Splinter Cell I Am The Darkness

Unloading the contents of the cart onto the counter, Sam discretely glanced around him. As natural to him as breathing, his job had hardwired situational awareness into every fiber of his being. At times, it bordered on paranoia; subtly injected in his veins by his efficacious career in small, irreversible doses.

Behind him, clients were pushing their carts impatiently, like ants programmed to forage. A woman cut off an elderly, barely glancing at her at the top of her high heels, clad in designer clothes and an air of indignation. The elderly woman jerked back awkwardly in response, unsteady on her aching legs, gripping the cart with all her senior might so that she wouldn't topple over.

Sam shook his head in disgust. The world had become an ugly, dishonourable place to live. Perhaps a younger version of himself would have gladly helped the elderly lady, offering her a smile and a steady hand, but the job had finally ground him into a ghost of his former self, unable to disconnect from the requirement to blend in, to be overlooked as just another shadow. Yes, the world had become ugly and dishonourable, and he'd adapted right with it.

A small child wailed as it ran from its mother, and his eyes followed it, becoming distant as he attempted to recall Sarah's temper tantrums. But he couldn't. He couldn't remember what he had never witnessed. The time he'd spent with his daughter when she'd been that young were few and far between. Grunting to himself at his failures as a father, he peeled his eyes away, the child now a knife to his nerves.

"Good evening sir," The cashier welcomed her client, "Paper or plastic?" He diverted his eyes to the young woman, trying not to put her in the same basket with the rest of her lax generation, swung his gaze over to the food she carelessly propelled past her scanner, and answered indifferently,

"Paper." He cleared his throat then, realizing his voice sounded as hoarse as if he'd been waking up from a hangover. Displeasure turned his lips into a scowl. Saving the world was great and all, but being home and having nothing to do with his skills made him feel like a caged tiger, growing bitter with each passing day. He had never done well with down time. Everyone was a stranger, everyone but Sarah, and she was only an acquaintance. The only other people in his life that mattered were on his team, and they scattered too when work was over. Hell, he knew his enemies better than his next door neighbour. Although… just last week an incident had caused him to think about teargasing his neighbour's apartment.

"That'll be seventy five, fifteen please. Cash or credit?" The clerk, dressed in a navy blue oversized, shapeless uniform asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

"Cash." Old ways died hard. Reaching behind him for his wallet, he opened it and pulled out eighty bucks, handing it to the cashier, and replaced his wallet. She typed in the amount after counting the bills, and the register opened with a whoosh and a ding. Fumbling with the change, the cashier only caused his mood to plummet. All too aware of the camera positions around him, he couldn't shake the dread of being caught by them for this long. Scratching the greying stubble on his chin, he sighed, shifting his weight onto the other foot. Finally turning back to him, she offered a fake smile, the receipt and the change, which he promptly took, shoving the receipt in his bag and the change in his pocket.

"Have a good one." She added.

"Thank you." He expressed flatly, grabbing his bags and felt better about being that much closer to the exit, as he expertly weaved through the slow crowd.

He didn't live far from the store, so he used his legs to carry him back home, welcoming every opportunity to exercise. The cool air met him at the exit, and he filled his lungs with its crisp autumn scent, filtering out the city's stench. Repositioning the two bags in his arms, he set out into the city he'd held an address to for merely 3 months. It wasn't extravagant by any means, but it wasn't far from where Sarah called home and it permitted him to keep an eye on her without seeming like the overprotective dad he'd always wanted to be. He couldn't very well set up shop outside her door and barge into a life he'd never been present in to begin with; he didn't feel he had the right to. Sometimes, he had to mentally shake himself, for his little girl wasn't so little anymore, and although circumstances in her life had never permitted her much of a childhood, he would always picture her in his mind's eye as an 8 year old girl with a ponytail and a balloon. It was a bogus image, he admitted, but to him she embodied innocence, and so this image of her fit the bill.

After fifteen minutes of a quick walking pace, he approached the area where he had taken up residency. It was an entire block of new maroon brick condos and apartments, which probably stood on the last square of greenery that had remained in this small developing city. There were at least 6 identical buildings, all of which could be confused as your home on a night where you'd had too much to drink. True story.

Stepping into the entrance of the rightful such complex after letting himself in, he was met with the custodian, who hurried inelegantly to the door and held it open while Sam walked in.

"Good evening Mr. Fisher," The thirty-something, rounded man flashed a smile as he struggled to hide that the small effort had made his breathing uneven. Nevertheless, he stood with his back straight, didn't smell like body odour, and avoided eye contact.

"Good evening." Keeping it simple and polite, he hoped to be left on his way. Not so. The friendly custodian hurried ahead of him, turned and sidestepped so that he wasn't quite in Sam's way, but couldn't quite be ignored either.

"I fixed the lights in the entrance and the stairwell," he looked like a dog that was waiting for a reward after doing something good, "So you won't trip and spill your groceries in the dark." _Right_. _If you only knew how I don't give a shit about that_. _Wait a minute; is he implying that I'm elderly and unstable? _Anger flashed behind Sam's eyes. The man adorned a tight lipped smile, the one that kept twitching on the left side and made you want to slice the tendon responsible. The man's smile slowly evaporated, and Fisher realised he'd been standing there, glaring. It was probably the same look he gave himself in the mirror of his bathroom when he bothered to look into it. His short grizzled hair, stubble covered clenched jaw, dark eyes under lowered brows, taut physique and stereotypical army-guy-on-leave clothes all contributed to his reputation. He'd recently made an effort to try something new, at Sarah's suggestion and bought a somewhat fashionable jacket, which he wore now. It was army green, or close to it, and he was perfectly proud to have deviated so far from his usual black, tans and greys.

Adjusting the grocery bags from slipping, he redirected his stare and mumbled a thank you as he made his way up the lit stairwell. Sam had given up trying to improve the rumors about him; he knew people thought he was a grumpy hermit. And he _was_, but a really damaged one that no one in this city or the next could relate to, and how awkward it would be to explain. Where to even begin? Sighing, he slid one of the bags down to search for his keys, retrieving them from his pocket and gained entry to his domain.

Grabbing the bag back into his arm and stepping inside the dark living room, he nudged the door closed with his shoulder, and headed to the kitchen. The building wasn't very old, so everything was wide open and spacious, and so goddamn _bright _if the curtains were left open. The owner had repainted with neutral colours before Sam had moved in, figuring the tenant would repaint to their liking, but not this one. Sam didn't care for colours nor repainting, neither did he care to adorn his walls with canvases or photos. It was very boring, and he liked it that way. Only the basics for Sam Fisher. What was the point of anything else, except collecting more dust in his absence?

Setting the bags down on the kitchen island, the blinking red light on his answering machine caught his attention. Although Sarah and Vic had poked fun at him for using an old fashioned land line, he still appreciated being available to the outside world only when it suited him, unlike the obligations of a cell phone. Although he owned one too. Top secret stuff.

Pocketing his keys, he reached over the counter and pressed the red button on the machine. As he opened the refrigerator door and sorted out his groceries, the robotic female voice proceeded to inform him at what date and time he'd missed the call.

"Hey Sam, it's Vic. Been quiet lately… you up for a beer? Let me know. See ya around." The message left him with mixed feelings as he stuffed a plastic drawer with meats. Had Sarah talked to Vic? Those two always conspired together at the slightest sign that he was off, making sure he wouldn't slip further into what they deemed an unhealthy way of living. At least, that's what Sarah would call it. Vic had another, totally impolite way to put it. But that was Vic: always giving it to you straight up, and Sam respected that. On the other hand, when Vic mentioned a beer, it usually always ended up implying a contract offer. Sam would complain about the details of said offer, but always took it nonetheless. The prospect of work was enough to lighten his mood as he examined with satisfaction his restocked, impeccably clean and still half empty refrigerator.

The bar Vic preferred for their get-togethers was a classic military joint, where young recruits and veterans alike spent their hard earned cash. Unfortunately, Vic always wanted to meet during peak hours, where the groupies came out, in full make-up and mini-skirts, hoping to catch a messed up military man they could try to heal and most likely fail. Sam cringed at the memory of clingy, drunk, desperate women. Sure, they were fine for when the urge to get laid became a nuisance, but mostly he would lie low. He stayed away from women, because when he didn't they usually ended up leaving him anyway.

"End of messages. To – " Hurriedly, he shut the damn thing up, hitting the delete button before it enumerated a long list of ways to manage the message. He made a mental note to call Vic when his mood improved. To his bad mood, Vic was like a boot camp sergeant on steroids, kicking the shit out of it until it was writhing in pain on the ground. Tonight, he liked his bad mood just fine. It was beginning to be his default setting, and it didn't even bother him anymore. He used to believe he was one of the good guys, and now, he accepted that he was just a necessary evil. To defeat the monster, you must become one. No matter how much he had fought off the transformation, it had been inevitable, he now realized.

Making his way to the large living room window, he stared down at the potted shrivelled brown twig Sarah had given him. _You have such big windows… all this sunlight, it's a crime not to have a plant here to enjoy it_, Sarah had said when she'd offered it to him as a moving in present. Some sort of Asian variety charm for something or other. He'd even failed to keep the measly plant alive. He made a small laugh at his sorry self. Before closing the blinds, he allowed himself to observe the comings and goings of the inhabitants of Moore Street. It had started to rain outside, a cold autumn drizzle, and the streets cleared of people. Those that had just gotten out of the vehicles ran to take shelter. _Hell, it's just rain_, he scoffed.

He fit well in the middle class neighbourhood, and although he probably made more than any of them in a month than they would in a year, his investments weren't visible to all. He didn't care for a big empty house, or a shiny sports car that couldn't be driven faster than the law permitted anyway. No, his investments lay nestled in a special room he'd modified in his average apartment; he was now standing in front of and unlocking the door to.

Standing in the open door with his hands in his pockets, he surveyed each item with pride; their sleek polished metal displayed proudly one besides the next in a neatly organised fashion, so that in a hurry he knew he wouldn't waste time searching for the one he needed. Surrounded by the gun bearing walls were his pistols, lit from above like centre stage performers. The agency hadn't allowed him to take home his suit or gadgets, though. The fifth freedom seemed easier to obtain. But oh no, not his gear.

Indeed, without it he was just another soldier. Lambert would have argued against that statement, believing that the man made all the difference and all that bullshit. Maybe it was true, maybe it wasn't. Maybe he'd simply been a product of good luck, landing where he did instead of someone else. Whatever the circumstances, it probably propelled him further into the mess he was today.

"Hey boys," he greeted them, his eyes passing fondly over each of them, pausing on his favourites as he went. Everything was in its place. Leaving the door open, he headed back into the kitchen to poor himself a drink. _Damn, no ice_. He felt guilty about the fifty year old whiskey alone at the bottom of his tumbler. _Worst things have happened_. He shrugged, carrying it to the living room, grabbing today's paper as he went. Yes, it was a paper copy, and yes, he was perfectly content with that. He set his drink on the low table before him after sitting down, and proceeded to spread the paper onto it, so that he could see every article on the widespread page. He liked keeping up to speed on the current affairs, and TV didn't always cut it for him. There was nothing like spending a Sunday night drinking alone while reading about how other countries were also tearing themselves apart. There was some sick sense of comfort in knowing that shit was hitting the fan all over the globe, not just close to home.

"Sam?" a familiar voice whispered in his head. Contact outside active duty was against the rules.

"Ya." He drawled out, irritation staining his voice, and he regretted it instantly. He'd missed Grim, missed hearing her voice. Sure they'd had differences over the years, but she would always be someone he held in high esteem. When she didn't reply, his brows furrowed.

"Grim?" There was another pause, and some sort of movement in the background, like the voice piece was being rubbed against something.

"Sorry Sam, I don't have much time. Wherever you are, get out. They're coming for you too. Get Sarah to safety." Her voice was still low, but hurried. His heart skipped a beat.

"Wait, what?"

"Go, Sam!" There were more noises he couldn't classify, then one he could: the loading of a pistol.

"Grim?" He got to his feet in one bound, "Anna!" Silence once again reigned in his head. _What the hell?_ Fear flooded his veins and gripped his heart. _Sarah._ His legs moved on their own, carrying him swiftly to his weapons room. Picking up his trusty SC pistol, he loaded a clip, loaded one in the chamber, and stuffed a clip in his pocket. He reached for the holster and shrugged it on, securing the pistol there. _Sarah._ Dashing out, he selected her contact info on his cell phone as he moved. How much time did he have?

"Hi dad," he took over the conversation,

"Listen to me. Go to Vic's. Now." There was a pause on the other line,

"What's going on?" _Typical_. Of course she had to question everything. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. _Patience_, he reminded himself.

"Sorry sweetheart, I'm not sure what's going on myself." He admitted. _She's a grown woman,_ he reminded himself, _tell her the truth_, "Grim told me to get you to safety. Please go to Vic's. Now." He heard her take a deep breath, and he prepared for her to rip him a new one. All women he'd known seemed to do that to him; run him over with the guilt trip wagon.

But not Sarah. She was his little girl and she still trusted him.

"Ok dad, as soon as I can." He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Ok, like now. Please. And call me on the cell when you get there." She chuckled,

"Yes daddy," she never used the daddy card unless she felt he was babying her. Her voice softened as she added, "Be careful." A tiny smile slid onto his lips.

"You too. Love you kiddo."

"Love you too." His heart softened for a moment, like every father's heart when his child utters those words, but as soon as the line went dead, fear gripped it again, snaking its cold, sharp talons around it.

"Grim?" His voice held an echo of that fear, but he shook it off, switching into the Sam Fisher that got shit done.


End file.
