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

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

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"She didn't want to talk to me."

No. No it's not.

...Alright so maybe it's not.

Sinclair sighs and turns off the tap, leaning back on the edge of the tub.

"I can't say I blame her, sport. Those are her little girls you've been killing off for ADAM. But I told her you didn't have a choice."

Because you didn't, of course.

He looks shocked for a second -- he didn't expect to hear that from Sinclair. Which displays, perhaps, how good he isn't at planning ahead.

"I don't!"

He doesn't think it through, but agrees, because the scary side of making choices is blame.

"She made them, they're not even people, how can she be mad?"

"I hear you, kid, you don't have to convince me. But they're something more to her. You're asking me why she might be upset and I'm giving you an answer, I don't think I can do any better than that."

And maybe that makes him heartless, agreeing that they're not human at all. He does feel a certain amount of sympathy. They're just children, and what happened to them is horrible. But Sinclair's feelings on the matter aren't going to save them. It's what he says and who he says it to that makes a difference. That's the only thing he can control here.

She made both of them, him and the Sisters, and yet they get preferential treatment -- that's what it feels like. The only one of his myriad parents who might be both real and kind to him and he's still the less-loved son.

"But she shouldn't," he says miserably, as if that'll explain it.

Then--

"I'm gonna follow her."

"Whoa, hey, easy," Sinclair says, standing up straighter with his hands out as if he might catch Jack should he try to make a quick escape.

"If she didn't want to talk to you when she was here willingly, she's not gonna talk any easier if you go busting down her door."

Then, softer, "Let it lie, son. You'll get another shot at it."

"What if I don't?"

He puts a hand on his face, then drops it and wrings his wrench instead. He should listen to Sinclair. Sinclair knows how to do... you know, people things... better than Jack does. But that doesn't make Jack's worries go away.

True confession time: "I think she hates me."

"I don't think she hates you."

Disappointment was the ruling emotion he picked up there, not actual hatred. But that wouldn't make Jack feel any better, he's gonna keep that to himself.

"Don't worry, we'll see her again. I think if we can reach some sort of understanding, we may be able to help each other out. You'll get your chance, kid, promise."

Jack slumps against the wall. Wanting very much to lash out, but trying not to, because he doesn't want to injure Sinclair and let's be real that would probably be the result. He's wringing the shit out of that wrench though.

You shouldn't get mad at something you made for doing what you made it to do.

You shouldn't.

He doesn't speak for a little while -- in part because jeez, he doesn't want to cry in front of Sinclair again, that was a bad time.

But there is a question he wants to venture. He's been more or less sure of the answer at various times, but he's never thought to straight up ask somebody. And in the end he asks it with a tone that expects a yes-or-no answer, a tone you'd hear in the classroom -- Is Oxford the capital of England? Is two plus two four?

"Is it wrong to kill them?"

Sure, yeah. That's a great question for Augustus "Morals Are Only the Money You're Paid to Believe Them" Sinclair.

He pauses, searching the tile floor like he'll find an answer there.

"I don't know," he says finally. "I think that's a personal choice, son."

And that's the wrong thing to ask in a city that was founded on the belief that trying to decide between right or wrong is a waste of time and a hindrance to research.

"I know Doctor Tenenbaum thinks it's wrong," he offers. "For whatever that's worth to you."

Oh, it's a choice, okay. He can do those.

Concentrating on issues of philosophy is less stressful than thinking about Tenenbaum, at least.

"...That seems like a really important thing to be a choice."

Surely it'd make more sense if someone was just right or wrong about... whether something's right or wrong. I mean if it's up to interpretation anyway then why is there a word for it? This 'man chooses' stuff is more complex than the brochure promised.

"Seems to me that most of the important things are."

He says it with a laugh, but man. This is a really sheltered kid. Even Tenenbaum thinks of him as a child, sometimes it seems like he'd never faced any real problems until he came here. Maybe things were just that simple for him in Kansas.

That's a terrible thing to leave behind. Especially for something like this.

Hahaha, sheltered. Yeah, that's one way you could put it.

Jack pulls a face, still frustrated. More choices. And choices are a lot better than what he was doing before, don't get him wrong. But he wishes they could be as simple.

They don't even always work, that's the worst part. He chose to leave Rapture, so he should be out of it by now, right? Apparently not! And it's kind of starting to eat him alive, like maybe he didn't want it enough, or maybe he just inherently can't make successful choices, was never meant to.

"Well... choices should be easier."

"So should getting out of this place, but that's just life. It ain't always gonna be easy."

Jack is frustrated, obviously. Asking yourself questions like that can be that way. They make you question who you are, what you stand for. And Jack's a young guy. He's at the age where he has to ask himself these things. He needs to figure out who he is, and Sinclair gets that.

But that's only the most basic way to approach it. Morals are...flexible. Adaptable. You might not believe in shooting dogs, but if a dog has rabies you're gonna put him down in a heartbeat. You might believe in a god that tells you "Thou shalt not kill," but you're still gonna go hunting if you have a family to feed. It's all very...open to interpretation. And Jack would probably do well to learn that, but Sinclair doesn't want to confuse him any more than he appears to be.

"You'll figure out what's right for you when it comes time, I can guarantee you that."

"I hope so."

Hang on, no. That sounds way too much like leaving it up to something else.

"No, I... I will."

That's better. That doesn't sound like something a mindless automaton would say.

Sinclair laughs and takes a step forward to clap him on the shoulder and gently steer him toward the door.

"I like your determination, kid. Why don't you go find something to munch on? I just brought back a few different things, you're welcome to any of it."

Which, in effect, probably means all of it. He hid away the things he knew he was going to need for himself. Jack can't do any actual damage, and Sinclair would really like to take this bath now.

O-oh. Okay. The conversation's done, he supposes. Jack allows himself to be steered, sold on the promise of food.

"...Alright." Reluctant, but pliable.

"I'll be out in a minute," he says as he shuts the door behind him.

...That was not a conversation he was planning on having. He needs time to think everything over, process the new information, stir it around until maybe it comes together into something he can use. Right now...he's got nothing. Nothing but a bare bones plan to steal a submarine. He doesn't like being this much at a loss.

But he undresses and lowers himself into the water, relaxing back and closing his eyes. He'll come up with something, and he'll do it because he has to. He's got everything he needs, he just has to figure out how to use it. That's the way it's always been.

While he bathes, he'll be treated to the symphony of delights that is the sound of Jack looting a kitchen. Yes, Sinclair has told him he has free reign to eat. His default approach is still 'looting'.

Maybe one day the kid'll learn to tidy up after himself, but for now Sinclair can look forward to finding a lot of half-open drawers and empty packages, fruit pits (but only the most inedible kind -- those famished little apples went down cores and all), eggshells. The only thing he won't have to clean up is pots and pans, because, haha, cooking? Cooking is just killing time between picking up food and eating it.

The only things he won't find when he emerges from the bathroom are Jack's weapons, Jack's shoes and dried sweater... and Jack.

Sinclair takes a good fifteen minute soak before the water starts getting too cold to be comfortable. He gets out, dries off, dresses again. Clean clothes feel amazing and his leg wound is healing nicely. A bath was just what he needed and his mood is pretty greatly improved.

"Hey, kid," he calls out when he steps back into the living room. "If you wanted to..."

Uh. Hello?

"Kid?"

...Alrighty then. Apparently Sinclair's advice didn't stick. That might have been his own fault, dismissing Jack so quickly when he wanted to just take that bath. It might have paid to just listen to him.

But going out to look for him isn't even an option, that would probably be the most dangerous thing he could do right now. Wandering aimlessly is basically asking to be killed.

Man, he didn't even leave a note this time. But he'll be fine, and he'll come back. It's just a matter of what he does while he's away. That could...mess a couple things up. That's 100% what the gnawing concern in the pit of Sinclair's stomach is about, of course it's nothing else.

It's a couple of hours before Jack finally returns.

His footsteps sound heavier than usual, as if he's carrying something big.

When Jack enters the room, Sinclair is busying himself cleaning up the last of Jack's mess. He tried to read for a while, but again...the attention span just isn't there. He can't sit still for very long anymore. So while he's customarily annoyed at the mess Jack left, it's something to do.

"Welcome back," he says. His tone is neutral, not conveying any particular emotion, but not unfriendly.

"I got you a gun," says Jack.

It's cradled in his arms: hefty iron and copper and pipes, all welded together into something which can only be called a 'gun' because things that kill you come out of the end. It's so makeshift that it literally has a crank made out of a spanner. There's a nozzle and some kind of a pressure gauge, and a switch with three colours: red, blue and yellow, all in flaking paint.

Jack looks at Sinclair, hoping against hope for a positive response.

Sinclair turns around to look, expecting maybe a shotgun, maybe a revolver, perhaps even a machine gun, but.

...What even is that?

He looks at it for a couple seconds longer than what would probably be natural before he speaks.

"I...uh." Come on, Sinclair, this is a gift, don't be rude. "You shouldn't have, kid. I don't know what I'll even do with this much, uh. ...Fire power."

This is more than just a gift. This is proof positive that Jack can see a problem, make a plan to fix it and then follow through on that plan. In a completely flawless and foolproof manner. Completely.

(No, it didn't take him 2+ hours to collect the chemical thrower. But more on that story later. Maybe.)

"You can't use plasmids," he explains helpfully. "This is sort of a gun for plasmids."

He shifts the massive thing across so that it's held in just one arm, and uses his free hand to point to the coloured paint daubs.

"This one makes fire, and this one makes ice water, and this one's electric gel."

So it's the solution to all Sinclair's battle problems, right? Right!

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