Jack Ryan (
did_unkindly) wrote in
weathertop2013-02-23 02:59 am
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darling it's better down where it's wetter
It's been a day, it's been a day, it's been a whole damn day -- as near as it's possible to tell in this soggy excuse for a city. It's been a day since he killed Fontaine. And Jack is no closer to getting out. He's still down here. He did everything he was supposed to do and he's still down here.
All he's found is locked-down bathyspheres. Broken submarines. Even the goddamn boats are out of service. Where's Tenenbaum? Where's his fucking rescue?
Jack stares about into the greenish gloom, checks the ammo in his pistol, and then kicks and yanks off the rusting panel of a vending machine. His hands are soon full of little wires and pipes. A few seconds later, he straightens up with a grunt, and the machine gives him a tidy discount on a couple glowing hypos of EVE.
With his visit extended indefinitely, he's begun to wonder how many of them are left.
Now arbitrarily divided into chapters!
Part One: A Scene at the Rapture Adoption Agency ~or~ You Found [Pot of Ham]!
Part Two: Come On-A My House, I'm Gonna Give-A You Candy ~or~ Sinclair? More Like Sin Pantalones!
Part Three: Dream Sequences are a Fresh New Concept in Fiction ~or~ It's My Existential Trauma and I'll Cry if I Want To
Part Four: Southern Education Jokes ~or~ Engineer, Engifar, Engiwherever You Are ~or~ The Grave Escape
Part Five: Golfing Accident Memoirs ~or~ Mom... Dad... I'm Immortal ~or~ How To Make Friends And Immolate People
Part Six: Is It A Pie? Is It A Plane?? ~or~ Two's Company, Three's a Row
Part Seven: Escort Missions! In Rapture! Council's In An Uproar ~or~ Bioshock: Cheesecake Edition
Part Eight: Bread, Milk, BATTLE! ~or~ Pleasant Conversations, How They Bore Me
Part Nine: Choices, Schmoices ~or~ Baby's First Moral Philosophy ~or~ Go Away I Want To Take A Damn Bath
Part Ten: A Man Snoozes; A Slave Delays ~or~ The Four Second Rule Applies To Drugs
Part Eleven: A Hearty Meal ~or~ Skeletons In The-- That's Not A Closet
Part Twelve: We All Live in a Secret Submarine ~or~ Plasmids: Not Even Once
Part Thirteen: Paging Dr Tenenbaum To Surgery ~or~ Bribery And Deduction
Part Fourteen: The Prodigal Son Returns
All he's found is locked-down bathyspheres. Broken submarines. Even the goddamn boats are out of service. Where's Tenenbaum? Where's his fucking rescue?
Jack stares about into the greenish gloom, checks the ammo in his pistol, and then kicks and yanks off the rusting panel of a vending machine. His hands are soon full of little wires and pipes. A few seconds later, he straightens up with a grunt, and the machine gives him a tidy discount on a couple glowing hypos of EVE.
With his visit extended indefinitely, he's begun to wonder how many of them are left.
Now arbitrarily divided into chapters!
Part One: A Scene at the Rapture Adoption Agency ~or~ You Found [Pot of Ham]!
Part Two: Come On-A My House, I'm Gonna Give-A You Candy ~or~ Sinclair? More Like Sin Pantalones!
Part Three: Dream Sequences are a Fresh New Concept in Fiction ~or~ It's My Existential Trauma and I'll Cry if I Want To
Part Four: Southern Education Jokes ~or~ Engineer, Engifar, Engiwherever You Are ~or~ The Grave Escape
Part Five: Golfing Accident Memoirs ~or~ Mom... Dad... I'm Immortal ~or~ How To Make Friends And Immolate People
Part Six: Is It A Pie? Is It A Plane?? ~or~ Two's Company, Three's a Row
Part Seven: Escort Missions! In Rapture! Council's In An Uproar ~or~ Bioshock: Cheesecake Edition
Part Eight: Bread, Milk, BATTLE! ~or~ Pleasant Conversations, How They Bore Me
Part Nine: Choices, Schmoices ~or~ Baby's First Moral Philosophy ~or~ Go Away I Want To Take A Damn Bath
Part Ten: A Man Snoozes; A Slave Delays ~or~ The Four Second Rule Applies To Drugs
Part Eleven: A Hearty Meal ~or~ Skeletons In The-- That's Not A Closet
Part Twelve: We All Live in a Secret Submarine ~or~ Plasmids: Not Even Once
Part Thirteen: Paging Dr Tenenbaum To Surgery ~or~ Bribery And Deduction
Part Fourteen: The Prodigal Son Returns
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Well not every room, he supposes, but that one was locked.
But it's just a doorknob, and at the risk of attracting unwanted attention, perhaps he can cure that door of its desire to keep them out.
Sinclair gets to his feet and wanders back into the reception area, drawing his gun as he approaches door number three. He stands back a ways to avoid potential door shrapnel, aims the gun and fires.
Splinters go flying, a good sign. But when he looks at the door, there's a hole through it but it appears to be just as locked as before. He approaches it, cursing under his breath, and shoves at it
and it gives. It's open. Jesus god, it worked.
He steps inside, grinning shamelessly at this wonderful accomplishment and sweet christ what is that smell?
The room is just as identical as the previous two except for the rotting corpse tied to the operating table.
Sinclair buries his nose in the crook of his elbow and walks up to the body, looking it over. It's missing most of its teeth, all of its fingers, and it appears to have been scalped. If Sinclair looks to his right, he'll find a tray full of bloody surgical tools lined up meticulously next to nine decaying digits. He's very sure he doesn't want to know what happened to the tenth.
Clearly the kind of surgery intended to save a life. You bet.
But for all of revolting brutality of the scene laid out before him, he got what he came here for. The body is tied to the operating table with a rope, bound again and again around its torso. Poor bastard wasn't going anywhere.
He works out where he can begin untying it and, once he's got that figured out, takes a deep breath to hold while he gets it undone. It requires a few breaks to step out and breathe before he comes back to it again, but a few minutes later it's over. Sinclair has acquired one rope with bonus blood stains. Now they're in business.
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Beside the ruined staircase, he frowns upwards, searching for his lovely assistant.
"Mister Sinclair?"
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"Looks like I was mistaken," he says, dropping it on the floor and getting to work tying it around the banister.
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Turns out this is just what he needs to bring his mood back up a notch. They're totally getting ahead after all!
Now he just needs to stop thinking about... everything, ha, what a time to start thinking about things. He could really do without these Fontaine name-drops if it's all the same to everyone. They should've put that on the adverts for ADAM: guaranteed to stop you caring that everyone you knew and loved might as well be dead! End creeping discomfort, or your money back!
Anyway.
He plays with the rope a bit while Sinclair ties it, checking for any obvious fraying. He's not hoping for another tumble. But as it turns out, the greatest danger might be slipping on all this... stuff, this kind of nasty covering that smells exactly like some of the older corpses he's plundered.
Dang, Sinclair, you didn't find this in a store-room, did you.
Well, Jack has smelled worse.
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"Hope you don't mind," he says, "I borrowed it from our friend up here. Not exactly the most, uh...hygienic fella."
It had to be a rope, after all.
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Once it's done being tied, he gives it the same experimental tug he gave the first one, then pulls a 'welp here we go' kind of face and hauls himself onto it.
His hands, as expected, slip a lot. But he's strong enough to make kinks in the rope for extra grip, tensing his arms and forcing each part he holds to be horizontal.
All things considered, he makes slow but reasonable progress.
He tries not to be too aware of the ground getting further and further away beneath him. Or the way the rope sways alarmingly with his movements. He's just climbin'. Yep. He's mostly lived through Rapture so far, a bit of climbin' isn't too risky. Nope.
Near the top, he loses his grip, tries to grab some rope that's a bit too slick with rotting people juice and slides. With an alarmed little noise, he clenches fists and feet and thighs around the rope and makes the mistake of looking down.
He stalls himself two feet further down, and looks up at Sinclair with the fairly undisguised look of a man whose fake-ass life just flashed before his eyes.
Please let that knot at the top be secure please oh please he will kill you if you make him fall again oh my god.
There aren't any incidents after that, but it's still with a certain amount of relief that Jack scrambles over the banister and onto solid ground. Jack leans his butt against the banister and stretches, quite deliberately not looking down again.
I mean it's not the first time he's done stupid acrobatics, but he does usually prefer to have his feet planted on the floor.
A quick triumphant grin is directed at Sinclair.
And it's worth mentioning that between the extended Bouncer search, and getting up close and personal with dead people rope, Jack smells pretty bad. Worse than the usual Rapture combo of unwashed dude and trashcan residue. His hands and clothes are entirely vile, encrusted with who knows what kinds of grime, not that this keeps him from a dedicated attempt to wipe off the one on the other.
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Another thing is also for sure: when they get back to Sinclair's apartment, they're not doing anything until Jack takes a bath. I mean really, at least the rotting corpse is only one kind of gross. Jack's got a whole assortment, a menagerie of grossness on his sweater alone, never mind the rest of him.
"I spotted a crawl space in the last room there," he tells him, gesturing at the third door. "Looks to go right through to another room. Unless you've got any other ideas." You know. So they don't have to do any more backtracking.
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Blissfully oblivious to the dead horse Sinclair's narration is beating, Jack turns towards... actually, hang on, he turns back again, thinking of something.
"...Should we take the rope?"
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He shrugs. "If you want to carry it."
You're gross enough, a little extra will hardly even be noticeable.
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Jack spends a couple minutes squatted by the banister, pulling out Sinclair's lame-ass knot and rolling up the rope. It's a nice bit of light work to get the cramp from climbing out of his hands. It's also gross as hell. But the man eats stale cake out of trash cans, he's worn Big Daddy pheromones, he is basically immune to repellant stinks at this point.
All gross as hell comers are welcome in his inventory; he does not judge. ♥
Then he leads the way through the door, opening it just a crack at first to check for-----
Huh. Okay, there's no danger per se, but this is still a hell of a room.
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"And here's the kindly gentleman who lent us that rope," he says, coughing a bit. "Don't think I care to know what happened to him."
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"That was nice of him," says Jack, while he fishes half a pep bar out of the corpse's pocket.
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Which reminds him, the goodies he found are still sitting in the reception area. While Jack loots the room, Sinclair steps out for a breath of less putrid air and makes sure to get them before he comes back in.
"Thought you might be needing these," says Sinclair, laying the med kit and two EVE hypos out on the table at the corpse's feet.
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"Thanks, mister Sinclair!"
(And if the way he says it doesn't make you want to say 'you're welcome, li'l Billy' and pat him on the head then I just don't know what to say to you.)
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"Crawl space is down there. You want to check it out first or do you think we oughta just go for it? There's no other way out of here that I've seen."
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"I'll try it," he offers. After all, it's not like there are splicers in here, and if there are any beyond it he's better equipped to deal with them than Sinclair is. It just makes sense.
He squats down by the crawlspace entrance, then gets on his hands and knees and starts to squirm through.
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"What do you see?"
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"Coast's clear!"
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Which is less of a room and more of a long hallway. It appears to turn a corner towards the other end of it, so Sinclair supposes that is their destination. All of the open doors along it make him a bit nervous though; anything could be in any one of the rooms they're about to pass. There's graffiti covering the walls and doors, some of it political, some of it sexual, some of it both.
But for all the crude messages, the dripping paint and messy lettering, there's something about it that really unsettles him. There aren't so many that it's the first thing you'd notice, but all along the length of the wall, there are these butterflies. They're drawn on with a little more care than the angry smears of protest against Ryan, by different hands. Some are small, some are bigger, but they're all a soft blue and white against the furious red that spans the rest of the hall. He's seen them before in a couple other places, but never as many in one spot. He knows what they are.
This must have been a popular area for splicers at some point, an entire hall full of rooms with beds. But looking through the doors now as they pass them, most of the mattresses are missing from the bed frames. There doesn't appear to be a single room that's livable anymore, they're all full of rubble and crumbling furniture and leaking pipes. It's almost depressing, if Sinclair actually cared about the state of Rapture anymore.
He follows Jack in silence, listening closely for any potential remaining splicers who may have decided that a deteriorating home is better than no home at all.
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He doesn't pay a lot of mind to the butterflies; maybe someone was trying to brighten up the place. Some of the graffiti does make him flash a quick grin, though. Particularly the one about Andrew Ryan's tiny unsatisfying genitals.
(The word 'penis' is hilarious when you're three.)
Then something gives him pause.
With all the junk and broken mess on the floor, wood, water, shrapnel... their own footsteps aren't exactly silent. But still. There should only be two sets of them.
Jack stops moving, and glances at Sinclair to see if he's heard it too.
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Reaching for his gun, he gestures for Jack to go on ahead. The quiet splicers always seem just a little more dangerous.
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He steps forward carefully -- can't keep his own feet from making noise on the infinite layers of debris, but he does almost certainly have power on his side, even without the element of surprise. He reaches the corner, hugging the wall, and readies a shot of Electrobolt.
Then he peers around it, aims and------
------it's a human.
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Tenenbaum, too, expected splicers.
Or... splicers that weren't him, at least. Although if he's here, that might confirm a theory she has about the window-shuddering crash that went down some number of hours ago. It definitely seemed to be a failed escape attempt by someone, and why not Rapture's latest big man on campus?
Her mouth tightens. Even out of contact, she expected to run into him sooner or later. Rapture is an unfortunate place, after all.
"Jack."
She does not move her finger off the trigger.
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Sinclair watches Jack's face for a moment, trying to determine how safe it would be to step out and look at her. He doesn't seem to be afraid, he looks. Well. He looks the way he did when Sinclair first approached him himself, only perhaps a little less uncertain.
But he doesn't pick up any signs of immediate danger, so he walks out beside Jack.
...He knows this woman. He's seen her face before, but he can't place a name.
"Have we met?" he asks with a friendly enough smile.
Because she was definitely talking to him.
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"I was not speaking to you." And there, that's more than enough time and attention spent on Sinclair. Back to Jack.
"So this is the company you are keeping now."
Hanging around with the guy who sold them those Big Daddy candidates, it's almost like Jack is going back to his roots.
...Ow, okay, she hurt herself with that one.
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