darling it's better down where it's wetter

[did_unkindly]

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

Comments

[did_unkindly]

He turns towards the window obediently, glad to have a job. Shifts across his seat to get closer, get more of a view.

At the beginning of the voyage, he would've been close enough to the Welcome Center to spot the fuselage, maybe some of the unfortunate souls still trapped in and around it. It's... probably for the best that they waited, all things considered.

"I see glowing," he reports. He's not 100% on their bearings relative to the place, but glowing means power means Hephaestus, right? Low to the sea floor, some kind of frantic activity going on through the windows... The angle's all wrong to make much out, of course.

"Not much else, though."

[modestman]

"Ah well," Sinclair shrugs. "We'll find it, don't worry about that."

Never mind that he has no idea how they're going to find it. They will. They will because they have to. They don't have a choice.

The bathysphere goes dark for a few seconds before rising to the surface again in the Olympus Heights dock.

...He really doesn't want to go through the same shit they went through last time they were here. But he looks at Jack, waiting for his judgment.

[did_unkindly]

Jack's had the same idea. He hops quickly out of the bathysphere, keen to not let Sinclair down twice in a row.

"I'll go first." He pulls the gross and gory wrench out of his belt. Honestly any splicer not killed outright will probably die of infections anyway. "Clear it out."

[modestman]

Sinclair stops himself from asking Jack if he's sure; the kid can't die, there's nothing particularly at risk by him going first. So Sinclair lets him.

He closes the bathysphere door after him all but a crack, ready to seal it if the splicers come out again, and he waits.

[did_unkindly]

Jack lopes away, out of the station and out of sight.

Sinclair now has an opportunity to appreciate the unique soundscape of a fight to the death. At least three or four splicers are screaming and swearing, yelling and accusing all kinds of things, as they do. One goes quiet mid-way through "Give her back to me, I won't let you--". Another goes from a shriek of anger to a scream of agony and doesn't stop for a long time.

Jack is habitually silent, or at least doesn't make any noises -- besides crunching and gunfire -- which carry as far as the bathy.

Except for once -- he does cry out once, towards the middle of the fight, loud and very much in pain. But then that stops and the fight goes on, so presumably he survived.

Then everyone is dead, and there's a little more crunching and squishing, loud in the silence. Jack doesn't reappear immediately, though.

[modestman]

Well that's...worrisome, but Sinclair reminds himself again and another time that Jack can't die. So really worrying is useless. Unless for some reason Jack was injured in a way that it would take him a long time to bleed out, in which case he could be waiting for a while. And that's also a really gruesome way to go, promise of respawning or not. He wouldn't exactly wish that on anyone he was remotely fond of.

But it sounds like he's coming back, though there's no way to know for sure until he sees him. To be on the safe side, he stays in the bathysphere.

And closes it all the way, just to be safe.

[did_unkindly]

And Jack reappears at the station entrance. I'd like to say his clothes and so on are bloodier, but the only way that could happen at this point would be for Jack to literally bathe in the stuff. He's not moving like he's injured, for what it's worth.

"Mister Sinclair?" he calls. "You can come out."

[modestman]

Sinclair lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and unlatches the bathysphere door, stepping out with his good leg first.

"Some fight," he comments, gesturing for Jack to lead the way. He knows where it is now, he can continue to go first.

[did_unkindly]

"It was normal," says Jack. I mean it's not the first time they've ganged up on him by far.

...At some point in his life he should start wondering if maybe his splicer attack experience is a little more, uh, dramatic than Sinclair's. But today is not that day.

He leads the way out towards the door, still keeping an eye out for any latecomers. Outside the bathy station is a nice little scene of carnage -- four splicers, one fresh from the burn ward, two shot, one hard to determine because he's been opened like a box. His broken ribs point upwards to the ceiling and inside is a torn-up mess.

Probably best not to ask.

Jack carries on, as casually as he ever does when he's on patrol, and doesn't even look at the bodies.

[modestman]

To be fair, Sinclair should probably realize by now that this sort of thing is completely normal for Jack. He's like a splicer killing machine, which is definitely an incentive to keep him on his side.

Sinclair laughs to himself as he punches in the code and lets them in. This time, the turrets sit back, friendly as ever. They like you, Jack. They really like you.

And now for the first order of business. "There's towels and robes in the linen closet, son. Help yourself."

[did_unkindly]

"You have towels?"

Holy shit. This is five-star treatment.

"And robes?"

I mean it's not like he's never used them before in his life (hahaha it is but let's pretend), but, well, he wasn't expecting those kinds of luxuries in Rapture. He's half expecting Sinclair to turn around and say that lol j/k the robe is on fire and he's been using the towel to mop bloodstains for five years.

[modestman]

Money gets you everywhere in this place, son.

Sinclair nods, not really understanding why Jack is quite as surprised as he is.

"I'll try and track down a change of clothes for you, if you want," he adds. "Although I'm not sure what I'll have that'll fit." He's sure anything will be better than that sweater that looks like it's been to hell and back. Which, in a way it has. And it smells that way too.

[did_unkindly]

Have you not seen the rest of Rapture? Towels and robes are a foreign language to this place.

"You're really lucky," is the closest he comes to an explanation of his thoughts. It doesn't sound like a judgement or anything, it's just... sort of a statement, pleased if anything.

...He pulls at his sweater uncertainly.

"It's... you don't have to?"

This thing's been with him through hell and back, man. And it's cable knit.

[modestman]

"Don't worry, son," Sinclair laughs. "I'm not gonna burn it when you're not looking. I'll give it a wash and it'll be like new by the morning."

Uh...

"Well. It'll be better than it is now."

[did_unkindly]

He thinks about it for a second. And then he's drawn into a genuine little smile.

"Gosh, thanks, mister Sinclair."

(wow Jack, learn to use real people words, you talk like you were designed by two scientists with shitty interpersonal skills or something)

[modestman]

Sinclair shakes his head, unable to not smile back. Jack is a hard guy to figure out.

"Go get clean," he says, trying to make his tone dismissive despite being amused. It doesn't really work.

[did_unkindly]

Jack nods and heads out to the bathroom.

Which is through the kitchen, where there's a little too much rattling around that lasts a little too long. Sinclair might have to do some tidying later. He's adopted a hungry lad.

Then at last, to what I'm sure is the relief of Sinclair's nose, the sound of a running tap spreads through the apartment.

[modestman]

Sinclair can hear the rummaging in his cupboards from his room, where he's rummaging through his own drawers for something that might fit Jack. He's a tall kid, taller than Sinclair, and even if by some miracle he can find a shirt to fit him, any bottoms are going to be too short.

...Well, it's only for the night. He'll survive. Worse has happened to him, right?

And just a few minutes after the tap starts running, Sinclair finds an undershirt and a pair of solid blue pajama pants that have always been a little long on him and hopes for the best.

"Hey, kid?" He knocks on the bathroom door. "I found a couple things you can wear for the night, I don't know how well they're--"

[did_unkindly]

When he hears Sinclair knock, Jack heads straight for the door and pokes his head out attentively.

This interrupts the man for reasons he's not sure of.

Maybe it's the little pyramid of soap bubbles on his head.

Sinclair wasn't expecting him to be in the bath, surely? What if splicers arrive???

He looks at Sinclair expectantly. Go on with what you were saying, sir.

[modestman]

...Okay then.

"The, uh. The trousers here may be a little on the short side, sorry about that sport," he finishes. "I was gonna leave 'em at the door, if you want." Although clearly that won't be necessary anymore.

[did_unkindly]

"That's okay," says Jack. It's not like he's wearing them to prom or anything.

"I can bring them in here?" A tentative suggestion, hinting that if Sinclair insists on his original plan Jack won't fight him on it.

[modestman]

"Sure," Sinclair says, turning his head a bit as he passes the neatly folded stack of clothes through the doorway.

...It's probably better not to ask questions at this point.

[did_unkindly]

Jack slowly closes his left eye as a string of bubbles drips down over it.

He is, at least, keeping his shame behind the door.

"Thanks," he says, accepts the clothes, and disappears again. The sounds of splashing resume. They're even joined by whistling, in brief spurts, after a while. Who knew bathing could be fun!

Once he's clean -- cleaner than he's felt in days -- he finds there's still a lot of bubbles left. On the floor, largely, but also in the tub. What's a curious boy to do?

Well, if you're Jack, you start throwing bubbles into the air and then seeing how many you can pop with bees before they float to the ground.

(If he concentrates, the answer is: a lot!)

[modestman]

Sinclair tries his best to ignore the concerning noises coming from the bathroom. Whatever damage is done is most likely nothing that can't be cleaned up or repaired. He just has to remember that. It's aaaall okay.

Meanwhile, he digs through his refrigerator for something he assumes Jack will like. Which. Could really be anything. Jack eats food, and he doesn't appear to discriminate.

In the end, Sinclair decides to boil a pot of water for noodles and cut up some pre-cooked chicken to put in it. It's little more effort than he puts into anything he makes just for himself, but it is still a little more effort.

With any kind of luck, Jack will be done getting clean by the time it's ready. If he's not, he'll have to eat it cold. Sinclair's not going to wait on him.

[did_unkindly]

Eventually, Jack stops trying to set fire to the water and lets it swirl down the drain. He watches it go, still impressed that the plumbing out here is holding up. It's almost like a glimpse of Rapture in its heyday. Kind of.

He stays in the bathroom a little while longer. Does some loose, easy stretches as he dries. It's amazing how much lighter he feels without the layers of blood and soot and grime and grease, salt and dirt and slime. He no longer smells like a garbage can was murdered by a skunk. It's so long since he washed for real, and his nose was so deadened by the Daddy stink, that he'd stopped noticing -- but now it's obvious by its absence.

Jack even borrows Sinclair's razor, and trims away stubble that's trying to turn into an ugly beard. You know, grown up stuff. He only cuts himself shaving twice.

And then the food starts to call to him.

You think the bath was screaming? You ain't heard nothing yet.

Like magic, Jack appears in the kitchen just as dinner is coming off the burners. His hair's still wet, and his face rather pink, as if it's forgotten what colour it was meant to be under all that dirt. The shirt's a little tight around his shoulders, and the trousers end at mid-calf, giving him a weird, overgrown look -- but they're comfy and clean, and that's more than he usually asks for.

Without a shapeless jumper in the way, he fills out the shirt pretty well. Maybe he's not a fireman but he'd fit in well on a firemen's charity calendar. It's okay to stare, Sinclair.

Another thing of note: the undershirt and shortish trousers make his scars more easy to see. And there are a lot of scars. His arm isn't the only place to be burned: there's shiny skin on both his legs, the hair that's visible patchy and weird from poorly-repaired follicles. His body is a noughts and crosses board played by slicing hooks and puncturing bullets. And there's his throat, of course, the mass of scar tissue that goes down further than Sinclair might have expected. Wounds upon wounds: sawn open for a new voicebox, torn open to get it out, sewn shut with clumsy applications of health kits and raw ADAM. He's lucky he can still speak at all.

This rippling mass of scars and muscle is smiling hopefully at the chicken noodles.

"It smells good."