.
Adam smiled, quiet laughter lightening the atmosphere, that light holding potential, and that potential held the beginnings of him moving forward.
His appointment with Grace was in two days. Adam wasn't one for jovial chatting with lattes and friends, he was a loner at heart.
But, he was beginning to regret keeping himself to himself. Sure, some held ill intent, multiple languages, varying insults uttered from loudmouths, believing he hadn't heard them. His ears needed no assistance when someone bullied him. He'd grown used to it, barbs shortened, dulled to the point they were rendered mere pin pricks.
It used to get to him. Why was he deserving of such treatment? He practically heard Grace's voice answering, disapproving but mellow, non-confrontational.
You aren't. You never were. Most bullies project what's happening to them onto others, as they feel powerless. In doing so, they gain a twisted sort of 'power,' creating a victim. There's nothing wrong with being one, but forcing someone to be wrong is unjustifiable. You're as much a victim in so much as people make you. You don't give off obvious victim, its reluctant. To a certain extent, I understand that.
There's a thing, Adam's brain added, Grace hasn't told me much about herself.
Why would she? Its her job to listen, advise, not bombard with her life story, a different, more logical yet decidedly anxious part chimed in.
He snorted, flickers of alien feeling emerging, filling him with abject oddness. A tapping on his thigh, wondering mind, wandering eyes quested to find the source.
Freud, he'd placed a paw on his leg, bubble-gum pink sphere in his mouth dropped into his lap. Whatever the Miniature Schnauzer did made the man crack a grin as wide as possible.
Drink forgotten, glass pushed aside, toxic cravings ignored, Adam picked up the ball, smooth texture reminding him of David's stress ball. Upon the man's name popping up, he expected to feel rage, to jump up, trash his apartment, surroundings destroyed, trinkets scattering...
Freud, running for his life.
No. Not anymore. If I am going to change, I must change my behaviour.
Viewing things through blurred eyes makes you unable to truly see what's all around you.
Grace said that too. Adam, at the time shaking his head, head resting on restless hard palm. Now he thought on it, she was correct. Adam wasn't seeing what she saw, he chose to see through blurred vision.
She didn't. Did she see what the world saw, or what she chose to see?
The woman didn't see him as strange, an outcast. She saw through rose tinted glasses, the anxious part crept back in, gnawing blunt teeth on an ear.
Again, Adam shook his head, the ball squeezed in a hand, thoughts on where to throw it, familiar sounds of an ecstatic hound as he scampered after it.
He threw it onto the carpet in front of the entrance to the kitchen.
Freud failed to make the leap onto the floor, looking at the hand that threw it. He sniffed it, warm, wet breath causing Adam to suck in a breath. Did the pup think he was going to hit him? His hand was raised above granite grey fur.
As he extracted his hand, thin air holding it, Freud head bobbed it, dry nose tickling palm. The man felt that, it actually tickled him. He laughed, squirming, peridot gaze bright, seeing the dog hurtle onto the floor, sprinting for his toy.
Adam learned what he felt, laying down on the couch, no need for a blanket, cushion substitute for a pillow.
Belief, no longer a pipe dream.