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C0MPUTER L0VE

Summary:

Adam is in Montréal, hunting his way through yet another tangled conspiracy. When he misjudges a seemingly straightforward mission, who will come to his rescue? Answer: a pathologically sarcastic hacker who may or may not be stalking his former co-worker.

Chapter 1

Summary:

It's not supposed to end this way, in an air vent, as a side effect of his investigations. Then again, he was supposed to be dead years ago.

"Day of the Triffids" by GUM

Notes:

This is non-canon compliant since I've only just started playing Mankind Divided & I don't want to spoil it for myself. No-one asked for this, but here, have it anyway.

Chapter Text

This is a simple break and enter and steal some classified and compromising material deal, and Adam’s confident it’s all gone to plan. He’s disabled alarms and laser sensors, avoided giving the staff any intracranial bruising, and he’s found what he came here for. In and out, undetected. It’s a clean and easy job by his standards: he’s so relieved he hasn’t encountered a semi-militarised security team or a fully-militarised police squad that he lets his guard down.

The EMP grenade comes out of nowhere, and he’s too slow to roll for cover when it detonates. The shockwave is stunning, astoundingly so: first HUD drops offline, then his energy reserves drain as the air goes out of his lungs. He’s dazed and dazzled, nerves sparking with neuralgia, the pain a million pinpricks that expand by the power of a thousand. Doesn’t help matters that he’s one foot in the atrium’s central fountain.

The water feature creates a feedback loop of direct-current, seizing artificial and flesh-and-blood muscles with electrified cramps. At least, that’s what the rational part of his brain informs him. The rest is telling him this shouldn’t hurt as much as it does for as long as it does, and that something must be seriously amiss.

When the charge finally dissipates—an eternity later, and the abrupt absence of pain feels similar to pleasure—he spasms, choking, falling flat, weapon forgotten and the taste of blood on his tongue. CRAWL, his instincts scream. CRAWL. NOW.

He’s fortunate, or blessed, to get out amidst the flurry of bullets and the blaring of mechs. How did he miss the mechs? He should have been more careful, but vigilance is what he does best. So, how did he fuck this up so astronomically?

NO TIME. YOU’RE DYING, ADAM JENSEN. YOU’RE DYING AGAIN.

He drags himself to an air vent, clawing it open and squirming blindly inside, elbow over elbow, then drops several storeys when the shaft takes a vertical turn. No Icarus, either.

The impact sets off what he dully understands as convulsions. He’s receding deep into his grey matter, unseeing, distant, and dumb: his body is far away, and he wonders whether what he knows as his body can even be considered one. Not for the first time he feels the phantoms of his former arms and legs tugging and grasping, all while his prosthetic limbs flail of their own accord; as his heart hammers in its reinforced cavity.

Routine missions are what kill most cops, he remembers from his first day in the academy. He learnt through practice that it would likely be a civilian with a fear of authority and a trigger-happy finger who ended his career prematurely; a domestic dispute not taken seriously enough; a stray bullet from friendly fire. It’s not supposed to end this way, in an air vent, as a side effect of his investigations. Then again, he was supposed to be dead years ago.

According to the message tingeing his faded vision red, he’s experiencing a SYSTEM FAILURE—all caps, no questions—and on the cusp of consciousness, he doesn’t care whether he’s salvageable. He’s not sure whether he wants to be saved, anyway.