See a reborn ghost in every passing glance; some things canāt be held no matter how firm your graspĀ
The practice is more folktale than fact, but when Sarif digs a scalpel into the bruised flesh of Adamās ribcage, Pritchard knows exactly what his boss hopes to accomplish.
Frank could have told him it doesnāt work that way, but Sarif never asked.
Painting courtesy of @scootmoondog, the best moondog.
If there was anyone in the world who needed to be told less just how ruthless David Sarif was when it came to his company, Frank Pritchard had yet to meet them. That doesnāt mean he wants extra proof, but damn if he isnāt staring right at it.
With Jensen still in post-op and most of his security team either dead in the labs or wrangling the masses crowding their front doors looking for a chance to spit or gloat, it falls to Pritchard to review what footage they have of the attack and its aftermath. He grits his teeth through the whole of Jensenās surgery videos also, but still he forces himself to watch. Itāsā¦ a form of penance, really. He and Jensen may not have always gotten along, but that sort of torture isnāt something Frank would wish on anyone. Heās not talking about the attack, either. The end of the tape is almost a relief, with all the blood and viscera washed down the drain and Jensen falling still and silent after hours of unconscious thrashing heād ineffectually been sedated against. The last doctor leaves, and everything calms. Then Sarif enters the room, alone.
The practice is more folktale than fact, but when Sarif digs a scalpel into the bruised flesh of Adamās ribcage, Pritchard knows exactly what his boss hopes to accomplish.
Frank could have told him it doesnāt work that way, but Sarif never asked.
The tape was hours old by the time Pritchard got it; thereās nothing he can do to stop Sarif from taking Jensenās heart. Thereās nothing he can do to keep from gagging at the casual, callous handling of such an intimate object by someone who wants it only for control. Nothing he can do but swallow the bile that rises as he watches the softly beating organ lowered into a sterile white box, cold and comfortless. And absolutely nothing he can do to stop himself from turning away, dry heaving into his trash can when he sees the disgusting polymer thing Sarif slides in to replace it, holding the edges of the wound together until it seals beneath his hand with only a faint scar to show anything is amiss.
What Frank can do - what he does do - is destroy every copy of the surveillance video save one, stashed on his own private server in case Jensen ever asks for proof. Then, he follows Sarifās path through the building, erasing all evidence of the crime - because thatās what this is, if only the courts knew enough to prosecute it - and tracking Jensenās heart to whatever gilded cage their boss has constructed for it.
Sarif sets it in plain sight, on the mantle of his ridiculous fireplace under his copy of The Anatomy Lesson, like the sick trophy it is.
Frank tries not to grind his teeth to dust.
Nothing much changes in the six months Jensen spends recovering. Pritchard claims jurisdiction over the security feeds for the penthouse offices from Adamās minions, leaving them to comb through everything else while he keeps a constant eye on the box. Heās come up with four hundred and fifty one increasingly implausible plans to retrieve it by the time Sarif decides to cut Jensenās recovery short. Thankfully, it seems like their boss isnāt interested in immediate control, because the heart stays behind when he accompanies Jensen to Milwaukee Junction.
In fact, it doesnāt move at all over the next month as Adam untangles the threads of a global conspiracy whose nexus appears to be far closer to home than any of them could have ever thought. Sarif doesnāt even take it with him when he leaves for Panchaea, and Frank seizes the opportunity. Jensen went off the grid twenty-four hours ago and the only thing Pritchard can focus on is opening that damn box and making sure the heart inside still beats.
He never returns it to the mantle - never even finds out what their boss wanted with Adamās heart in the first place - because two days later Panchaea crumbles into the ocean and thereās no Sarif around to demand it back. Six months after that, thereās no mantle, either.
Pritchard liberates a lot of Sarif property from Tai Yongās greedy claws before they even know itās slipped through their grasp, but there is none more precious than that sterile white box. The last thing he does, besides destroy the box and all security tapes that ever show it existed, is to empty it. There is only one place Frank can bear to put its contents now; one place where he will always know it still beats even when the man himself is missing, presumed dead.
Itās surprisingly painless to cut himself open and slip Adamās heart between his ribs to nestle against his own.
Adamās heart beats so slow he almost forgets itās there, some days. The day it speeds up Frank has to force himself not to react, to remain calm. He finishes the job heās doing for Magnet, takes his payment, and retreats to the Rialto as fast as he can while still being discreet. The next few days are a mess of caffeine pills and frequency scans as he searches the globe for any signs of Jensen or his old GPL tracker.
The shiver of his infolink as it auto-connects to a contact thatās lain dormant for a year pulls Pritchard out of where heās slumped in an exhausted doze with a shot of adrenaline. His heart rabbits against his ribs, frantic next to the steady beat of Jensenās. Still, his paranoia is legendary and itās only grown since his return to black hat work.
āWho is this?ā He snaps, fingers digging into his chest hard enough to bruise.
The next week is a terrifying reminder of just how dangerous life with Adam Jensen can be. The man seems to thrive on impossibilities; the gravity of his indomitable will tugging everything around him in to burn like falling stars in his wake as he spins on unceasingly through the dark. Frank could never admit it out loud but, no matter how hard he tries to escape, heās caught in that orbit just the same.
Theyāre outside the Rialto, adventure over for the time being. Everything Pritchard owns now can fit in the back of a beat-up van. Everything of Jensenās that Frank could save from Sarif Industries fits in two boxes at their feet except the one thing beating a solid reminder between his ribs. Heās not sure how to say it, that he took Adamās heart - saved it, really - and has been keeping it next to his own. Heās not certain how he wants Jensen to react to the knowledge, even. Itās like heās a teenager again, hesitant and unsure and feeling too large for his own skin.
āIā¦ have something else of yours. Do you want it back?ā
Adamās gaze drops, just for a second, to where two hearts brush against each other in the cavity of Frankās chest. Thereās a novel written in that silence, but all Jensen says when he breaks it is a quiet, āNo.ā
He waits until Adamās long gone to curl up in the front seat of the van, hand pressed to his aching scar. Heās not sure if itās relief or disappointment that sends a few lonely tears down his face, but he scrubs them away and tells himself it doesnāt matter in the end.
Seven months later he only agrees to Sarifās job offer because it leads him to Prague, closer to Adam. David never asks about the heart, which is good because Frank doesnāt have an answer that doesnāt reveal far more than heās comfortable with, especially to the man who removed it in the first place.
Itās good - too good, almost - to see Adam again, even if itās only through a screen. Every conversation they have is a test of Frankās self-control. His ribs ache with the strain of nearly two years of supporting more than just himself and heās not sure how much longer he can take the extra weight.
The finality of Jensenās goodbye, abrupt and cut off, drives Frank to his knees. Alone - but never truly, not anymore - he allows the collapse, clutching his chest as both hearts break in tandem, echoing against each other until heās sure heāll die from the pain. At least, he thinks ruefully, if itās his own that gives out first, his coffin is the last place anyone would look for Adamās.
If thatās all he can offer anymore, itāll have to be enough.
He books passage to Prague as soon as Sarif leaves for England. One more time, he tells himself, heāll offer just one more time and whatever answer Adam gives, heāll figure out what to do then.
He watches Jensenās apartment remotely for the two days it takes Interpol to return from London. He watches Vega sneak in and out and in again, not nearly as stealthy as she thinks she is. He watches Adam come home and not even be surprised to find her there. He nearly convinces himself to go - abandon the plan and flee back to Detroit and the places heās known most of his life but that arenāt home anymore - three times in the twenty minutes they talk. Then Vega leaves and it takes another three tries to will his body to move.
Adam looks exhausted when he opens the door, but Frank is almost positive he looks worse. Jensenās shed his body armour and pulled back his eyeshields, at least for the moment, finally allowed some down time. His mission load over the last few weeks had increased dramatically and there had been at least once instance in which Pritchard had lain awake for hours, mind a thousand miles away from his body, fingers bloody where he dug them into his chest, willing Adamās heart to keep going keep going keep going donāt you dare stop now. Neither says a word as they move into the kitchen. If Jensenās surprised that Frank is there, knows his way around the flat, he doesnāt show it. In the end, all Pritchard can do is offer him a choice.
Silently, he pushes two things across the center island: a box and a knife.
Adam eyes them both, expression unreadable despite not wearing his ridiculous shades. When he reaches for the knife Frank sighs, shrugging out of his jacket and pulling his turtleneck off so Jensen can cut him open unimpeded. Adam freezes, staring, and Frank looks down.
His own scar is no longer the neat, pale line that Adamās is. Itās ragged, scabbed over where heās rubbed it raw more than a few times, and surrounded by dozens of smaller cuts where heās dug his fingernails into the skin again and again. The whole left side of his chest is bruised in one way or another; a vivid green and purple watercolour testament to his worry these last two years. Itās been so long since Frank has really looked at himself that he forgot there would be physical evidence. The ache is as much a part of him as the ribs beneath it. Itās not something heād ever planned on telling Adam though, thatās for sure.
āWhat,ā Jensen rasps, barely a whisper, loud in the quiet of the apartment.
Itās not really a question, but Pritchard answers anyway. āI canāt carry them both. I tried.ā
Adam drops the knife and it clatters noisily across the counter. Frank flinches, not from that, but because thereās suddenly a sleek black hand pressed to his scar. When he looks up again, Adamās opened the box - real wood, worn and treasured and much nicer than sterile white plastic, thank you very much Sarif - with his other hand and is staring wide-eyed at the steadily beating heart cradled inside.
āWhy?ā Jensenās voice cracks, and Pritchard looks away from the hurt on his face.
āI canāt carry them both,ā he repeats, trying to step back from the cold polymer on his chest. It feels too good, he canāt bear it. The heart on the table beats faster.
Adam follows, expression suddenly fierce as he snatches the knife back up and pushes the grip into Frankās palm. āPut it back.ā
He grabs the box next, taking another step forward for every one Pritchard takes backward until thereās nowhere left to retreat to. Frank swallows heavily, a carving of soaring Icarus pushed uncomfortably against his spine, as Adam draws their hands up, the blade scraping against his own chest. āPut it back where it belongs.ā
When Frank hesitates, Adam leans forward. Black blooms on his undershirt, the grey fabric eagerly soaking up the blood they spill. Pritchard takes a shuddering gasp as Jensen drags the knife down and deep, neither paying any mind where it falls when itās then tossed haphazardly to the floor. Pale fingers press in, shaking as they pull an artificial heart from between reinforced ribs. This too is tossed carelessly away, clattering against the floor. They breathe in tandem, ragged and shivering, as Frank tenderly lifts his own heart from itās wooden bed. He stares helplessly at it held between them until Adam shifts closer still, a broken Francis, please muffled into his bare shoulder. He slides it gently beneath Adamās skin, feeling it slot perfectly into place.
The wound seals under his hand and it feels like coming home.
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