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Jensen doesn’t like unknowns.
They’re inevitable, sure— especially in his line of work, let alone life— so he tries to live with the ones he can, until they’re risks he’s not willing to leave unasked or unexplored. Things like whoever this Janus figure is behind the curtains and shadows in the Collective. Or who all was involved in Panchaea. Or the possible double agents at TF29 (besides himself).
The big unknowns. The questions he hunts for answers for at the risk of life and limb, knowing some of it might still be obscured to him.
But now he’s sitting in Koller’s underground workshop, staring up at the limbed-ceiling while the doctor works on his malfunctioning hand, debating a much more recent and much less pressing unknown that’s been worming into him this morning since he arrived.
He lets his mind and eyes wander across the surprisingly quiet workshop, staring past all the clutter and machinery, almost unaware of the other man testing various connections and reflexes in his half-numb augmented hand.
There’s no harm in just asking him, Jensen thinks to himself.
Would it be the wrong time to ask, considering that he’s known him for three months now?
(Or because he’s actively working on the mechanisms of his augmented hand?)
Or would it be worse to keep this feeling of not knowing when he could just get clarification now, instead of risking getting it wrong after all this time?
Finally, after annoying himself with his own internal debate, he asks,
“Have I been saying your name wrong?”
“Hm?" Václav hums, still hunching over Jensen’s arm, not even bothering to look up. "What, Koller? Nah, you've got it.”
“Your first name, I mean. Lucina out front called you Va-slav when you were at the front desk," he answers, trying to mimic what he heard.
“Ah! Yeah! Václav. Like, an English S, but ehhh, not really that either. It uh— the sound kinda… Václav,” he repeats again, scrunching up his nose, trying to think of a way to explain it.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize. You never corrected me.”
“That’s sweet of you to ask, Jensen,” he smiles, glancing up through the loose strands of hair hanging in his face. “But I never corrected you because I don’t really mind. Most people pronounce my name with their native… sounds, and I really don’t care one way or the other. Easier to just let it be, you know? It really doesn’t bother me.”
He shrugs, leaning back down toward Jensen’s arm, calibrating various connections that Jensen currently can’t feel at all.
“Alright,” Jensen says. “Well if you ever notice, I’ve been trying to keep up with learning Czech. I think it’ll help if I get it right.”
“Okay! I’ll keep an ear out then, on the off chance you do use my first name. If you start speaking fluent Czech one day, by the way, I’m gonna blame it on your language aug and my hard work,” he jokes. Before Jensen can respond, Václav reconnects something and feeling floods back into his arm, fuzzy and full of static, like waking up a limb that’s fallen asleep. “There! That shouuuld do the trick. Can you move your fingers? Flex each into the palm and back out.”
He obliges, pushing through the fuzzy feeling until it clears, flexing his augmented fingers back and forth.
“See, what did I tell you? Quick, painless, and just like new.” Václav beams from his seat, pushing away from ‘The Chair’ with his feet and sending himself closer to his desk. “You really ought to be more careful. I know I don’t need to tell you that, and there’s not much you can do between living life and whatever toll Interpol takes on you, but as your doctor, I think I’m a bit obligated to remind you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Jensen says as he stands to full height, shrugging his coat back on, flexing his hand again. “Good job, Václav,” he adds after a pause. The doctor gives him a knowing look.
“See? You’re already getting the hang of it.”
It’s later that week, early enough in the morning that the night-life are still crawling back home and the day crowd haven’t started their work commute, that he finds himself knocking on the Time Machine’s front door, peering through the windows for signs of life. He knows Lucina usually unlocks the door five minutes before opening, and tends to be there thirty minutes before that, but can’t see her inside. And the guy in the back (Cameron, he thinks? No. Kamil.) doesn’t have a set schedule, he's pretty sure.
He knocks again, one knuckle rapping a rhythmic pattern, before glancing down at the package in his hand again. He’d spotted it just outside the metro station, kicked aside in a puddle by the curb. Something in him, a curiosity or police academy instinct, wanted to know what it was— trash? A drop-off? Stolen goods? Something to worry about?— and to his surprise, he’d found an antique book still nestled inside among the spilled packing peanuts.
He didn’t need to look at the address on the side to guess where it was meant to go.
So here he is, standing outside the Time Machine, wondering if he should just tuck the package by the back door, hold onto it, or find another way in. Before he can make a choice, he sees Václav hurrying down the stairs, rounding the corner from his office, waving to him. He’s already talking before he even gets the door open, getting a bemused chuckle out of Jensen.
“Hey man, is everything alright? You don’t have an emergency or anything right?” Václav asks, pulling the door open and ushering him inside. He pops behind the front counter by the register, trying to get things ready for opening, as Jensen stands on the other side. “You look alright. Sorry I didn’t get down here sooner. Saw you on the cameras and tried to wrap up everything I was working on. Lucina has the day off, or she’d let you in normally. I dunno where Kamil is, but he’ll show up.”
“It’s fine. I came by because I found something of yours. Figured you’d want it sooner rather than later.” Václav gives him an odd look, then tilts his head to look at the package Jensen holds up, rattling its contents slightly.
“What is… ah! Thank you! I was wondering what happened to that. Never made its way to the bookshop’s back room. Wasn’t part of a big shipment either, so tracking it was too expensive. It’s just kinda been in the void, you know? Where was it?”
“In the street. Found it by the stairs to the metro.”
“Man, who just throws something out in the street like that? After all that work to take it? Not a lot of people wanting to steal books, I guess,” he frowns, hustling out from behind the counter to take the box from Jensen’s hands. “Must’ve opened it and felt pretty disappointed when it didn’t have someone's inheritance money or bottles or Neuropozyne inside or something. How’d you guess it was mine?”
“By the fact that it says ‘Vaclav Koller’ on the label,” he shrugs, reverting back to his old way of pronouncing Václav’s name.
“Well thank you, Adam Yensen, for adding ‘Delivery Aug’ to your list of jobs.”
Jensen blinks in surprise, shooting a look under his glasses toward him upon hearing Yensen, and watches him smirk back at him, frisbeeing the beat up cardboard toward the back door.
“Václav,” he says with a nod. “I’ll get it.”
“Hey man, you asked,” he laughs, vanishing behind a row of oak shelves before re-emerging with a matching ladder.
“Clever. It works, so thanks,” he says genuinely, before adding “I’ll sound like a local by next week.”
“With the American accent? Oh, of course. Most Prague locals sound like they’re from Detroit, if you haven’t noticed,” Václav snarks back.
“You know I’m from Detroit?”
“What, you think I don’t do my research on my favorite guy from Interpol? The Sarif augs are kind of a giveaway though man. Easy guess, since, you know, that’s where he’s located.” Václav waves him off, smiling, as he climbs up to the top of the shelf and plucks out a couple of books, nestling them into the crook of his arm with the newest one.
“... Yensen, huh?”
“Fun, right? I figured it would help you out with pronunciations like you asked without having to completely derail conversations.” He jumps down from the ladder’s top step to the floor, landing in front of Jensen.
“You don’t really need any help derailing conversations.”
“Pff, incredible. Insulting, even. I could kick you out for that, you know,” he rolls his eyes, sarcasm dripping off his every word as he drags the ladder back.
“Even after a good-will delivery? Nice to know how you treat your customers.”
“Now see, customer would imply you’re here to buy a book,” he replies with a grin.
“I could be,” Jensen snarks, then pauses for a moment, glancing around the expansive shop. The morning light is starting to peek through the front windows, casting a soft warmth across the wood and carpet and paper and book spines. It’s a beautiful breath of fresh air in the middle of the city’s turmoil. “I wouldn’t mind having something to read on my longer work… commutes.”
Václav’s expression suddenly turns a bit sheepish.
“You don’t really have to buy anything, you know. But hey, if you’re really looking, I have suggestions! Have you even gotten a proper tour of the shop yet?” He gestures out toward the stairs and up to the shelves on the upper floor. “Or maybe you just want to wander around? See where the mood takes you? Because I, uh, am waiting for more deliveries. And I kind of need to be there to accept them. In my, ah, office, I mean.”
“I’m sure I’ll find something,” Jensen nods, heading for the shelves toward the back. “I’ll see you around.”
Václav waves him off, two-stepping up the stairs.
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t do anything crazy enough to hurt yourself, okay? But if you do, tell me about it. I wanna hear that story. And enjoy whatever book you find!” he calls, vanishing down the hall, before sticking his head back out. “Genuinely, though, try not to—”
“Koller,” Jensen starts, glancing at him from the stair landing over the top of his glasses.
“Right, right, find a book, enjoy it! I’m off to work. See you, Yensen.”
And with that, he leaves and amused Adam Jensen browsing the shelves in a rare content silence.