Chapter Text
The noodles had congealed from their hours in the fridge and formed a greasy lump in the bottom of the take-out box. As he slid them over the window shutter that currently served as a coffee table (propped up on cinder blocks pilfered from an abandoned building site), Frank saw the brief flit of disgust that crossed Sarif's mouth. The plastic fork dug in, swirled around while Sarif stared at the contents as though the noodles were the tentacles of a live octopus instead.
After a mouthful, Sarif swallowed, sighed, put the noodles down and fixed him with that not-quite-ex-boss stare, elbows on knees and hands threaded together. With a pressed suit and leather shoes, Sarif couldn't get further away from sticking out in this part of town. "Frank, I paid you well for the Palisade job – damn well. So what the hell're you still doing here?"
"In this house?" If it could still be called that. Half the buildings on the block – half the buildings in Detroit – had been gutted by fire after the Incident, the other half swarming with squatters or rats, or looted by the gangs that swept through, unchecked, like packs of feral dogs. His security measures only worked for so long in every place he moved to, but there were plenty to go around. Any optimist would probably have pointed out that, technically, there was no longer a housing crisis.
"In Detroit."
His own noodles he stirred with a spoon. You had to sacrifice some things for guests, especially when the guest offered you high-paying jobs from time to time. "Why would I leave? I like this city. I know this city. I don't see any reason to pull up sticks."
"What, with what I pay you? Frank, you could go anywhere – London, Shanghai, I bet even Washington would kill to have you.” Sarif's fancy gold waistcoat caught the dim solar lights, flashed when that augmented arm gestured. “Or you could go home, like Athene did. New Hampshire, right?"
The sneer unfolded before he could rein it in. "Yes, I could go back to the farm , where I'm constantly a disappointment and apparently the only person in the state who won't wring a chicken's neck." The instant surge of adrenaline abated by degrees. He'd fled when he was seventeen with just a pair of clothes and a laptop, his family's curses hurled at his back, the chicken still alive and pecking around the yard. Never looked back.
He stood from the sagging armchair he'd liberated from a mound of trash in a square of wasteland that once held a swing set and roundabout. Sarif's eyes followed him to the window, dark and vulpine.
Outside, the orange glow of the city ate all the stars. Smog hovered in a parody of clouds – those off the grid had to rely on old-fashioned fires to get them through the Detroit winters. Not a single snowflake had touched the city since 2024, but that didn't mean cold itself was a thing of the past.
And the dark, dead blocks of the Sarif Industry offices towered over everything.
“This city's finished , Frank,” Sarif said behind him. “Now I hate it as much as you do - but it's just a matter of time now, son. Even those fancy penthouses on the river are getting abandoned. No one wants to stick around. Kinda a poisoned chalice for Tai Yong, huh?” An angry, bitter bark of laughter. “Serves those bastards right.”
“The more places are abandoned, the easier I can move around.” When he turned, Sarif's eyes were on the crumbling ceiling, the dusty panelled lights. “There's an art to it. And since there's only the one of me, I have no problem dodging the gangs.”
“So this is gonna be the rest of your life now?” Sarif's eyebrows couldn't get any higher, surely. “You're still gonna be holed up here in five years? Ten? Jesus, Frank, there'll be nothing left by then!” A hand ran through Sarif's hair, but beneath the desperation was a sly undertone, a flick of eyes and pull of mouth. “That's no kind of life, son, you understand that, right?”
They were getting closer to the truth, closer to the reason why Sarif had appeared out of the blue on what remained of the doorstep. Could never just get straight to the point, always had to test and push, like a piranha taking little nips out of its prey to make sure it wasn't going to fight back before stripping it to the bone.
He leaned against the windowsill, arms folded. “Regardless, this is my life now. It would take something very special to make me leave.”
The words stretched into a long silence that broke with Sarif's sigh. He knew that sigh well – that poor, put-upon noise made when he and Adam's arguments spilled out of their offices, or Malik complained that he'd broken ( upgraded ) her VTOL security system. The 'why are you doing this to me?' sigh.
“Guess I shouldn't beat around the bush any longer. Frank, I want you back at Sarif Industries.”
Well, that wasn't quite the direction he expected. He felt around the edge of his next words softly, carefully. “There isn't a Sarif Industries any more.”
“Yeah, guess I can't really call it that. Jesus, Tai Yong really took it all – the name, the patents, the contracts... They can't take what's up here, though.” Sarif put finger to temple, eyes hard. “I've still got ideas, Frank. Plenty of 'em. Dream's not dead yet, I'm starting it back up. It might not be called Sarif Industries... but essentially it'll be the same thing. And I want you there with me.”
Pity flashed, nostalgia in its wake. For a moment, Sarif was just an old man whose company, built from that brilliant combination of imagination and determination, had bowed to a rival while he lay helpless in a coma. There had been good times at SI, too many to count on one hand: when he'd stayed up for forty hours once with Malik, hunting some idiot who'd tried to hack into the VTOL systems, eating pizza and drinking coffee and steadily growing giddy as the sleep deprivation set in. When he'd first been hired and the shock of having an office – his own office – set in.
And, of course, any moment he'd spent sparring with Adam, and the evolution of those actions.
He'd had people who cared enough about him to bring him coffee in the morning, who asked him to dance at Christmas parties. Who thanked him for fixing their abused and virus-riddled computers with genuine sincerity. What did he have now? Was he really going to still be here in ten years?
Sarif leapt on whatever flicker crossed his face. “We'll go further than we did before, Frank! We're going to improve humanity forever, without worrying about this damn Human Restoration Act they're going to pass. I've already got access to a facility, labs, everything we had at Sarif Industries and more - even a Neuropozyne production plant! There'll be nothing holding us back this time, son. Nothing.”
“And you want me to be there on your grand mission to save the world from itself? The head of cybersecurity for your Ark?” He hadn't meant to sound so dismissive, but Sarif's smile came as a tolerant flash of teeth.
“Of course, Frank. You're the best.”
Ruffled feathers smoothed. He found himself staring at the dirty, scuffed carpet at Sarif's feet, an unconscious and sudden submission. Snagged, and Sarif damn well knew it. Maybe if he'd had that kind of encouragement years ago he would have broken the chicken's neck without a second thought. “And if I say yes, I'll have my own tech lab again?”
“Son, you can have an entire damn floor to yourself if that's what you want. If there's one thing Rabi'ah's got, it's space.”
Rabi'ah. The future home of all Augs. Stick them out in the middle of the desert, wall them off from the world. Keep the non-augmented people safe . They didn't call it a ghetto or a camp like the Utulek Complex, but dressed it up as a community , a city . “I'm not sure the heat will agree with me.”
“Ah, come on, Frank!” Frustration overflowed, tumbled words from Sarif's mouth. “Quit giving me this bullshit – we both you you want this, we both know you don't have a lot of choices left. Just say yes, that's all I want! Say yes, and things... things'll go back to the way they used to be.”
Maybe. Or at least, close enough.
He took a deep breath through his nose. Sarif stared, expression frozen in expectation.
A nod, and he held out his hand. “Fine. Yes. I accept.”
Warm black metal fingers touched his. Sarif's smile could power the solar lights for several years. “You're not gonna regret this, Frank – I've got so many ideas, so many plans! Already hooked us a couple of contracts for the future – oh, and wait 'til you hear about the new Aries series we've been working on. Full-body augmentations.” Sarif released him, ran a hand through streaked silver hair. “Okay, gotta calm down. Getting too far ahead of myself. I'll getcha up to speed soon enough.” The smile dropped, and what he used to call Sarif's 'resting Work Face' – furrowed brows, lips a serious line – formed so fast he didn't have time to blink. “There's just one thing we need to take care of first.”
Well, shit, he should have seen this coming. Must be getting old. What a depressing thought. “And what's that?”
“I need you to go to Prague.”
Prague. Adam was in Prague, stalking somewhere under the streetlights, probably still playing the hero, the dark and broody Aug who couldn't smile if his life depended on it. Adam, who'd stood with him on the Rialto's rotting roof a year ago, looked out over the dwindling Detroit skyline. You should sleep, he'd said, with his eyes on the corpse of Sarif Industries. Adam had taken a drag of cigarette, the city lights tiny pinpricks in those black eye shields.
I've slept long enough.
He shook himself back from the edge of the roof. Back from the memory of what he should have said, should have done. “Prague? Why Prague? Rabi'ah's in the desert.”
Sarif slumped back into the couch, waved at him to do the same in his chair. Strictly speaking this wasn't his house, but the resentment still pricked. Still, he was an employee now. Back on the corporate leash. He sat like a good boy.
“I'm gonna be straight with you here, Frank – there's another reason I needed to track you down. I want people I trust with me on this, and I want people I know. You fit the bill for the cybersecurity side, but... I need more of our people back. Think you can help me out?”
It was absurdly easy to grasp the meaning. “You want me to track down Adam.”
“And Faridah, if you can. But Adam's the priority here.”
“I don't do field missions –”
“He doesn't trust me any more, not yet, but you... Well, you were the first guy he ran to when he broke out of Alaska, weren't you? Didn't come to me ... decided to go straight to the person he thought wouldn't screw him over. He was right, wasn't he?”
“You have this wrong, David.” His voice barely shook against the cold slither through his stomach. “He hates me.”
“I didn't say anything about liking or hating . Just that he trusts you, for whatever reason he has.”
“You're asking me to break that trust, to hunt him down when he doesn't want to see you?” The ice grew thinner every moment he stood on it – the cracks stretching from under his feet. How much could he push before it broke completely?
Sarif's stare matched the ice for warmth. “Consider it your first job at the new Sarif Industries. For Christ's sake, Frank, if he doesn't come back he's going to end up rounded up and shipped to some camp anyway – and that's the best-case scenario. He won't go quietly, we both know that. This is what's best for him. We're what's best for him. If you want things to go back to the way they used to be, this is the first step.”
Augs yanked around on poles that made him think of dog-catchers, their protests and wailing drowned out among the furiously jubilant cries of that ever-odious judge, the general public. Bio-scanners ferreted out those with concealed augmentations. He watched from the windows of the lobby, his back to those packing up their offices into boxes.
And they could go back to a time before all that. Back to work. Adam would be pissed, at first, but when wasn't he? The idiot would probably be happier alive than dead.
“All right.” His mouth answered ahead of his brain, and the yank in his stomach curled downwards. “Fine, I'll do it. When do I leave?”
“This is an ASAP mission.” Sarif stood, smile wolfish now, showing teeth. “Got digital papers for you to show over there – Czech cops are all the place, checking everyone. Last think I want is for you to end up at the Utulek complex.” The smile disappeared under a frown. “Find him, Frank. Call me when you do. We’ll get him back.”
Adrenaline wasn’t his friend. He hid the hand that trembled behind his back. “All right. Just give me some time, I need to buy a plane ticket first -”
“Already covered. I know you, Frank.” The smile was all wolf, but the gaze was a snake, intense on his face. He fought the sudden urge to shrink from it.
“When do I leave?”
“Two hours. Hope you’re quick at packing.”
------
Director Miller sat in plain sight at the outdoor café table, dressed like a local, drinking coffee like a local, and reading an old book like a pretentious tourist. The face matched the file he’d dragged from the web – older, grey-haired, but with eyes that missed nothing under the frosty Prague sky. Every couple of minutes, those eyes would fix on a point on the page, and Miller’s lips would move, very slightly. To anyone else’s casual glance, the pretentious tourist-local had found an intriguing sentence that repeated from his brain to his lips.
From his own vantagepoint – an alley opposite that smelled faintly of piss and strongly of rotting garbage – Miller gave orders to an invisible team.
If the Director was as smart as he thought, there’d be a close combat force nearby, ready to swoop in, guns drawn, if he so much as glared at Miller. A sniper (or two) on the roofs or at windows who would train their guns on him the moment he stepped into the open. And maybe an agent in the cafe itself. Maybe Adam.
The server, a pretty woman with a dark bob of hair, brought out another tall glass of coffee, set it at the place opposite Miller, who nodded her away. A piece of cheese in the middle of the mousetrap. Another minute ticked by. Miller leaned back in his chair and closed the book. Shoulders heaved in a sigh. Then that head swivelled, owl-like, towards his hiding place. Those eyes caught him, snatched him in the shadow and narrowed, along with a tilt of Miller’s head. The question was obvious. Well?
He let the shadows slide behind him, picked his way across ancient cobbles and over far less ancient flyers and newspaper pages. Scents replaced each other – coffee and pastries met him halfway and the alley smells withdrew. All around came the background noise of cars, people talking, and faint techno music piped from the electronics store further down the street. All very cosy and non-threatening.
Miller’s gaze never left him as he approached the table and took the chair without a word. Adam had the same unnerving habit sometimes – it left the target feeling very much like a prey animal facing a hungry carnivore – something he suspected was essential to those a little higher in the military heirarchy. Crow’s feet crinkled Miller’s eyes into a hard stare, one probably used to make unruly employees quake in their boots.
“Francis Pritchard.”
“Director Miller.”
He took in the details missed by distance – the bulk of body armour under Miller’s black shirt, the intentional peek of holster under the long wollen coat. The merciless blue of those eyes. One wrong move, and he’d be dead three times over. And the most dangerous thing in his own pocket was an expired energy bar. Excellent.
Miller took a sip of coffee too casually. “You’re not what I was expecting.”
“Then you have bad intel. I’m not surprised.”
The coffee mug banged against the table as Miller set it down. “Nothing wrong with our intel. I expected Sarif to send someone a little more… more.” Australian twang wrapped around the words, barbed, but oddly charming. “Someone like Jensen. You’re just cybersecurity, aren’t you? Glorified IT support?”
A prod, expert in its execution, designed to annoy, to throw him off. He wrapped his hands around the coffee glass, but didn’t drink. “If you like, Director. I’m very good at it, though.”
“You armed?” Winter eyes passed over his shirt. “My intuition says you’re not, but you’d better tell me if you are. You didn’t declare anything at the airport, but if you picked something up since then –”
“No. No guns or grenades. Or bombs. If you think Sarif set up this meeting with the intention of an assassination –”
“Knives?”
Miller certainly was taking this seriously. “I like to think the sharpest tool I have is my wits.”
A sceptical grunt. Miller’s body relaxed as much as a military man’s could. “Yeah? We’ll see. So, I’m not too happy that I got a call from my boss, telling me that your boss had pulled some strings for a meeting, but couldn’t be arsed to come himself.”
“What a coincidence; neither am I.” The coffee seemed unassuming – tempting even – but…
“I know what Sarif wants, it’s the same thing Dynacore and those sleazy bastards at Tai Yong want. The personal protection agencies, every rich little diplomat who’s got the itch for a new bodyguard – after London, I’m fending them off with a bat.” Miller waved a hand, dismissive. “Everyone wants Adam Jensen. Oh, just fucking drink that, would you?”
He shrugged, then sniffed at the scud of milk foam, narrowed one eye and examined the glass from all sides. The heat of Miller’s glare stretched across the table. “I don’t usually accept drinks from strangers, as a rule. Better to be safe than sorry. Who knows what’s in this, something to shut me up for good?”
Gloved fingers tapped on the table. The mug rattled. “I don’t have to kill you; I can send Sarif a decent message by knocking you out with a sedative. You’ll wake up a long way from home – and, more importantly, a long way from me .”
“We can hope. But why risk annoying the bosses, eh?” He raised the glass to Miller, and drained half of it in one go. After months of cheap instant blends, the taste hit all his dopamine receptors with a sledgehammer. A satisfied noise burst from his throat before he could stop it. Another mouthful, then another.
Miller’s lips pinched together, and the squint softened to a frown. “If you want another, you’ll have to pay for it yourself.”
“Fine.” He couldn’t help one more sip. “So, Director, where is Jensen, anyway? Inside? Or on the other end of a scope?” He studied the crowd of rooftops, but nothing moved except a flock of pigeons scattered by a police drone.
Two women wandered behind his chair and took a nearby table. They held hands, voices a low burble of Czech. Miller ignored them, expression carved back into stone. “I’m not telling you a damn thing about where he is. Sarif can’t just snap his fingers and expect Jensen to come bounding back. He’s not a Sarif Industries employee anymore. And from the looks of the other employees, I’d say it’s a damn good thing, too.”
“Then forget about Sarif.” It took effort, but he placed the glass back down on the table. “Say I was asking as a friend.”
“ Are you a friend?”
“Yes!” The snap meant he’d lost this verbal pounce, but it didn’t feel that important now. “I’ve been his friend for years! I’ve helped him out more times than I can remember, and that he’ll admit!” The two women glanced over, then quickly away. “He’d tell you the same. Forget Sarif, I just… want to talk to him. Please,” he spread his hands on the table and leaned forward, Miller’s eyes on his face, “I tried to get in contact and it’s like he’s… gone. I won’t mention anything about him coming back to Detroit. I just want to talk to him.”
Miller leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. The silence dragged for long seconds. He sat perfectly still, awaiting judgement. After a while, Miller’s lips quirked into a half-smile. “So that’s why Sarif sent you. Maybe he’s a little further ahead of the game than we thought.”
“I’m not interested in playing games.” He drained the coffee down to the dregs. “And I’m not interested in corporate gossip, either. Can’t you at least give Jensen the choice?”
“A member of my team removed some interesting software grafted into one of Jensen’s augs. The…” Miller’s head tilted to the tinny buzz of the earpiece, “GPL tracker? Apparently it prevented some overrides. Real intrusive stuff – illegal now, of course. I’m assuming that was your work?” The smile turned bitter. “So, Francis Pritchard, how much choice have you ever given him?”
Not only did the truth hurt, it humiliated too. He closed his eyes, willed the heat in his cheeks down. When he opened them again, Miller looked far too pleased with himself. A deep breath, and he stared at his glass, head down. “Sarif – ”
“Hasn’t been in the picture for a while. Bet you could have taken it off at any time, right? Someone as smart as you?” Miller leaned forward again, forearms crossed and elbows on the table. Like a damn police interrogation. “I don’t appreciate dirty tech in my HQ, especially when it comes to tracking software. Now, I could have had you arrested the moment you stepped off that plane, but you’re really not worth the paperwork. And I’ll be damned if I’m letting you set one foot inside my building.”
Anger roared like a furnace. Several more deep breaths doused it down to embers. When he unclenched his fingers, the blood rushed back in little pinpricks. Without more coffee to punctuate, he rocked the glass on its end, just so his hands occupied themselves with something. “You care about him, I understand. But so do I, Director.”
“There’s very little you seem to understand about this.”
“Someone as smart as me can always learn.”
The server appeared at the women’s table, took their orders on a small notepad, and then made her way back to theirs. She cleared away the empty mug and glass, and spoke in Czech. Sounded like a question. Miller gestured with a hand. “She wants to know if you want another one.”
Even the basics of Czech eluded him. He replaced ‘obviously’ with a smile and a nod. She turned back to Miller, her hair tugged by a faint breeze, who rattled off some sentences too fast to follow. A quick scribble and she turned, made her way back into the café. Miller’s stare went to the buildings opposite the café, drifted. Somewhere else, reliving a memory. He did nothing to draw attention back to himself, kept his head down and watched from the corner of his eye.
When Miller came back with a blink and a shake of head that made him think of a tired lion, he made sure to keep his face blank. Miller took a breath, blew it out as a sigh. “He saved my life in London. He made a choice, one he… never should have had to make. It was the wrong choice, but I’m glad he made it all the same. D’you know why he did it?”
He shrugged. “That’s just what he does. He sneaks through vents and knocks out hostiles and saves people.”
“Exactly.” Too late, he saw the jaws of the trap close; too late to dance out of it. “It’s what he does. So why the fuck ,” Miller leaned so far across the table they could have kissed if he bent his head forward, “would he ever go back to being Sarif’s guard dog when he knows that he can save people here?”
It was a fair question. “If you care about him that much, you’d give him the choice. Look, Director,” he spead a hand on the table when Miller opened his mouth, “both you and I know that Adam won’t be made to do anything he doesn’t want to do. If you’re so sure about his views, what’s the harm in letting me at least talk to him?”
Miller’s glare could have melted ice.
Distraction arrived in the form of the server. She set the glass down in front of him, the mug in front of Miller, and waited, shifting from foot to foot, until they’d transferred the required amount of credits. When she hurried off again, Miller’s laser-gaze had chilled down to lukewarm. Coffee-etiquette gave a moment of respite while they drank. The two women sipped their own drinks, eyes on each other. An older man stepped from the cafe and perched at a table near the window, a yellowed newspaper between knotted hands. Maybe that was Miller’s man. Maybe the women were Miller’s women.
“I can’t help but feel sorry for you.”
The mouthful of coffee scalded as it rushed down his throat. He spluttered through the pain until his vocal cords recovered. “What?”
“Well, Sarif hasn’t just wasted my time on this, has he? If I were you, I’d call him up and give him an earful. After you get back on the plane, of course.”
He took the next sip of coffee slowly. “Ah. I get it. You think that after this I’m just going to pack my bags and head back home? I’m sorry, Director. Not without talking to Adam first.”
Miller’s eyebrows raised, disbelief and amusement rolled into one. “I don’t have to have a reason to detain you. You know that, don’t you? You’re really not worried?” When he shook his head, Miller sighed. Gloved fingers pulled through short grey hair. “You’re either brave, mad, or a fucked-up mix of both.”
“There’s nothing up my sleeves, Director.”
“I find that hard to believe.” But Miller’s head tilted, eyes narrowed in something other than anger or disgust this time. Considering, sizing him up, searching. After another mutual sip of coffee, Miller glanced around the street before taking a deep, sharp inhale. “He’s not even here.”
Shit. “In the country? This city?”
“He’s on a mission. That’s all you’re getting.”
“But -”
Miller stood, drained the rest of the coffee in one gulp. Upright, the bulge of gun was more obvious. The book slipped into a pocket. “Don’t be greedy.”
“Greedy?” A thread of rekindled anger crept in. “He could be… anywhere! You just made my job ten times harder!”
“Yes, I did.” Satisfaction unwound in Miller’s voice. “And if you even think about hacking into our systems to find him, I will personally drag you out of whatever rathole you’re hiding in, escort you back to the States, and throw you in Pent House myself. You can be an expensive lesson for Sarif. Now,” Miller moved around to his side of the table in two steps, stood over him, pressed a heavy hand on his shoulder and leaned down, as though about to whisper some secret in his ear, “get the hell out of my city.”
------
The evening saw him on the promenade of the Vltava river, as close as he could get to the Palisade Blade without a gun being jammed into his forehead. It rose from the water like a particularly garish shark fin, imposing against the sky. Not so secure as it looked, though – both he and ShadowChild had proved that much.
Streetlights flicked on and he shook himself, let go of the cold railing. He’d been standing there too long, gloating at the Blade. The TF-29 agents keeping an eye on him – no doubt about that – were probably bored out of their tiny skulls.
The Vltava’s waters darkened into black. It would be early afternoon in Detroit, and the river there would still be its usual wash of blue-grey. Would there even be a river near Rabi'ah, all the way out in the desert? Probably not a natural one. He held a breath in until it strained against the walls of his lungs. When he let it go, it sounded like a hiss. A cigarette would be almost as good as the coffee. Too bad he hadn’t picked any up.
His infolink vibrated gently with an incoming call. After three buzzes it turned waspish, a high hum that rattled the side of his head. When he accepted the transmission, Sarif’s booming voice cut out all his thoughts.
“Finally, Frank! Jesus.”
He shrugged, even if Sarif couldn’t see it. “I’ve been looking into leads. TF-29 didn’t want to play ball, as I predicted.”
“Miller’s got good reason to keep Adam close by. Did you at least get any hints about where he might be?”
“Not really.” He leaned the length of his forearm on the railing. On the other side of the river, bars and restaurants lit up against the encroaching night. “Nothing concrete. He’s on a mission, apparently – but where is entirely a separate question. I think Miller would rather shoot me in front of half of Prague than tell me. He came close a couple of times.”
On the other end of the infolink, a pointed pause swelled, punctured with a rush of sighed static. “Frank, tell me you weren’t an asshole to him. Tell me you were polite and respectful to the guy who could make things real difficult for us. Because the last thing we need is a damn international pissing contest with TF-29!”
“I was as polite with him as he was with me.”
“Jesus Christ.” Exhaustion flattened Sarif’s words. Maybe he should bring back some of that coffee. And expense it, of course. “All right. Tell me about your leads – you find anything else out?”
He switched arms. “Adam’s been growing his saviour complex here, as you can imagine. I talked to a couple of people who’d seen him earlier this year. Tried to locate whoever’s dealing with his augs – some underground doctor. No luck. Every lead’s a dead end.”
“That’s disappointing to hear, Frank. I thought you’d be able to gather some info in other ways. Ways I know for a fact you’re good at.”
“Illegally?”
“Come on, son, it’s not like you’re doing this to steal, or blackmail anyone. It’s just to find Adam. If I knew you’d have this much trouble…” Sarif’s pause felt like judgement from on high. “Well, I thought you’d be done by now. That this wouldn’t be such a problem.”
Easy for you to say, sitting there in a Detroit hotel room. “Miller made the repercussions crystal-clear. A stretch in prison doesn’t exactly appeal to me.”
“When has it ever stopped you? Look… don’t worry about Miller. He can threaten all he wants, it doesn’t mean he’ll actually do anything. And if he does, he might find TF-29’s budget a little lighter next year from some pressure through the North American division.” A shuffle through the infolink, then a slight strain in Sarif’s next words, like a man who had just thrown himself down on a luxurious bed and stretched out. “Just set your sights on the end goal, son. Rabi'ah. A new start for all of us.”
A series of red lights rippled on the underside of the Blade. Could it really be that simple? Would he be sitting at a desk a year from now, complaining to Adam about lax security measures, watching from a high window as the desert shifted around the complex? Hell of a change of scenery, but he wouldn’t be alone. And maybe…
“Fine.” The Vltava churned. He laced his fingers together on the rail and propped his chin on the back of his hand. “I’ll… see if there’s a way I can sneak around Miller’s security. It’s possible that I can spoof some credentials that their system won’t notice until I’m gone –”
“Do that, then. ASAP.”
“The risks –”
“I have every faith in you, son.” On the other end of the infolink, Sarif paused, then sighed. “Look, I gotta go. I’m still working out the details with Nathaniel – he’s promised I get first look at the high-rise architecture. Maybe I can suggest a balcony for your office. You like the sound of that?”
“...Sure.”
A smile edged into Sarif’s voice. “Good. Now keep your chin up, Frank. You’re the best I have.”
With a flick into silence, the infolink connection severed.
“The best you have?” If he’d had a cigarette, he’d have tossed it into the dark water at that moment, all noir-ish detective trying to figure out if the boss’s flattery was sincere. “ For now , you mean.” Until Adam came around, and proceeded to drip perfection all over Rabi'ah’s shiny floors. Sarif would have Adam at his side, showing off all the bells and whistles to any interested investors, and it didn’t hurt that the man attached blazed with the very definition of ‘ruggedly handsome.’ They’d want the machine, and they’d want the flesh too.
Adam would hate it all.
A police drone skimmed over the river, hovered to consider him for a moment, and then zoomed back on its merry way.
Hacking from the hotel room was out of the question – but if he found a quiet place with enough of an energy draw, he could make a quick small set up. Hide his location from TF-29’s sweepers and either create a ghost employee or piggyback onto existing credentials. That should fool the system into access. It just depended how good Miller’s team actually were. Likely not good enough for his tech. He’d hacked into the most secure database in the world, for God’s sake – if self-doubt crept in now, he might as well hang his grey hat up for good.
He turned his back on the Blade, and let the promenade lead him forward, blew mental cobwebs from his specialised augmentation.
------
An hour until the street curfew, and still nowhere suitable for his needs.
He’d crossed an old bridge to the other side of the river, laptop bag bouncing against the small of his back with every step. Any energy from the coffee fizzled out sometime between leaving the hotel and getting shouted out in Czech by cops who hadn’t liked him sniffing around an abandoned office block. At this point, it would be enough just to find somewhere to sit down and rest. All the warehouses had guards – a twitchy reaction to the terrorist bombings – and anything small and semi-hidden didn’t have a big enough power draw. Using a visual aug didn’t help with energy levels, either. Five seconds of seeing blue power lines winding under concrete and along the sides of buildings in exchange for ten minutes of feeling like the victim of a vampire attack? Hardly worth it.
Once again, he found himself by the river, on the edge of the city, staring at it from the opposite side this time. More warehouses framed a road out into the countryside, their parking lots empty, and the only movement a cat that streaked across his path. Countryside darkness pressed up against the semi-urban cluster. No use going any further – it was one of these warehouses, or scuttling back into the city and shamefully asking for another night in the hotel.
He kept to the half-shadowed edge of the streetlights, but no one passed on the road. Trees replaced concrete. Grass pushed up between cracks in the sidewalk. A thrill of adrenaline curled in his stomach and fought off the encroaching tiredness. Up the road – half a mile or so, judging by the size of the patrolling figures – a checkpoint blazed under floodlights. Too far away to be any real threat. If he exploded a warehouse they’d probably come running, but that wasn’t in the plan.
At least, not yet.
A small branching road took him past a few likely candidates. Older buildings, mostly untouched, their wire fences rusting away. Too many looked directly out onto the road though, and the last thing he needed was a patrol spotting the glow from his equipment.
Another few minutes of wandering – the air carrying a deep chill now, along with the threat of rain – and there, thank Christ, a smaller building tucked behind everything else, close to the riverbank, a squat warehouse with its chainlink gates wide open and its corrugated roof sagging to one side. His aug blinked on, seared the blue veins of electricity behind his eyes. A strong current, one that descended down underground, maybe even to the sewers. Several old security cameras that still had a flicker of life in them. Perfect.
A few more minutes passed as he waited, cloaked in the shadow of a tower of old crates. No lights appeared in any of the windows, no tell-tale spark of a lit cigarette punctured the dark. Deserted – not even any homeless Augs. His laptop did the rest – a quick fumble in the ancient network linking the cameras took them all the way offline. Laptop bagged again, he trotted across the scrubby stretch of ground to a side door.
A warning beep lanced through his skull. A hack attempt, straight to his infolink. Whoever they were must have been mildly competent to find the correct frequency, but not competent enough to break through his defences. It had TF-29’s stink all over it. Almost certainly Miller trying to complain that he wasn’t booked on the next flight back to Detroit. Probably pounding the desk with a fist right at that moment, swearing at a mass of scurrying IT staff.
That warming image carried him over the threshold of the warehouse, the door squealing in rusty protest.
Total darkness – no more than he expected from an abandoned warehouse, but unnerving all the same. Another helpful surge of adrenaline, a tap into the primal caveman brain that worried about unseen large mammals stalking him in the dark. A modern counterpoint – his flashlight. It highlighted the wide room, exposed more crates piled here and there, and a slant of several rows of racking, obvious victims to the domino effect when they fell. Graffiti gave some relief to the otherwise pale-grey walls. In one corner lay a mattress littered with trash, but like everything else, it didn’t look like it had been touched in the past few years.
He inhaled the thick wooden smell of damp and mould, and took another step inside, cleared his throat. Nothing stirred in response to the sounds, nothing supernatural or carnivorous flung itself at him from the void. Just silence. Peaceful, compared to the city.
A blue scrawl of cables stretched upwards through the wall to an office overlooking the main warehouse area. A good place to set up – shame the stairs were a tangled metal heap on the floor.
More cables directed him to an alcove, then a door, then steps leading down into an even darker darkness. Definitely his tomb, were this a horror movie. The flashlight stayed steady and scythed a clear path downwards. Below, a smaller room spread out, and the beam of light travelled over an old couch pressed against the back wall, and the dust-blanketed countertops huddled to the side. A plastic table – at one point green – still stood in the middle of the room, but its accompanying chairs were lost to time.
The break room. Ideal.
He flicked the light switch, and a single overhead LED bulb struggled into action before casting a harsh white glow over everything. It highlighted two doors he’d missed – one near the bottom of the stairs, and one, obviously a bathroom, tucked away in a short indent. A squat refrigerator pressed against the end countertop. No cameras on any of the walls in here.
The couch sank several inches and gave a tired wheeze when he sat down. He matched it, sigh-for-sigh, leaned back and took a few minutes to collect himself, for the primal brain to shift back to the infinitely superior modern brain, and the last few hours to simmer down into memory. Miller, the call with Sarif, the phalanx of cops and drones – all of it rose, clamouring inside his skull until forced down with that one image of himself in his new office (that looked exactly like his old one). Of himself, working away at a desk. Of Adam beside him.
What he wouldn’t give to be back in Detroit.
Homesickness – a petty, pathetic emotion for people who couldn’t adapt – stabbed somewhere between his heart and stomach. Strange, really, how similar it felt to grief. Would he care about Rabi'ah the same way, after a few years? Would the desert grow on him? Would the heat?
His elbows rested on his knees, chin cupped in one hand. Silverfish raced each other in the dust at the bottom of the countertops. The last kiss played back in flashes of colour and sensation – the firm hands on his back, the last lingering suck of his bottom lip. A memory that never failed to get his blood pumping, but this time, instead of the pleasant brush of desire, nostalgia and sadness threw a heavy blanket over everything.
You’re an idiot, Frank. An idiot.
Be that as it may, he was still an idiot with a job to do.
He pulled out his laptop again and set it on his knees. The electrical sockets, about as old as he was, still worked well enough to get some juice back into the machine. In a few moments, Prague’s various networks lay before him, unwrapped by his own software and ready to plunder. TF-29’s system would be well-hidden, well-protected. A delicious challenge.
It took a little while to sniff out a trace of something more than the Palisade bank. Every time a hint showed itself, it led him on a merry chase around the other systems until he’d seen more of Prague in thirty minutes than he would by walking around the city all day. After another fifteen or so minutes, he’d excavated a seemingly unimportant set of numbers – the digits a hit for a storage unit that didn’t exist. Interesting. TF-29 apparently liked to obfuscate with junk code to frustrate any hackers that came sniffing around. Unfortunately for them, he didn’t get frustrated.
The lights overhead blinked once – or maybe that was just his tired eyes. The worn sofa would make a nice bed for a couple of hours, if this turned out to be harder than expected. He’d certainly slept on worse.
Another exhausted flicker from the lights. The darkness coiled inwards before withdrawing again against the shine of LEDs. Just his luck – an imminent power failure. How could he possibly locate Adam if he ran out of –
A man stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching him.
His limbs froze. The laptop slid off his lap and crashed to the ground. He scrambled off the couch and onto his feet, heart thudding.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit .
Big and bald, and bulky even under the body armour and faded combat gear, the man tilted his head, staring like a cat stared at a bird with a broken wing. Light caught the solid red sheen of an eye, and the pitted metal circles that stretched along both arms. Augmentations.
He swallowed, opened his mouth, the words ‘who are you?’ caught in his throat – but the lights flicked again, and the man vanished.
That… wasn’t good.
Muscles tensed, and his hand lingered over the pocket of his jacket, over the expired energy bar. A bluff, but one that might just work. Sarif’s infolink channel opened at his desperate thought, and hung with a hollow silence. Stuck on the mental equivilent of ‘do not disturb.’ The one time – the one fucking time he actually needed Sarif –
Something wrapped around his throat, squeezing, and his feet left the floor.
The smell of sweat and damp cotton clung to his nostrils. A dissolve of invisibility, like fire curling over paper, and the man’s face reappeared a few inches away from his. Instead of an augmented iris, the red eye was fully faceted, insectoid. A hand clenched the sides of his neck. His kicks were nothing, his fingers clawing a thick arm were nothing.
Czech words reached through the pressure in his ears. From around the man holding him up, another man appeared, smaller than his friend but with a deep scar running from temple to chin in a diagonal line. A scraggle of dirty blond hair almost hid another scar that curved back into a receeding hairline. Grey hoodie and jeans instead of military clothing – something that would be called casual, if it wasn’t flecked with the rust-brown stains of dried blood.
The smaller man squinted up at him, then slapped the side of his leg. It didn’t hurt, but he kicked out anyway. As a reward, the bigger man shook him so hard his teeth rattled together. A stream of Czech again, once he’d regained his senses, with a pause at the end. A question – but whether it was ‘who are you?’ or ‘what are you doing here?’ was impossible to say. He hissed, bared his teeth. The hand under his jaw squeezed again in warning.
After a moment of trying, his throat finally worked. “Let me… go!”
“Ah…” The smaller man’s eyes – human, and the pale brown of dying leaves – widened, and lips curled into a small smile. “An Englishman, eh?”
“American.” He put as much snarl into the word as he could. The smile on that scarred face stretched wider. Czech flowed again, and this time the bigger man responded, voice a low and ponderous rumble. That red eye had stayed on him the whole time, fixed to his, unblinking and cold.
“Look,” a thread of desperation wove into his voice, “if this is your place… I’ll leave, okay? Just put me down… and I’ll- I’ll go –”
“Vilko says you are an Aug too,” the smaller man flipped a hand in the air, a careless motion, “that he sees all the little wires in your head. What is it? A scanner? A little something to make you a bit happier, eh?”
“That’s none of your business!” His throat vibrated against Vilko’s hand, words constricted. He lashed out again, kicking and scrabbling, but the smaller man laughed.
“It’s all of my business, Clank.”
Epiphany hit him like a truck, and fear seized his throat harder than any hand. It made sense now, why the electrics still worked so well, why the cables ran all the way down underground. The complete absence of homeless Augs in the area. He swallowed, throat bobbing under that massive palm. “You’re Harvesters.”
“Ah!” The man touched the tip of his own nose, smiled again, and pointed the same finger at his face. “You got it, American.”
He flared his nostrils, drew himself up as much as he could to push down the horror building in his head. Sarif Industries, and Adam, had been a good practice for keeping emotions from outwardly showing on his face. “Then you should probably know that I’m good friends with the anti-Aug-terrorism unit here. They know where I am, and if I’m in danger. I’d suggest letting me go.”
Miller would probably rather see him with his skull opened up and dumped in the river, but they didn’t have to know that.
The smaller man’s eyes narrowed, and a tongue clicked against the roof of a mouth in derision. "You think so? I don't think so. We'll be gone before any of your friends appear. Now, tell us about your tech, and this will be much easier for all of us."
He gritted his teeth against the encouraging squeeze of Vilko's hand. "It electrocutes people who try to kill me."
“Hah! That’s very good.” The man moved into kicking-range again, but even if he somehow managed to lash out and split the bastard’s head open, Vilko would pop his right off his shoulders in return. “I like jokes too. The best I save for –” a finger pointed to the floor, “down there, where we take funny Americans like you. This is your last chance –”
“This is your last chance!” His jaw and neck ached with the weight of his dangling body, but he jerked again anyway. “They know I’m here, and they’ll have a whole squad on their way by now. Do you want to argue with military-grade guns?”
Faster than he could blink, a fist met his stomach. Air punched from his lungs. A horrific noise rasped from his throat before it closed shut.
And darkness edged over everything, suffocating –
Couldn’t breathe –
And then the air returned in a thin stream, sucked desperately back down into his tight chest. Gasps alternated with sobs that scraped his windpipe.
“- think I care about them? They cannot catch all of us, Clank.” A yank on his ponytail forced his head up. Pain, absent in the rush of adrenaline, crept back in and shrivelled his stomach to a hot, throbbing ball. Nausea clawed up his throat. His new best friend peered into his face, scar stretched against a smile. “What? No more jokes? Shame, I think the Doctor would have liked to hear them. He will have to settle for your screams instead.”
He bared his teeth, tasted blood. “T-they’ll come. They will…”
The smile widened. “Then let them come. Vilko, search him and let’s go.”
The hand left his throat, but just as he managed to snatch an unobstructed lungful of air it grabbed the front of his jacket, held him still as the other hand rummaged in his pockets. His energy bar vanished into an empty ammo pouch. An old USB stick he’d forgotten about – containing a fair amount of 90’s sci-fi shows – was fished from his inner jacket pocket and went the same way as the energy bar. At the couch, the smaller man grabbed his laptop and bag.
Vilko shoved him between the shoulder blades towards the door near the stairs. His stomach muscles sized and he stumbled, but managed to stay on his feet instead of adding to his humiliation by faceplanting on the dirty floor.
Okay. If he couldn’t talk his way out of this, one last option remained. And it was probably too late anyway.
He opened Sarif’s infolink channel to the hum of the ‘do not disturb’ tone, the last thing he wanted to hear. His own infolink sent a call through anyway – it would change the pitch of the hum on Sarif’s end – but it rang into a hollow silence.
The one time I needed you –
They drew level with the bottom of the stairs. The door in front of him loomed. If he went through it, he’d never come back out, never see Detroit again, never see him –
He lunged for the stairs.
Vilko grabbed him by the neck before he’d gone two steps and shook him like a puppy. Czech crashed through his head like shards of glass. He whipped around and clawed at any bit of skin he could reach, kicked out, sank his teeth into an arm. His tongue tasted skin, and someone bellowed in his ear. Couldn’t let them get him through that door – had to get out, run back into the city –
Electricity crackled. Numbness spread through his back, hit the tips of his fingers like a surge of blood. His legs crumpled, useless, but something still held him up under his dangling arms. A wheeze forced itself from his mouth.
Things disappeared under a haze of grey spots. Movement was something outside of himself. Sounds vanished into a long and slow blend of noise.
The first thing that came back was the protest of his inner ear, the sense of being underwater and struggling to find the right direction for the surface. Pressure pushed against his lower stomach, and a rhythmic thudding motion ground the bruising pain deeper.
Everything smelled like burned hair.
The spots cleared slowly, like melting frost. Hands and fingers dangled above him – no… below. His own hands and fingers. A set of stairs rose beyond them, each step hopping up before vanishing to a place past the limits of how far he could raise his head. Stairs didn’t usually do that.
Come on, Frank, put it together…
A grunt from underneath his body, then the vibrating rumble of words. His arms waved, seaweed-like in the air. The cogs in his brain clicked into gear with all the speed of a glacier.
You’re over that goon’s shoulder, that’s what’s pressing into your stomach... Oh, and you’re going down some stairs.
Of course; they were going to see the doctor.
Ah, no, wait, shit –
He flopped in place with no more efficiency than a skewered fish. Vilko grunted again and hoisted him higher, a hand tight on his upper thigh.
Sarif’s infolink frequency had stayed open, the empty tone mocking.
The floor levelled out, and the air against his face and hands became cold and damp. How long had they been walking – minutes, or hours?
A voice ahead challenged from the dark. Hope kindled with a faint spark, then snuffed out when the shorter man answered with a small chuckle and a friendly stream of Czech. A door grated open somewhere ahead. They passed lights, and he turned his head the smallest amount, caught a glimpse of a man holding a long gun.
Through the doorway, the floor turned from concrete to whisky-coloured vinyl tiles. More voices murmured in the background, and to his left a blast of video game gunfire accompanied a laugh, then a dismayed snarl. Someone needed some pointers about not celebrating too soon. Maybe if he offered to co-op, they’d let him live long enough to think of a real plan.
Before he could clear his clogged throat, they passed through another doorway and into a room where the light dimmed to shadows. White tiles now, speckled here and there with the brownish-red of long-dried blood. An antiseptic stink bullied its way past the smell of charred hair. His breathing came short and ragged, and the wave of his arms became a tremble; people had died in this room.
No, not just died – been murdered. And he would be the latest of that undoubtably long list.
“Ah, Vilko and Josef. What have you brought me this time?”
A man’s voice, smooth and slightly high. His fuzzed mind couldn’t quite place the new accent. Somewhere European, but not Czech. Maybe one of the northern countries. It didn’t really matter either way, but his brain clutched desperately for details rather than focusing on his imminent death. That was fine with him.
The shorter man – Josef – patted him hard on the back until he coughed. “A new brain aug, Doctor. Just walked right through the front door. Vilko says that it looks like an expensive brand. American. Better than the usual Clank arms and legs, yes?”
The doctor hummed a note of consideration. “Put him in the chair and I’ll take a look. If it’s as good as you say, then maybe we’ll forget that you lost the last one.”
That motion again, the floor twisting away in front of him. Josef’s voice wove in and out, closer, then farther away. “That was not my fault – no-one told me she could make her arm turn into a sword.”
Something swung him round, Vilko’s shoulder slipping from underneath, and set him the right way up, sitting down. Metal snapped around his wrists. A light, so bright it sent splinters of pain through his head, faced him. Shadows moved beyond it, stalking in the background, until one came close and half-blocked out the harsh beam. Fingertips pushed his chin up, and a thumb rolled his eyelid. A blur of face, of white coat – and then a tsk of derision.
“What did you do to him?”
“He tried to run, then to fight. Vilko gave him a jolt of his taser aug, and he stopped doing both.” Josef’s voice came from beyond the light. “He should be fine.”
“Unless you’ve short-circuited the intricate mechanisms that make up a cranial augmentation, in which case you’ve just brought me a sack of meat.” A hand tilted his head from side to side. Grey eyes swallowed the whole world, then narrowed into a frown. “Although… if it is one of the bigger brands, it should be shielded properly. Luckily for you two.”
The eyes disappeared, and he tried a pull against the restraints. Locked tight.
“He’s a biter. If you want to take something out, Doctor, do his teeth first.”
The blur of white coat again. Something metallic glinted and he flinched away – but it only pressed against his forehead, cold, then the sides, then the back of his head, beeping all the while. After a couple of minutes, it gave a happy pinging noise before being removed by the doctor.
“Hmm. A Sarif Industries augmentation, Theia series, eight years old – looks like it’s been modified. Primary spread is on the occipital lobe… Initial purpose is listed as ‘enhanced digital cognition’, but the mod adds another layer…” A pause, and then more beeping. “Oh, and an infolink communication device… Let’s just turn that off, shall we?”
Sarif’s channel closed with a sudden snap to silence. Alone now, truly alone.
“So… what? Those are good things, yes? We brought in some real money?”
“Maybe.” Fingers explored the back of his head, found the thin raised scar tissue from the initial surgery underneath his ponytail. It hadn’t hurt at all, Sarif knew his stuff. “Sarif’s one of the best brands, even if this is a slightly older augmentation. And there’s always a demand for technology proficiency. But you’ll have to get Erika to disable the mod – if it’s for controlling a hormone or chemical then the buyer won’t be happy. Or will be too happy. Depends on what the chemical is.”
“We’ll come back for it when you’re finished – unless you need the help now.”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time, I don’t need the pair of you being a clumsy distraction.” Something metal clattered to his right, then squeaked closer. “You can go; I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
“Fine. Come on, Vilko.” Their footsteps passed him on the left, back the way they came, but paused before they reached the door. “Oh, one thing – he said that his friends were coming for him. Those anti-terrorist policie .”
A laugh, gutteral and almost choking. Hands braced themselves on his arms and the doctor leaned in close again. Blurs clarified themselves into a mid-twenties face, red wavy hair pushed back, and a fleck of freckles across the bridge of a nose. Red threaded around the edges of those grey eyes. “It’s strange how they all know the police, Interpol, or work for the government, isn’t it? But, if you’re so worried, haul some more men out front. Tell them you got frightened by a tourist.”
Vilko snorted, muttered in Czech. Footsteps again, and the door creaked open, then closed with a soft shushing.
The doctor straightened, turned with a small sniff of “idiots”, and moved beyond the light.
His wrists tensed against the restraints. He swallowed and tasted blood. "They... weren't lying, you know..." The words were a scratchy, thick mess, snagging on every vowel, but if they were his last hope then he'd happily sing them if needed. "Task Force Twenty-Nine don't take kindly to... to their friends being mutilated. Let me go now, and I'll tell them... that you're working here against your will. They'll go... easy on you." A drop of blood slid from his ear and tickled down the curve of his neck. After a few more moments of silence, he jerked at the restraints. "Did you hear me? Let me go!"
"Last week," the doctor's voice came from behind, so close that he jumped, "I took the polymer heart from a politician who tried to buy his life for a million credits. Last month it was a soldier, still kicking as I removed his bladed legs. They both died --" hands fell on his shoulders, the fingers cold, "right here. The world doesn't care about you hanzers any more, tourist, most of them would probably give me a medal. No one is coming for you."
No, not this time. No final enemy to defeat, no safety lying behind a locked door he could hack open. Just this - dying underground for a boss who wouldn't pick up a call.
He kicked out at nothing, lunged away from those cold hands, hissing. "You're still a dead man, even if you kill me! He'll hunt you down – he'll hunt you all down, and I hope he kills you slowly, you degenerate bastard!"
His panting couldn't cover the laugh from behind. The doctor circled back around to the front of him, holding up a clear anesthesia mask. "I'm sure. But before that, we have an operation to consider." The end of the mask screwed to a tube, which then connected to a tank by his chair. The doctor turned a small blue wheel on the top of the tank, and a hissing came from the mask. "You're lucky that it's in your brain, you know – usually I don't bother with this. But you look like the type of man to just thrash around when I'm ripping out your metal."
He kicked out again, but the angle stopped him from getting anywhere near flesh. His heart thundered in his chest, as though making the most of the few beats it had left. To sleep and be utterly helpless against anything, his life fading without a fight – he'd rather die any other way. "No! Don't - don't you touch me with that! Please!"
A smile, gentle and almost apologetic. "You cannot stop me."
He opened his mouth, another plea rising in his throat -
- and the mask covered him, cold plastic that smelled of hospitals and the sick sweetness of funeral flowers.
No, no, no no no, not like this, not like this -
Pressure on the back of his head crushed his face harder against the mask. He wrenched from side to side, twisted, frantic, cat-like, yanking, don't you take a breath, don't you take a single breath , thrashing and tearing and fighting harder than he'd ever fought anything –
– until his lungs, desperate and tight, gave up with an instinctive deep inhale.
Bitter chemicals flooded up his nose, down his throat. His arms and legs stopped working, useless as broken machines. Something pulled him, first slowly, then as fast as freefall downwards, through a layer of grey.
On his left side, the doctor smiled, Cheshire-cat wide, and on his other side, a heat-haze ghost rippled, just for an instant.
His eyelids wouldn't stay up.
Should have stayed in Detroit – never trusted Sarif – oh, God, Adam, I hope you get these bastards –
A final, swift tug downwards.
The layers of grey dropped into black.