New Black Gold, part2

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Content: This is a fanfiction dedicated to the game Deus Ex: Human Revolution, based on its narrative and the way I played the main character, Adam Jensen.
I'm disregarding any complementary canon as far as I've read it.
As I'm closing some time gaps, I mainly concentrate on Jensen coping with his situation and focus on the relationship between Jensen and Sarif.

Disclaimer: Title courtesy of and with friendly permission by Miracle Of Sound. Characters and preview footage © Eidos Montreal
Rated M for language, gore and future erotic content.
For more information see comment below.

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2027, Detroit, LIMB clinic, Office Dr. Vera Marcovic



'Mr. Jensen, how often do I have to tell you it is very inappropriate to wear your glasses when talking to other people?'

'Why, Doc?' Adam felt defiant, even snappy, as it was the case more often than usual lately. 'What could you possibly hope to see in those eyes? My everlasting soul?'

Ever since Adam had managed to activate the protective shields, he found it much easier to stand his own reflection in a mirror, avoiding the sight of his artificial irises, covering them with golden-tinted shades. Over time, he had simply grown accustomed to it.

'Mr. Jensen, please,' Dr. Marcovic insisted, frowning and causing Adam to feel uncomfortable, until he finally gave in and retracted the glasses into his skull.

Every single time, dammit!

'What'd you wanna talk about?' he reluctantly asked for the reason of his summoning.

Dr. Marcovic drew in a quick breath and returned to the papers in front of her.

'According to these analyses I see you fit for discharge,' she explained, failing to notice the strange unrest she induced Adam with her surprising disclosure.

He had to forcibly swallow the feeling down.

Hadn't he craved that day ever since he woke up the first time? Why did the thought of leaving make him so queasy all of a sudden?

Maybe because there wasn't much left waiting for him out there. Maybe because he resented the notion of entirely becoming Sarif's obliged watchdog. Maybe because he feared to face what he had been turned into.

Dr. Marcovic looked back up at him, obviously anticipating some kind of response.

'Great,' Adam brought himself to say. 'Then I can go now?'

'Not so fast, there are still a few formalities to discuss.'

Of course, the usual red tape.

'First of all,' Marcovic continued, 'your rehab isn't completed. Most of your neural links are still dormant, so I need you to come in for supervision on a daily basis.'

'Daily?' Adam echoed, disapproving.

'Yes, unless you'd like to stay.'

No argument about that.

'Alright,' Adam yielded, reservedly. 'What else?'

'Don't get me wrong,' she wasn't finished though, fixating him with stern eyes, 'I won't declare you fit for duty, yet. You are still on sick-leave. I just don't think we can do any more for you here.'

Still having no objections, Adam impatiently waited for her to go on.

'Then... there is this,' she finally did, reaching out for a nearby package and placing it right in front of his eyes, which Adam instantly identified as a dosage of Neuropozyne, causing his guts to clench once again.

Did the humiliation never end?

'You haven't shown the rejection markers yet, but I want you to take it with you in case you notice any symptoms. Mr. Sarif is going to provide all the supplies you may need.'

Sure, he was.

David, dammit... He hadn't shown himself or made contact since Adam had demanded him out of his room, weeks ago. And he couldn't even blame him for that.

Shoving his twisted scorn aside, Adam glared at the Nu-poz as if it was his sworn enemy, before he gave Marcovic a consenting nod. No way around becoming a drug addict, either.

'And lastly,' Marcovic concluded, 'Mr. Sarif appointed a new apartment to you.'

She passed him a pocket secretary, which he indifferently took, having a glance at the data it contained.

He recognized the place. Chiron Building, 420 Grand River Road. It had still been under construction, the last time he'd seen it.

He scrolled through the advertising images and information.

For Better Luxury Living. Spacious Condominiums. Executive Apartments. Short-term or Long-term Leases.

Chiron Building Services:

- Dedicated concierge

- Private doorman

- 24-hour valet service

- Secure private residence

- Housekeeper services

- Personnel chef services

- Spa services

- Fitness center

...

Sarif really didn't spare any expenses to keep him on a tight leash.

Adam put the secretary down and looked back at Dr. Marcovic.

'Anything else?'

He grew increasingly tired of this.

'Just one more thing,' she added, her bright eyes slightly softening. 'Don't overexert yourself.'





2027, Detroit, Chiron Building, Apartment 3434



'Welcome home, Mr. Jensen. You have new messages.'

Disregarding the female computer voice greeting him, Adam dropped his bag where he stood, as the door closed behind him with a hiss and the shutters covering the windows across the room simultaneously opened, revealing a panoramic view over Detroit's luminescent skyline.

The apartment turned out to be gorgeous, to put it mildly, fully equipped with classy styled furniture, just according to David's taste. To the left, a passage led to an American kitchen, overlooking a spacious living area that was accessible through a short downward flight of stairs straight ahead, at its end another passage leading to the right, to the bed- and bathroom, most likely.

Other than that, the apartment was empty, Adam's personal belongings still packed and lined up within cardboard boxes along the living room wall.

Welcome home, indeed.

Adam gave in to a voiceless sigh, braced himself and stepped down the stairs. No point in procrastinating the inevitable.

But when he passed the cocktail table in front of the couch, his eyes caught sight of a single book lying there, bringing him to a halt. The title read 'Living with Your New Cybernetic Prosthetic - All you need to know about treatments, recovery, and functionality - second edition'.

This wasn't one of his.

Puzzled, he picked it up, opening the first page.

I thought you might wanna catch up on your reading. David

It even had his personal handwriting.

Adam frowned and suspiciously eyed the short note, then the cover again, before he put the book back and began to open the boxes one after another, unpacking, trying to make himself at home.



The first night he slept horribly, tossing about for hours; the second was even worse.

The third night he emerged from a dream where someone was calling him by name.

The moment he woke up, he knew it was Megan, her voice tender in his mind, longing, the way it used to be when she was lusting for him, not crying out for help.

What the hell...?

He assumed that damned picture he had stumbled upon earlier in one of the remaining boxes was to blame. A picture of both of them together, happy, some few years ago.

'Adam...' he could almost hear her hungrily sigh right into his ear and found himself defenseless against the vivid memories, involuntarily occurring; memories of her pleasant curves, soft skin, a scent of lilies, her short-breathed gasps when he used to satisfy both their carnal desires.

Fierce arousal concentrated in his loins, setting his whole body aflame, yearning for release.

Stop it!

He only barely mustered the strength to restrain himself, the impressions about to overwhelm all reason.

This was highly inappropriate. She was dead, for Christ's sake! Think of something else, dammit, anything!

The very next thought, responding to his desperate demand, stopped him cold and made him relive the remembrance of a deadly muzzle put to his head and a trigger getting pulled. His excitement died down immediately and left him behind with nothing but an empty, self-loathing rage.

Great, now he was in a really bad mood.

Physically and mentally exhausted, yet unwilling to seek any more sleep, Adam untangled himself from the blanket wrapped around his legs and got up, hardly stifling the pain still lingering in his groin.

The clock by his bed showed a quarter past three in the morning.

The hour of the wolf... Again.

Shit.

Adam turned away and headed straight for the living room and the last packed boxes he had decided to leave alone after he'd found Megan's picture before.

But, if they'd sent over all of his belongings, then somewhere... here... should be...

There, his emergency stash of whisky and smokes.

He had refrained from approaching it up until now, but tonight he undoubtedly was in need of some oblivion.

Supplying himself with an ashtray and a glass filled with ice he had already cared for in case of necessity, he settled himself on the couch to pour a lavish slug of amber liquor over the frozen cubes.

Raising the drink, he pulled short for a moment, right before the glass was about to touch his lips, breathing in the auspicious vapor of ethanol, then gulped the strong spirit down in one greedy swig.

Heat burned its way down his throat, inflamed his stomach and spread about the remnants of his organs, granting him the soothing experience of dying a little death.

But the sensation didn't last; Adam cleared up way too soon.

He poured a second glass, with the same result. A third one. A fourth.

Then it finally hit him.

Sentinel Health System.

His modified metabolism was compensating for the intoxication caused by the alcohol. And it was no different with smokes, he figured out shortly after, the inhaled nicotine immediately getting neutralized by his artificial lungs.

No! This just wasn't fair! Did that cursed body of his even have to deny him the satisfaction of sweet apathy? Wasn't he allowed to forget, just for a little while?

Refusing to abandon the attempt, Adam poured himself one drink after another and, as it turned out, if he kept the flow of alcohol going he was able to trick the metabolic rate into an almost sufficient delay.

It took him no less than two bottles of Tango Foxtrott to finally enter a state of adequate drunkenness, to render his dark thoughts unfocused and his body woozy; so he cherished this achievement by drinking even more.

He didn't notice the heavy impact on his system until he had to get up and take a leak, some time later.

Dull and on unsteady legs, yet somewhat at ease, he had to struggle for balance on his way over to the bathroom, just to abruptly run into bitter reality again the moment he caught sight of his impersonation in the mirror; eyes uncovered, simply forgotten after waking up.

Adam couldn't help but feel instant and irrational hatred boil up for that guy staring back at him; hatred for the yellow glinting eyes, the ugly scars and mountings, the black perversions of human arms.

A guy broken, not even half a man anymore, wearing his face, pretending.

Fuck you!

He didn't saw the blow coming until his fist cracked the glass and shattered his alter ego to pieces.

Empty reason annihilated Adam's rage the next second, as he became aware of the wreaked damage.

Crap!

Another piece of equipment destroyed. He really should stop doing that.

Numbly, he detached his knuckles from the point of impact, just to register there was no blood running down the shards, not even pain left to feel.

Fool...

At least he didn't have to put up with his reflection anymore.



The next day he was startled awake by a strange noise striking his head out of nowhere.

Puzzled, Adam opened his eyes and looked around to find himself uncomfortably slumped on his couch, yet alone, the sound gone.

What was wrong? Did he imagine...?

No, there it was again.

A white noise, resounding right inside his skull. It broke off several times, continued; then a voice became intelligible.

'-- should do the trick. Test, test.'

Adam knew that snarky tune very well.

'Pritchard? Is that you?'

'Who else do you think it might be? Leonardo da Vinci paying his respect?' Sarif's Chief of Cyber-Security responded, sneering. 'You haven't been that dead.'

Right, screw you too, Francis!

Adam took a calming breath and generously let the suckerpunch slide.

'What are you doing in my head?'

'Calibrating the connection to your Infolink, obviously.'

The "moron" at the end of the statement was solely implied, yet trying Adam's patience once more.

'Could you at least give me a warning, next time?'

'What, Jensen, you want an official announcement? Or did I, perchance, happen to interrupt some private joytime of yours?'

Pritchard indeed never failed to seize an opportunity to place a cheap shot.

Adam barely suppressed the growl looming inside his throat by now.

'I was asleep.'

'At this hour? It's almost noon, you know?'

Yeah, Adam was very well aware. Not nearly late enough.

'Was there anything else you wanted?'

'No.'

So, just bitching, then?

'Good. Now piss off and stay out of my head, Francis!'

To his relief, Adam quickly found a way to sever the connection before the tech could add another of his snide comments.

Asshole!

Scarcely composing himself, Adam sat up and rubbed his temples to banish the lagging sense of annoyance from his mind. Then he took a second look at the remains of his late-night bender.

Three empty bottles of whisky, the ashtray brimming; and he didn't even have a hangover.

Great, what's the point of getting wasted, if you can't feel miserable afterwards?

Stifling a sigh, he leant back into the couch, musing what to do with himself now that he was awake. His daily appointment at the LIMB clinic wasn't due until afternoon and up to this point he had spent most of his time unpacking. But after that disturbing dream last night he didn't feel like it anymore.

He needed another distraction, soon.

Then he remembered the Chiron Building also offered spa and fitness services, perfect to keep body and mind in shape, as well as occupied.

So Adam rose as if he had a purpose, skipped breakfast, sensing it would only make his stomach churn, and stepped into the bath to freshen up. There, he found himself confronted with the smashed mirror again, reflecting only fragmented pieces of his self.

Stupid, stupid action.

He'd better arrange a replacement.

On his way down to the fitness center located in the basement, he stopped by the lobby to inform the concierge of his request.

The woman behind the counter ogled him in bold astonishment and shot leery, ill-concealed glimpses at Adam's augmented hands.

'But, Mr. Jensen, you moved in only a few days ago. What could possibly have happened?'

'It broke,' Adam simply dismissed her pretext query, unwilling to partake in that kind of dance, then left her behind, heading for some physical diversion.

As it turned out, the fitness center also provided a small doujo section where Adam battered the training dummy until late dusk, only interrupted by his visit to the LIMB clinic and, seizing the opportunity, restocking his supplies of booze.



In the evening, after the fitness center had closed, Adam found himself again sitting in his living room, staring into space and brooding how to enter sleep without giving in to drinking himself senseless.

Distraction...

A moment later he realized the single book still lying on the cocktail table, buried beneath some of his personal stuff he hadn't found a place to store, yet.

"Living with Your New Cybernetic Prosthetic", eh?

Reservedly, he reached for it to eye the cover once more.

There wasn't much to it. The plain title, tagline, edition and authors' reference, and a medieval-appearing drawing of a cybernetic shoulder attached to a human body.

More conflicting, on the other hand, was the handwritten note on the first page.

I thought you might wanna catch up on your reading. David

At odds, Adam stared at the letters, and it took him a while until he finally discovered the inconsistency buried within the writing itself.

At the end of the sentence, right above David had put his signature, the words seemed to be unfinished, a comma altered into a period. Like he had meant to write more; like there was something missing.

Adam's guts knotted.

Damn you... David!

He turned the next page and began reading.

He didn't brave the night without sweet, alcohol-induced oblivion, though. He didn't even remember half of what he had read.

He did remember, however, the passage about the origins of simple mechanics, a water clock built by the Muslim inventor Al-Jazari in 1206. And he did remember his associated thoughts about getting more acquainted with his prosthetics and improving their fine motor skills at that.

So he began to order bits and pieces to build his own clock the next day, finding some abstraction in the self-imposed task for a while.



'At Sarif Industries, a better tomorrow is our passion.'

Adam jerked awake from a disturbing dream he couldn't recall by the next moment. It didn't even matter; most certainly, the usual horrors.

The living room was doused in flickering blue light, solely radiating from the still-running TV, while on screen a Sarif commercial portrayed a cybernetic hand reaching out in a Michelangelo-like fashion, having a butterfly gently landing on the tip of its index finger.

Better tomorrow, my ass!

Adam sat up, wiping the sweat off his forehead and burying his own artificial digits in his hair for a moment.

For over two months now he had been trying to make himself at home in his new apartment; for two months he had been trying to cope with all the changes on his own; two months in which he visited that damned LIMB clinic daily to get his credentials. And he still wasn't able to accept his altered condition, after all.

In the first couple of weeks lots of get well wishes from concerned co-workers and subordinates had arrived, offering condolences and comfort, many of female origin; but ignoring every single one of them, Adam felt there wasn't any comfort for him in store, so he had stayed in solitude, and the notifications had stopped, eventually.

At some point, he couldn't remember when, he had also smashed the renewed mirror in the bathroom a second time, piss drunk again, and was still waiting for another replacement.

Even the clock-making he had built some of his hopes on turned out to be only partly helpful, the unfinished components remaining scattered in pieces all over the workbench.

Truly, fucked up beyond any recognition.

On screen the picture swapped, now displaying Eliza Cassan reporting on economic trends and stock market values, which Adam indifferently absorbed.

'Meanwhile, the augmentation industry is booming, and companies are experiencing an all time high, with Tai Yong Medical stocks in particular going through the roof. Sarif Industries, on the other hand, has yet to recover from the severe blow dealt by an attack on their facilities earlier this year.'

This particular news did catch Adam's attention, and he took it with a growing sense of unease.

Despite the ever present awareness that he hadn't been able to prevent the incident, he wouldn't have assumed Sarif being in any financial troubles. Was this for real or did the media just hype a mediocre fact to create a greater sensation, as they tend to do? In the end, it was Sarif they were talking about; one of the very pioneers in cybernetic enhancements.

Nevertheless, Adam couldn't shake off his rising concerns for some reason and finally decided to bite the bullet and get to the bottom of this.

So, he activated the Infolink and traced back the frequency Pritchard had once used to make contact.

'Pritchard, are you there?'

'Yes, I am here,' came the dismissive answer, promptly. 'Do you have any idea what time it is?'

Adam skipped the anticipated reproach.

You are still awake as well, dipshit.

'Sarif's financials. Is it as bad as they say?'

A brief, hesitant pause; caused by surprise?

'As who says?' The inquiry was precautious.

'It's all over the news,' Adam shared his observation, not realizing he had given Pritchard an involuntary opening.

'So, you enjoy yourself leisurely watching TV all night while other people work their asses off...'

'The financials, Francis,' Adam reminded him, ceding, yet growing impatient.

'What makes you think I would know? In case you didn't notice, I'm everything but an accountant.'

'Yes, but you are running numbers, Francis. Don't tell me you have no idea which way the numbers flow.'

Another moment of silence, longer this time.

'It doesn't look good, I can tell you this much,' Pritchard finally caved in. 'The attack five months ago had cost us millions. Redevelopment will cost us even more. Taggart and his Humanity Front freaks subtly turn the tables against us, and your reconstruction wasn't exactly an act of charity, either.'

Adam felt his stomach drop. He had feared about that, but didn't dare to take it seriously.

Shit, Sarif's leash really didn't cease to tighten its grip.

'Thanks,' he forced himself to acknowledge and severed the connection.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit.

He coiled over, contrite, burying his head in his hands once more.

The everlasting thought of owing Sarif had consistently threatened to drive him mad over these past weeks; especially since he wasn't able to make any kind of a difference, confined to sick-leave and in incessant doubt that he was even up for the task.

Shit.

A searching glimpse over the cocktail table confirmed his very next worry. The booze was gone. Again.

Great! Now he had to go restock his supplies.

Load of shit.



The chill, early-autumn night was clearing his troubled mind a little, as Adam walked down to the nearest 24-hour convenience store, located at a corner of Grand River Road right where it turned towards the police station.

Humid air and a cool wind already heralded in the end of the year and caused Adam to wrap his coat closer.

Four purchased bottles of whisky, along with three packs of Royal Hellhounds later he passed by the entry to Earl's Court, one of the derelict neighborhoods, where he was brought to a sudden halt by a provoking voice in his back.

'Hey hanzer, al'lone'n the streets this late, a'ya?'

The slurred accent was of obvious Latino origin, male and unmistakeably drunk.

Adam cursed himself, emerging from his brooding thoughts, and took a quick, alert look around. He was all alone on the street, indeed; and he had paid no attention.

Damn, stupid rookie mistake!

The next thing he heard was the clicking of a hammer being cocked.

A semi-automatic, he realized; though, he couldn't make out a model from sound alone.

This night was just getting better and better...

'Y'must be well loaded, c'nsidering yur fine gear. H'nd over th'valuables, all o'them.'

Adam struggled to keep his cool, cautiously splaying both arms to pose no immediate threat, while he tried to give the guy a single, fair warning.

'Trust me, you really don't wanna do this, cholo.'

'Shuddit 'nd gimme ya money, fuckin' cog!'

Adam couldn't help but feel his rage resurfacing, smoldering up from within a deep, barely constricted well.

He never did ask for this, dammit!

Slowly, agitatedly, he turned, arms still raised by his sides, to examine his opponent.

The latino-african hobo really was more drunk than practiced; all by himself, unsteady on his legs, gun pointed at Adam only two paces away. One single step and Adam could easily disarm him.

And so he did.

Seizing the moment of surprise, Adam dropped the bag where he stood, went in, grabbed for the hand holding the gun and twisted it behind the other's back, spinning him around while placing a tight grip around the guy's throat. All in about one move.

The shithead virtually petrified in his arms, suddenly becoming aware of the situation having turned against him.

Adam, on the other hand, only felt cold resolve.

How easy it would be to just snap this fragile, little neck. One precise shift with his fingers to dislocate the atlas vertebra and sever the nerve roots, instantly dropping him dead. Nobody would even miss this low-life; in fact, he might as well do him a favor by doing so, releasing him from his wretchedness.

Tempted by the very possibility, Adam remained, pondering, but in the end began to notice the all-too-human tremble beneath his fingertips, a jitter born out of fear for life itself, while his captive desperately tried to gasp for air.

Adam was painfully familiar with this sensation.

So, just another victim of society, left behind by evolution and pushed to their limits.

Fuck!

'Get out of my sight, jackass,' he growled into the hobo's ear and let go of his grip a moment later, shoving the other forward, though keeping a hold of the gun.

The Latino stumbled a few steps ahead, coughing and panting, and when he realized he was free to go, shot a single terryfied look behind and instantly took to his heels.

At strife, Adam watched him bolt, disturbingly reminded of something he had once sworn to himself; an oath he took and lived for, for a long time.

An oath to serve and protect. The very reason why he had joined the police force, thirteen years ago.

To serve and protect the many who had just gotten unlucky, the ones overlooked and forgotten by the system, the ones nobody cared for; people still dominating Detroit's streets. An oath that had eventually become Adam's reason to exist.

His sole mistake had been to accept the promotion to SWAT.

At first he had enjoyed the rush, ranking up to commander of his squad and, through that, feeling somewhat elite for a while; but as it turned out "to serve and protect" became "to serve and protect political and corporate interests", always assisting the mighty and influential, first and foremost.

Everything finally went down the drain when Adam was given the command to exterminate that augmented kid, classified a threat, back in Mexicantown.

He had refused to carry out the order and quit the force, consequently.

Of course, he had been turned into a public scapegoat in the aftermath. Someone's head had to be put on the block for the masses, and he had been the one committing insubordination, after all, obviously to blame.

But, it was just a fifteen year old kid, goddammit!

Adam took a deep breath to calm down and settled himself on a nearby brick wall, reaching for the dropped bag and fishing out a bottle of the, thankfully undamaged, Tango Foxtrott, which he greedily emptied by a third before even noticing.

He had been devastated for months after the Mexicantown incident, feeling his entire creed crumble, until Megan eventually came forward, telling him Sarif Industries was reorganizing their safety measures and looking for a capable Manager of Security.

Initially, Adam had been reluctant to work corporate, but of course, he knew about Sarif and of what he was accomplishing for Detroit and beyond.

Ascended from out of nothing himself, yet a dedicated protégé of Hugh Darrow, the very father of cybernetics, David Sarif had decided to revive a city's dying economy with a new branch of industry, twenty years ago. The change was progressing slowly, subtly, still causing much discontent among the population; but operating at the core of misery for more than ten years, Adam could tell the difference taking effect.

So he had agreed to an interview, and when he met with David in person, had to acknowledge him as one of a kind, indeed.

True, David was corporate from tip to toe, being forced to fight his way up to the top by any means necessary. But he was also bold, witty and, most importantly, genuine. He wasn't afraid to speak his mind, probably not even able to do differently; and he didn't seem to care about what the media was gossiping about Adam's dishonorable discharge from law enforcement. He had just looked into his eyes and made a decision.

Adam instantly felt a strange connection to this man, convinced that both of them shared a mutual vision of making this world a somewhat better place, each at their own odds, as pretentious as it may be.

Insanely, he took the job without any more hesitation, even realizing there was an enticing upside to the task. By being corporate, David wasn't strictly bound to public regulations; he had the power to make his own goddamn rules. Which actually was to Adam's convenience as long as both their rules coincided.

So, what had changed these past few months?

Nothing, in fact.

Did he feel betrayed by David to uphold his contract and, by doing so, turn Adam into an artificial monster and proprietary tool?

Yes. But it didn't change the truth that Sarif had saved his life.

Did he fail to carry out his duty during the attack and let Megan die?

Yes. But it didn't change the truth that Adam was still breathing and in the position to make some kind of a difference.

The oath remained, unaltered.

To serve and protect.

If that meant becoming a watchdog on behalf of Sarif or whoever else was to execute Adam's ideals, so be it. And Adam still had no doubt about Sarif's motives, David's vision.

In the end, all of his fucked-up self-loathing over the past months dissolved into nothing but simple vanity.

What, the hell, did he have to lose anymore? Save Sarif.

To serve and protect; no matter the means necessary.

Brooding, he looked down at the gun in his hand.

He identified it as a Walther P22, similar to his first service weapon, when he had started fresh out of police academy, becoming an officer.

Adam hadn't held a gun since his own Magnum had been turned against him. The thought alone had caused him nausea. But there was something soothing about this nostalgic sensation in his hand, reminding him of his origins.

Adam gave in to a sigh, emptied the bottle by another third and, then, adeptly disassembled the gun into its components, disposing the pieces into a nearby garbage can, and finally headed home.



Back at his apartment, Adam dared to take out his carefully shelved sidearms for the first time since the attack.

Still being somewhat hesitant, though, he carried both of the wooden cases into the living room, settled on his couch and poured himself a drink first, before he felt prepared to open the first of the boxes.

It contained his spare .357 Magnum Diamond Back, the very model that had been used to leave him for dead, making him relive the memory and causing his guts to clench, as expected.

Inside the other box he had stored away the 10mm Zenith semi-automatic, his first service weapon. Compared to the Diamond Back its sight turned out to be much more tolerable.

Adam picked up the Zenith and checked magazine well and chamber for potentially remaining live rounds, before he pointed the gun someplace across the dark room, supporting his shooting hand with the other.

Handling and weight felt familiar, even welcome at some level.

He pulled the trigger and heard the hammer coming down, inducing just a short, metallic click.

What, the hell, had been so stylish about a Magnum, anyway? Automatics were much more efficient. Fire rate, reload rate, ammo capacity.

Vanity truly was a bitch!

Adam lowered the weapon to have another examining look at it, locking back the slide, opening the chamber. Of course, some upgrades and modifications had to be done. The Zenith was practically virgin, carried for just about four rookie years of police service until Megan had given him the Magnum for his twenty-fifth birthday, celebrating his promotion to SWAT.

Adam was also well aware that he needed practice, being unarmed for over five months, equipped with new, artificial limbs and out of training in handling semi-autos, at that. Luckily, he was still able to call in an old favor that gained him access to the DPD's shooting range.

Pondering, he reached for his drink, gun still in the other hand, and leant back into the couch.

He really was going to do this.

Without requiring even a glimpse Adam released the slide-lock and listened to the familiar snap into place sealing his decision.

The next day he added several hours of target practice to his routine; shooting range in the morning, LIMB clinic and doujo until evening.

It didn't stop him from drinking, though, nor did it stop the recurring nightmares; but it still gave him a sense of resolution.



Two weeks later, Adam's Infolink suddenly went off, interrupting his afternoon exercises.

It was David; and he sounded gravely agitated.

'Adam, I need you to come in, about now. We're having a serious situation at Milwaukee Junction.'

Adam didn't even ask; he was already heading for the elevator.

'Copy that. I'm on my way, boss.'