During his time in the city Jack has catnapped, dozed, slept with one eye open. On a dirty floor, wedged into a hole, behind a hacked turret that would deafen him with bullets every time he closed his eyes. Here, in relative safety, even though he's in a stranger's house, he falls asleep quickly.
And before long, he starts to dream.
He's a boy again -- small, bald, limbs out of proportion. Pushing the plough through crowds of golden wheat. On the farm -- his parents' farm in Kansas. The great metal frame feels light in his hands; the uneven ground doesn't even slow him down. He's good at this. He's at home.
Then suddenly there are voices in the corn, shouting instructions, and he realises they've been telling him which way to go. Anonymous at first, they quickly turn into raucous laughter and snarls, and the splicers appear all at once. Go left. Go right. He does. Pick up the plough. Sing a song. Stand on your head. Jack tries to keep up, but it seems like he's moving at a snail's pace, like a stuck video, and the orders layer over each other until he doesn't know what he's doing.
As soon as the tears start, he's in his mother's lap, telling her all about it, and she's holding him tight and whispering shh, shhh, it's all right, it's not real, you're safe, you're safe, it isn't real, you made it all up... you made it all up, kid.
She smirks and all at once she's Fontaine, standing without apology in front of him.
Tough break, kid.
Fontaine makes a break for it down the leaking hallways of Rapture. Jack tries to chase him, but he's going too slowly again. He can't move his legs quick enough, he can't run. Only when he loses sight of Fontaine does he realise that it's because of a weight on his back, something bearing him down, something large -- Sinclair?
Sinclair, the southern gentleman, is riding on his shoulders. Kicking his feet, pulling on Jack's hair. Jack, an adult again, throws him overarm onto the ground, and tears open his stomach.
Instead of a slug, there's a tape recorder. The kind he's been finding and listening to. Jack presses a button. But instead of playing, it starts to record.
Help, he says into it. Help. Help. Get me out of here. Get me out of here!
Then he puts it down beside the body -- just a body now, not a dead person, just a body -- and looks around, desperately, for someone to find it, anyone to come by and listen to the message. But nobody's coming. Nobody's coming.
Hahaha, kid, says Fontaine on his radio, ya never did amount to much.
There are plastered statues all around him. They give him an idea. He props up Sinclair, stands him on his feet, invites him to start a conversation; Sinclair stares accusingly at him for a few moments before crumpling back onto the floor. And Jack doesn't understand why.
His mother and father are shaking their heads. No wonder we aren't real, son. Never would have wanted a boy like you.
Pathetic, says Ryan behind him.
Jack wakes up.
He's on the couch in Sinclair's dark apartment. Metal and timber groan quietly behind him. The turrets are silent. His blankets are on the floor and he's curled around his pillow as if afraid it will escape.
Quietly, his face buried in the back cushion of the sofa,
no subject
It's later.
During his time in the city Jack has catnapped, dozed, slept with one eye open. On a dirty floor, wedged into a hole, behind a hacked turret that would deafen him with bullets every time he closed his eyes. Here, in relative safety, even though he's in a stranger's house, he falls asleep quickly.
And before long, he starts to dream.
He's a boy again -- small, bald, limbs out of proportion. Pushing the plough through crowds of golden wheat. On the farm -- his parents' farm in Kansas. The great metal frame feels light in his hands; the uneven ground doesn't even slow him down. He's good at this. He's at home.
Then suddenly there are voices in the corn, shouting instructions, and he realises they've been telling him which way to go. Anonymous at first, they quickly turn into raucous laughter and snarls, and the splicers appear all at once. Go left. Go right. He does. Pick up the plough. Sing a song. Stand on your head. Jack tries to keep up, but it seems like he's moving at a snail's pace, like a stuck video, and the orders layer over each other until he doesn't know what he's doing.
As soon as the tears start, he's in his mother's lap, telling her all about it, and she's holding him tight and whispering shh, shhh, it's all right, it's not real, you're safe, you're safe, it isn't real, you made it all up... you made it all up, kid.
She smirks and all at once she's Fontaine, standing without apology in front of him.
Tough break, kid.
Fontaine makes a break for it down the leaking hallways of Rapture. Jack tries to chase him, but he's going too slowly again. He can't move his legs quick enough, he can't run. Only when he loses sight of Fontaine does he realise that it's because of a weight on his back, something bearing him down, something large -- Sinclair?
Sinclair, the southern gentleman, is riding on his shoulders. Kicking his feet, pulling on Jack's hair. Jack, an adult again, throws him overarm onto the ground, and tears open his stomach.
Instead of a slug, there's a tape recorder. The kind he's been finding and listening to. Jack presses a button. But instead of playing, it starts to record.
Help, he says into it. Help. Help. Get me out of here. Get me out of here!
Then he puts it down beside the body -- just a body now, not a dead person, just a body -- and looks around, desperately, for someone to find it, anyone to come by and listen to the message. But nobody's coming. Nobody's coming.
Hahaha, kid, says Fontaine on his radio, ya never did amount to much.
There are plastered statues all around him. They give him an idea. He props up Sinclair, stands him on his feet, invites him to start a conversation; Sinclair stares accusingly at him for a few moments before crumpling back onto the floor. And Jack doesn't understand why.
His mother and father are shaking their heads. No wonder we aren't real, son. Never would have wanted a boy like you.
Pathetic, says Ryan behind him.
Jack wakes up.
He's on the couch in Sinclair's dark apartment. Metal and timber groan quietly behind him. The turrets are silent. His blankets are on the floor and he's curled around his pillow as if afraid it will escape.
Quietly, his face buried in the back cushion of the sofa,
Jack starts to cry.