Features

Published on October 24th, 2012 | by Stephen O'Nion

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Day In The Life #1: Adam Jensen

Each week we’re lucky enough to feature a writer who we greatly admire, for both their unique perspective on (global) events, and for their grasp of the English language (except for that time we featured Q*bert). This week Adam Jensen has given us an insight into just another average day inside the sanctum of one of the world’s premier biotechnology companies, Sarif Industries.

“I never asked for this.”

I was in a Detroit coffee shop with what looked like a Cappuccino being offered to me. Goddammit. It was just another in a long line of orders that had slipped through the net in whatever the hell kind of shop this was. I distinctly remember asking for a Venti Peppermint Java Chip Frappuccino with soya milk and a chocolate straw.

I got on the InfoLink.

“Pritchard, find me a Costa Coffee. Now”

I switched off before his reply came through. I can’t stand Pritchard. I forget why. I think it’s the ponytail.

I looked outside. It was raining. Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets. I read the news. Sure it’s expensive to buy a new tablet every day just to get a couple of headlines, but I need to know what’s going on: terrorism, militias, drugs … That’s what I hate about the news, you have to scroll through about thirty pages of stuff you didn’t ask for before you reach the funnies.

“Finally, some downtime to do the junior jumble.”

Mondays. Ha. Amen, Garfield. Faridah’s going to love this one, I just need to send it – oh godammit, my inbox is full again. It may be 2027 but I’m still not allowed more than four emails.

I had been tasked with keeping an eye on some new member of Derelict Row Ballers, Ice-Dog or D-Bone or something equally realistic. Apparently he’s been stealing hypostims from the lab but I just couldn’t shake the suspicion that David was trying to get me off his back. Mainly because my social enhancer had told me he was lying shortly after I had activated, and released, my pheromones … all over his couch. Evidently Pritchard’s been messing with my social enhancer since I told the lab girls he’s nicknamed Nucl3arsnake because he got the clap.

The suspicion that David was hiding something didn’t leave me. The ball he didn’t stop tossing, could it mean something? A message? A metaphorical curve ball? That everyone at Sarif needs one defining attribute? It didn’t matter, it’d probably come to me later after reading a conveniently related e-book. Somehow I always felt wiser, more experienced even, after reading an e-book. Well, certain e-books.

Anyway, Double-Down, the baller, was trying to push drugs on the kids in this city (though thinking about it, I’ve never seen anyone under twenty actually live here). I’d asked the local homeless community what they knew but aside from telling me about a race of Illuminati reptiles heading to earth and asking if I had any specific brands of beer on me, they weren’t especially useful. 10,000 credits well spent. This is why David stopped giving me per diems.

That’s another thing about the future: there’s some really shoddy masonry

“Jensen. Move.”

Pritchard was back on the InfoLink.

“What is it Pritchard?”

“There’s a Costa about two blocks down. You must have walked by it, maybe take off the sunglasses sometime and you’ll see a sign that isn’t lit in neon. You’re not in Hengsha anymo-”

I hung up. I had to keep moving. Costa closed in a matter of minutes and I still needed to get my trench coat back from the dry-cleaners. Apparently people don’t like it when you wander in after treading through the sewers all day in a floor-length coat.

I had to rush. I was going to have to call Faridah for a lift. The cleaners get sloppy when they’re closing up. Last time they had given me someone else’s hoody and a pair of shorts.

I never asked for that.