weathertop | darling it's better down where it's wetter

"I can't say I remember it," Sinclair says, shrugging with his mouth. "It's been a long day, sport. I'm sure I'm just tired."

It's not the best dinner conversation, but somehow asking Jack about his multitude of scars seems like worse. At least this is recoverable.

Believe it or not, Jack would not mind talking about his scars. Sure they're painful memories but not painful in the same way as Tenenbaum, as Fontaine. Only the throat one might be going too far, and that's only if Sinclair really pried.

Of course Sinclair can't read this narration so that whole paragraph is superfluous really.

Jack nods, glad to drop the subject. "Sorry, mister Sinclair."

Even if Sinclair could read the narration, he's not really sure what exactly he would ask. The one that makes him wonder the most is Jack's throat, so if Jack doesn't want to talk about that then this is a conversation better not had.

"No need to apologize, son, it's been a long day for both of us."

He stands to clear the table, offering Jack a friendly smile.

The day didn't start all that long ago, but somehow Jack can't find it in himself to argue.

He chills at the kitchen table, wraps the robe around himself. Fresh from the bath, his skin just dry and his hair clean, it's cosy. And the robe's got just enough give that he can get it around his chin and kind of snuggle into it. It's a bit like...

Well, like being hugged. Someone let him remember being hugged, apparently. Only this is more vivid -- the difference between seeing a picture of something and holding it in your hands -- and that could just be how old memories work, or it could be he's fucked up, he doesn't know. He can't really ask, at least not ask Sinclair.

Anyway, it feels nice is what he's trying to get at.

It suits him too, although the sleeves on the robe are a little too short. He looks happy, which isn't something Sinclair thinks he's seen on Jack since they met. Sick joy at tearing down their attackers, perhaps, but not real happiness.

He allows himself a small smile as he turns around to wash their dishes.

"Why don't you go relax, chief? You had a rough night, if you want to catch a cat nap you're welcome to the mattress in there." You know. Since he hogged it all last night.

"I'm not sleepy," he says, making toddlers everywhere proud.

"But I'm gonna go on the couch."

Because -- no offense to your dining set, Sinclair -- it's a mite bit more comfortable to curl up on. And he'd like to be closer to the door -- the 'keep watch for splicers ALL THE TIME' instinct is a hard one to shake.

He's not even unarmed. Believe it or not, he has a damper, soapier wrench stuck right there into the band of his pyjama bottoms.

Sinclair shrugs, "Suit yourself," and goes back to the dishes.

Come to think of it, he can't remember the last time he had a guest in his place. Which is probably why he doesn't have anything to accommodate one. Or maybe it's the other way around. At this point he can't think of anyone he would want to have over anyway. It used to be that he could go other places when he wanted a little company, but there isn't really much company to be had anymore.

He makes a mental note to keep his house topside better stocked for guests than his apartment down here. Just in case.

Besides his wrench, all the weaponry Jack has at this apartment is stashed untidily around the living room. He gathers them all around himself and retreats to the couch, which is far more comfortable than it has any right to be. No more perching on wet splintery wood or cold stone for Jack, no sir. He's living the high life right now.

For a while he's content to check and reload the guns, and clean them a bit on the sleeve of his borrowed robe. (Sorry mister Sinclair. It should wash off?) The ambient noise of the lounge becomes the peaceful clicking of metal and sliding of lead. After a little while he's doing it horizontal, head on his arm, cosily watching the light reflect off the barrel of his shotgun. Jack's free arm's curled around his wrench like it's a teddy bear.

Sinclair better not laugh, because he's totally fallen asleep again.

Oh, Sinclair will laugh. But quietly, because Jack is a precious angel when he's dead asleep.

He dries the bowls and turns them upside down to dry, wandering back into the living room.

"Hey, kid, I was thinking--" he begins, but.

So much for not being sleepy. Cue the quiet laughter, along with some head shaking and walking away.

Somebody needs to buy that guy a real teddy bear, he's going to wake up and shoot himself in the face one day. That'll be a rude awakening.

For now, Sinclair decides to occupy himself reading a book in an arm chair in his room. It's not very often he finds time to read anymore; even now he forces down the reflexive feeling that he's wasting time. He has things he needs to do, if they ever want to get out of Rapture he needs to keep moving.
But Jack needs his rest, and Sinclair can't leave without him. There's nothing for it, so he may as well make the most of it.

A precious angel he may be, but Jack is shivering a bit. It's cold in Rapture and nowhere really escapes from it for long.

But he stays asleep. You know how long he's been in Rapture without real sleep? A long fucking time, until he met Sinclair's couch. It'll take a lot more 4-5 hour stints before he's done making up for lost time.

The thing about reading when you have a perpetually stressed out conscience is that you can never really focus on it for long.

But Sinclair has always been this way, unable to sit still as long as there's any sort of pressing matter at hand. He's being unreasonable, he's sure, but he can't help feeling like the time he has to escape this goddamn city is ticking away at an alarming rate.

If Ryan has a sub, he tells himself, it's not going anywhere any time soon. There's no need to rush, and it's better to be thorough in their plan than to try and hurry and get out. Doing that a second time might kill him, and that would prove rather useless.

He sets the book down and stands up, stretching. Jack is still sound asleep on the sofa just a half hour later, but every inhale is shaky. He's cold, although he's dry now. Sinclair wanders back into his room and grabs a spare blanket from the linen closet, bringing it back to drape over Jack's shivering form.

For being such a brute in the streets of Rapture, Jack maintains these childish features, but Sinclair's not sure if it's a facial expression or just his entire demeanor when he's relaxed. It'll be really good for him to get out of Rapture. They can't mess this up again.

Let's back up a little from the immediate action and talk about Rapture, 1960.

Frolic is ruined. Medical Pavilion is in shambles. Arcadia is aflame and overrun with Saturnine cultists. It's kind of a crappy place to be and it has a limited supply of snack cakes to keep it going.

But if the city's going to survive another eight-odd years, without everyone important dying of scurvy, it needs fresh food, vegetables, clean water. Somebody must still be producing, somewhere. And if you're a sane human who's lived this long, you probably know who and where.

Little groups. Here and there. Heavily fortified, or light on their feet. Some tend greenhouses, some keep bees, others have livestock. Some evaporate seawater and collect it, leaving the salt behind. None of them draw attention to themselves, because that's how you get overrun with hungry angry splicers. But they exist. And they can be bartered with.

It's a good thing Sinclair knows about some of these guys, because not to put too fine a point on it, Jack Ryan's stomach is a bottomless pit.

And it occurs to Sinclair, in needing something to keep him occupied, that if they have to spend too much longer here, Jack is going to end up eating his way out of Rapture.

Jack's shivering has subsided and his deep, even breathing is the only sound in the room. He should be out for a while longer, or at least Sinclair hopes. Just in case, he leaves a note for him.

Jack,

Bringing back food.

Don't go anywhere.

- A. Sinclair

That oughta keep him put.

Sinclair checks the ammo in his gun before he leaves. He'll be back in about an hour, give or take.

Sinclair isn't the only one out grocery shopping today.

On the way back, more than sprinting distance from his apartment and turrets, he'll hear squabbling. Raucous voices, the kind that make it hard to tell the difference between a joke and a deadly insult.

"Slug-fucker," cries a woman, "I found it, half of that's mine by rights!"

A man answers her dismissively. He's scratching something across the wall as he walks, a nails-on-chalkboard sound. "Betty, betty, and I found it in yer hands!"

A second's pause. Then he bursts into laughter at his own shitty joke.

They're just on the balcony above, but Sinclair might want to keep the noise down till they're past.

He tries not to make too much noise anyway, but he jumps when he hears the first voice and immediately gets his back to a wall, freezing and listening. He rarely tries to make sense of anything splicers say, and even more rarely succeeds. This is no exception, and nothing about it strikes him as particularly odd.

Except, maybe, the slug-fucker part. It's obviously to do with ADAM-- everything they say's to do with ADAM. But he wonders vaguely who she's talking to, and why that would be her go-to insult. It just seems a little...specific, although it has a nice ring to it as insults go.

He lets it go, it's just crazy talk. Spending more time on it than he needs to is only going to make him crazy too.

"Holding out on me, slugfucker!"

Hell, for all the sense splicers make, it could just be her pet name for him.

There's a bit of a scuffle and some dust falls from the ceiling above Sinclair; a ringing slap and a yowl of pain from the woman.

"Try a stunt like that," roars the man, "I'll take your other eye!" He chokes on his own angry voice and starts to cough, then spits onto the floor. The woman's wailing, it sounds like he's hurting her.

"Daddy, daddy, daddy," she begs. She doesn't actually sound any younger than him. "Don't take it, I need it."

"Cow, you don't shut up I'll pawn you off! I'll trade you in, how ya like that? Maybe I'll get that betty with all her own hair, how'd you like that, huh?"

"Ain't not such thing," complains the woman. "Issa wig if I've got teeth."

The guy's voice is flipping between anger and cruel amusement like a weathercock in a hurricane; right now it turns straight towards rage. "Open your fat mouth again and you won't have teeth!"

Sinclair lets himself sag back against the wall. They don't ever shut up. If they would just go somewhere else, Sinclair could get back to his room without risking them seeing him. But of course they're going to stand there and argue about literally nothing for the rest of the day. Their voices dig into Sinclair's ear drums and Jack's going to wake up any minute if he's not already awake and he'd just really like to go home now if that's quite alright with everyone.

But, he's got a better chance of waiting for them to leave than he does if he risks them seeing him. Engaging in a gun fight has been a last resort for Sinclair up until he met Jack, and as long as he travels alone he intends to keep it that way.

"You're not my daddy," she shrieks at him, completely oblivious to the eavesdropper. "Slugfucker, quit bossing me around, I'm---"

A sharp crack and she screams, and then there's a guttural noise, something meaty. "I told you!" crows the man. "I keep on telling you, betty, but you cain't ever listen!"

Some crashing around, and more dust falls on Sinclair's poor head.

"Tha's mine, tha's mine," says the woman in a voice that's stuttering out. "What'cha doing?"

"You weren't using them! You weren't using them! You're wasting them, I'm gonna fry them up real nice!" It… doesn't sound like negotiations have gone smoothly. "Time to trade you in, how d'you like that? Gonna get myself a nice brown-haired fox with all her own hair and both eyes."

"It hurts, it hurts, it hurts." The words peter out into a low groan.

The man talks over her. "I'd let her shower in my camp, any day, little betty. You aren't invited there no more!"

Only one set of footsteps leaves. The guy's still laughing to himself, cackling things that'd make pub toilet graffiti look clean.

Sinclair winces, listening to the solid crack of something blunt on something soft and breakable. It's nothing he hasn't heard a thousand times, and as much as it seems like it's something you'd never get over. Well. He got over it pretty quickly.

It would have been more convenient if they had killed each other, but you win some, you lose some.

He pushes himself away from the wall, now that the coast is clear, and starts heading back to his apartment.

And makes it about ten seconds before he hears heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, accompanied by a merry whistling. Great. Time for a re-route.

If he turns down this hallway it won't lead him straight to his apartment, but with any luck, taking the long way around will make sure the area is cleared out before he comes back to it. It's better to keep moving anyway.

The hallway passes by an opening, a lobby of sorts, and as he approaches it he can hear more arguing. Not as angry this time, though. A bit quieter, and it sounds like more of a debate than an actual argument.

Sinclair looks around to see where he might be able to hide in case they start towards him. There's nowhere. So he presses himself to the wall and listens by the doorway.

Small mercies: these voices do sound, at least, a little more together than that of his ear-stealing friend of before. Well, one or two of them do. Or... well, maybe they're attempting to.

Anyway.

"Don't let go of 'er, whatcha doin'?" says a woman's voice, loud and absolutely in charge.

"Don't wanna touch the spiders, I don't wanna!"

"There aren't no spiders, y'great piss stain -- shut the fuck up about ya fuckin' spiders!"

(Okay, 'more together' might have been an over-generous appraisal.)

Another voice speaks up, a deep man's voice that sounds like it can never quite catch its breath. "Gotta -- get her, gut her, she's got it, she's gotta... no more sitting on my thumb, I'm gonna..."

But apparently he's not gonna, because there's a rush of flame and a fearful cry from the breathless man.

"Thumb back in yer arse, little man," shrieks the woman from before. "And yeh! Bitch! Don't you move no further, or I'll light ye pretty face aflame!"

Then, a fourth voice. A woman's. Sinclair might recognise the tone of utter cold disgust.

"Put your fire away, brute. I am still."

That accent.

After their last encounter, Sinclair would know it anywhere. If not for the thick German, then at least for the thick revulsion dripping from her words.

And really he should leave her there. He's not a hero, he would be better off just walking away. But burning bridges with that kind of permanence tends to come back to haunt you, she may be of some value to their cause.

Not to mention, he imagines Jack might be a little upset to learn of her tortured demise.

Or maybe not, maybe he's frustrated enough to be glad she's dead. But if Sinclair were a betting man, which he certainly isn't, he would put his money on needing Doctor Tenenbaum alive.

Now he just needs a plan.

Tenenbaum is rather annoyed with herself for getting into this position.

Her own fault: she was rushing to reach Olympus, she was focused on looking for the safehouse. She wanted to keep an eye on the would-be escapees. But, apparently, the splicers were also keeping an eye on her.

An ordinary splicer she can handle. Even a couple at once. A houdini splicer? One who's ringleader to a little gang? Not so much. Although Tenenbaum takes a little satisfaction in the fact that the gang is one member smaller than it was when they first encountered her.

They've taken her gun. But splicers are sloppy. They don't think things through. They haven't frisked her for others.

But they do have her arms up against the wall, in uncomfortably savage grips.

That could be a small issue.

"Alright, sunshine," sneers the houdini splicer, sticking her broken face right into Tenenbaum's. "Alright, y'selfish betch. Ye've got the ADAM, haven't ye? That's who y'are, ain't it?"

Much as she'd like to, Tenenbaum doesn't immediately contradict her. It seems like that misconception is what's keeping her from being killed outright.

But she does very obviously wrinkle her nose at the splicer's bad breath.

This one seems to be the most focused, and probably the most dangerous. The squat, stinking splicer at her left is swinging a pistol to and fro, though after the houdini's outburst, he doesn't seem in a hurry to lift it again. The one at her right is jumpy, twitchy, gripping his hook a lot more surely than he's gripping Tenenbaum's wrist.

She can make that work to her advantage.

"Why should I lead you to more ADAM?" she asks coldly, stalling for time. "From where I am standing, you have all enjoyed it a little too much, perhaps."

The houdini and the bruiser on Tenenbaum's left both make noises of fury. The other splicer seems barely there, still muttering under his breath and shuddering now and again. He's the weakest link here.

And when the bruiser gets angry, she notices, he focuses on his gun more than her wrist. Interesting.

"If you don't," shouts the houdini, "you're gonna be marshmallows! You're gonna bake! I'll use ye bones for kindling I will!"

Hah. Whether they think to get ADAM from her girls, or have convinced themselves she has a stockpile of the stuff, they are not going to get what they want.

"If you think I give this to you," she says, really piling on the scathing tone, "you are all even more insane than you look." She turns her face to the jerk on her left. "Go on."

Taunting him directly does it -- he all but lets go of her to point his gun. The houdini screams at him. The crawler shudders. And Tenenbaum snatches her hands away from them, gets behind the startled crawler, reaches for her concealed pistol. The noise level -- noted for Sinclair's benefit -- is suddenly pitched-battle-grade.

Okay, the time Sinclair had for planning has just run out. Apparently their civil debate turned heated in the blink of an eye, but he probably should have seen that coming. Splicers aren't exactly the most stable creatures on the planet.

He steps out from around the corner and pulls out his gun, immediately cocking it and firing a shot at the first splicer he sees.

It whizzes right past him, drilling a hole in the wall.

...Call it a warning shot.

The splicers turn from their squabble on the landing, seething rage at being interrupted.

Sinclair would probably have said something heroic like, "let her go, if you know what's good for you," or perhaps just simply, "back off," but unfortunately splicers don't shut up long enough to get out one-liners.

The point is that he has their attention. So he'd better figure out what to do with it, and quick.

Warning shot. Sure. Tenenbaum won't grant you that one.

She goes still for a few moments and just stares at Sinclair, this man who's stepped out of nowhere to effect who knows what bizarre and stupid plan. You don't give splicers a warning shot, dude. In Rapture that's legally defined as suicide.

Speaking of suicide... that's not one of her ambitions, so she pulls herself together very quickly -- quicker than the splicer in front of her, who she quickly shoots twice in the back of the head. That leaves spider guy, who Sinclair oh so kindly showered with wall bits just a moment earlier, and...

Schieße. Where did the houdini go?

Okay, well at least it proved as enough of a distraction to get one splicer down. That's an accomplishment, right?

The second splicer hoists over the railing and launches himself up to a lower part of the ceiling, gurgling curses over the clanking of hooks. Sinclair steps back out into the center of the room, where the splicer will have to drop down to the floor if he wants to get anywhere near him.

He's got to hit this one. He can't miss. Sinclair aims his gun, but as soon as he does the hooks come flying. He tries to keep moving, make himself harder to hit, but one grazes his arm and he accidentally fires, almost slipping in a puddle. Where the shot goes, he's not sure.

At least not until he hears the crash and sizzle of a now busted vending machine. Nice one.

The splicer lets himself fall from the ceiling, cackling wildly and pitching one hook after another until he decides to go ahead and charge him.

At this point, Sinclair's life is flashing before his eyes and yes, he's absolutely certain this is the end. But as a last ditch effort, he fires a shot--

the splicer freezes in place, going completely rigid, eyes rolling back in his head and convulsing for a few of the longest seconds in Sinclair's life before he falls limp onto the wet tile.

His eyes follow the puddle...back to the vending machine, sparking away just a few meters from where the splicer now lies, totally lifeless.

"HA HA HA HA HAAAAA," the warped recording sounds off, skipping and tone wavering. "COME BACK WHEN YOU'VE GOT SOME..."

And with that, the lights flicker, there's a popping sound, and the machine dies.

You did your duty well. Godspeed, soldier.

Edited 2013-03-23 00:07 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject