But he checked all the other boxes, and I figure PR is always clawing for the decision to be made so they can start running out new information for the public’s consumption about who’s next up in defending their Perfect City™, so he was pulled in for corrections.

But like, he was grieving at the time, right, because he’d just lost Mary, who he was quite literally going to propose to as soon as she got back from her run, and it was a really hard blow to his morale. And I imagine the Company took that into account, when they were prepping, but I feel like it’s really hard to know exactly how that kind of grief effects the mind, and it’s even harder to fully compensate for. But they went through the process, and they successfully made the corrections they wanted--namely pulling some of that penchant for mercy and lack of drive to kill out of the way--only, his mind couldn’t access it properly.

It wasn’t until his grief started to subside some, which was after he’d defected, following his learning that the City had had Mary killed on assignment, that the corrections really started to kick in. And that was about the time he started reaching for a gun about as often as he’d reach for a bottle of liquor.

Those alterations probably kept him from derailing to a much darker mindset, because he has such terrible coping skills, but it was also what drove him (and still drives him) into semi-dangerous to super dangerous situations, because now he’s got this urge (that sometimes comes out of no where) to get himself into something violent.

“Ares.”

Something gently knocked against his arm again, pulling his attention back to the present. He made a low hum of acknowledgement, and slowly opened his eyes. (Was the pinched feeling behind his eyes a headache or exhaustion?)

The dracs were shifting uneasily on the other side of the fire, and the ‘crow at his side stared at him intently. Slowly, so as not to further spook the dracs and be forced to deal with their nervous chattering for the rest of the night (and god knew what at already set them off), he sat up further, spine cracking quietly as he shifted to relieve tension in his back.

The sky was dark, nothing but stars overhead, and it took him a moment longer than he’d thought it would to remember that they’d settled down for the night. In his lap, his food had gone cold, despite the fire’s closeness.

“What,” he muttered, fixing the ‘crow with a pointed look.

He hadn’t meant to drift off--hadn’t realized he had until just then--and the fact that he had was perhaps a little unsettling, but they didn’t need to know that.

“We were about to set up the tents,” the ‘crow said carefully, “I was wondering if you wanted me to grab you a clean shirt while I was at it.” The ‘sir’ he tacked on to the end was clearly an afterthought.

“I’m capable of getting my own clothes, Thompson,” he answered coolly, allowing some of his irritation to bleed into his tone. Staying in this one for so long, blood dried and crusted in patches on the bottom half, was a mistake. But he’d noticed the way the dracs had started, seeing him go straight from the raid to his seat in the car, blood still wet on his shirt. And that unease, base instincts highlighting a predator, was an important sense to cultivate. Especially given the increase in insubordination reported throughout the company. “If I felt the need to get out of this one, I’d have done so by now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Martinez.”

The man in question stopped, halfway around the fire, keys to the van in hand. “Sir?”

“Don’t disturb the bags, and make sure the van is locked up tight once you’re done.” He hadn’t had a chance to finish reading the entire study yet, but if he remembered correctly, this area had been indicated as a potential area migrating Smilers might move to, if the storms picked up earlier, like they were expected to.

“Sooner or later, my team will come back with the rest of your crew.” He shifted more onto the balls of his feet, pressing more of his weight down onto the broken wrist pinned beneath his boot. He ignored the shifting of the drac behind him as the killjoy started screaming again. He waited until she was quiet enough to easily talk over before continuing. “And unless you start telling me what I want to know, you might want to hope they’re dead when they’re brought in. Because if they’re not, and one of them starts singing like canary, I’ll make sure there isn’t enough of you left to fill one of those body bags.” 

She opened her mouth--probably to spit at him, or tell him to go to hell, or whatever he’d heard or seen thousands of times before--but he cut her off with a slight grind of his boot. “Now, before you make a decision, I want you to know, I am very good at keeping people alive. Even as I’m taking parts off them. Or out of them. So you will be alive as I pull you apart, piece by piece, until I decide I’ve grown tired enough to put you out of your misery.”

The drac’s radio crackled to life, the beginnings of a transmission from the team hunting down the rest of the girl’s crew, and Adam dismissed him to take the call out in the hall.

“So. How about we try this again?”

“Exterminator Ares, sir? The patrol’s back. Two of the rats are dead, and the other two are being loaded into the van.”

“Ah, finally.” The girl had told him everything he’d needed to know nearly fifteen minutes ago, by that point, and he’d been beginning to lose his patience with the patrol. He straightened up from his crouch, surveying the gore at his feet with disinterest. “Take this one down.”

“Uh, bits included, sir?”

He leveled an unimpressed look with the drac. “Do I look like I care whether or not she has all of her fingers? Just bring her out to the van.”

“Yes, sir.”

Adam stepped over the largest pool of blood oozing away from the girl, pulling the handkerchief free from the left inside pocket of his jacket as he stepped passed the drac and into the hallway.

He kept his stride brisk as he made his way out of the killjoys’ hovel, methodically cleaning his hands of the girl’s blood. “They conscious?” he prompted, flicking two fingers in the direction of the van.

“One is, sir. We had to-”

“I want to see that one. Now.”

Two of the dracs scrambled to comply, hauling a snarling, filthy young man out of the back of the van. They kept him on his feet, so he was closer to eye-level with the exterminator.

Adam took only a moment to shift his weight--plant himself for the best angle with minimum effort, he was already too irritated to have to make a big thing of this--before he was driving the heel of his boot into the side of the killjoy’s left knee, bones cracking under the impact.

The dracs released the man, allowing him to collapse screaming into the sand.

(Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the drac from earlier carry the unconscious killjoy to the van and toss her in beside her unconscious crewmate.)

He sighed out a breath, gaze flicking over the rat. If he had it his way, he’d leave this one and the girl behind. Should they survive, it would fan the tales of fresh violence that met anyone who tried to run from a patrol.

But it apparently wasn’t quite the message the Company wanted to convey. So they’d have to take the pair along.

“Sir-”

Adam was bringing his boot down on the man’s other knee before the drac had a chance to finish the sentence, the man’s screaming carrying over the exterminator’s hum of acknowledgment. “What,” he prompted again, once the screaming had quieted some.

“Johannsen’s got the girl in the van. Would you like us to torch the safehouse?”

Ah. “Yes.” As much as he liked to leave behind mementos of his work, it was more important to start eliminating safe locations for rats to hide out in. “Johannsen, Hunter, get this one back in the van.”

Nothing graphic or anything, but some mentions of violence.]]