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]

"Yeah," he says, "a lot -- and there was one... right by... Ryan's office."

His voice drains of enthusiasm as the sentence goes on -- not even because it's next to Ryan's office, but because it's next to that little side-room with its carefully collected display of things that should really stay a secret. No way is he going to let Sinclair see that room. He should've gone back and set fire to the lot of it when he had the chance.

[modestman]

Wow, did somebody flip a switch or what just happened here? It can't be the sudden realization that they're going to Andrew Ryan's office, that's all they've been talking about here. It's got to be something else.

Sinclair looks Jack's face over, frowning slightly. "You alright, kid?"

[did_unkindly]

Sometimes, Jack's honesty problem bites him in the ass.

"I just... don't think it'd be there. I think it... would be hidden, somewhere else."

Also the fact that his lies are kind of shortsighted. After all, if a sub is there, they'll have to go there, risk and hard memories or not.

[modestman]

"Uh huh," Sinclair says, but it comes out more as contemplative than skeptical. And intentionally so. He'll follow up on that when there's more he can do besides fruitlessly pressure Jack to give up information that he's obviously spending a lot of energy to withhold.

"You're probably right. I imagine his sub, if he had one, would be on a much lower level."

[did_unkindly]

Oh thank goodness. He's not sure Sinclair believes him, but at least the issue's been diverted.

"Yeah," he agrees readily, still feeling a bit sick about... everything really, but not voicing it. Not in words at least. "There were lots of doors to check, we should look everywhere."

[modestman]

Sinclair nods, then, with a laugh, "Don't suppose you've got a strap for that hunk of metal over there too, do you?"

That chemical thrower. Jack's going to expect him to tote it around, but his leg is already protesting. He's already protesting. He's not the fastest man alive, but at least he can duck out of a fight in a hurry if he needs to.

[did_unkindly]

"Uhh..." Sorry, this answer is going to be disappointing. "No." Apologetic. But! "But-- I can carry it for you?"

[modestman]

Hey, bingo! You answered correctly!

"That's kind of you, sport," Sinclair says, oh so humbly. "I'd carry it myself, but--" He pats his leg.

No laziness here, no siree bob. Nothing but valid excuses.

And his coffee's run dry, so he stands up. "I'll go get dressed and we can head out, sound like a plan?"

[did_unkindly]

Oh sweet, a swing and a hit! He's clearly getting better at social interactions. Thanks for all the tutoring, mister Sinclair!

"That's a good idea," he says more brightly. And... he's already dressed from the excursion last night, so it sounds like he has a few spare minutes coming up. "I'll get armed."

You know. More armed than he already is. Not that the wrench isn't lovely.

[modestman]

It is quite a distinguished wrench if I do say so myself. But Sinclair takes no issue with as much firepower as Jack is willing to tote around. The best kind of bodyguard is a well-stocked bodyguard.

He disappears into his room to dress, finishing his typical dress shirt ensemble with a holster for his pistol and a tie. Maybe it's useless to try and keep well dressed, but it never pays to be unprepared. People know him as a business man, and you never know who you're going to run into. If someone saw him dressed like he didn't care anymore, it would only take a clue or two more to figure out that he was trying to escape. And there are still people who wouldn't want that to happen. Especially to him.

Adjusting his tie a bit more, he walks back into the main room and sits down to put on his shoes and lace them.

"The bathysphere should have a route to Hephaestus," he comments. "Don't know about Ryan's office, but I'm sure he had a personal bathysphere as well. Might be easier if we could take one straight there, but I don't know if that's possible."

[did_unkindly]

"I don't know where his dock would be," admits Jack.

He's gotten kitted out while Sinclair was dressing, and not done it by halves. Pistol in his holster, shotgun over his back, crossbow slung next to it. Wrench stuffed into his belt; sleeves rolled up to facilitate plasmid use. Bulky chemical thrower set on the floor next to him, ready to be lifted onto his shoulder.

He doesn't look as fancy as Sinclair, but he hopes he holds up.

[modestman]

Did he say a well-stocked bodyguard? Obviously he meant a walking arsenal.

"Hephaestus it is, then," Sinclair shrugs, pulling his lace tight and standing up. "I'm following you, chief. Whenever you're ready."

[did_unkindly]

Well the synonym for 'walking arsenal' is 'Jack Ryan', so...

He nods, shoulders the chemical thrower with a grunt (can't imagine why Sinclair didn't want to carry it) and shoulders open the door. "Let me clear out the splicers first."

[modestman]

Oh, well. If you insist.

Sinclair steps back, holding the door open for him.

"I'll wait here," he says helpfully.

[did_unkindly]

Jack gives him a nod -- shorter and more tired than usual, but not disagreeable -- and heads out. There's the traditional noise of shouts and screams and gunshots, then silence, and then Jack's call of "It's clear!"

Out in the hallway are five splicers in various states of horrible death, one shot, some brained, a couple covered in flames that are just now going out. Jack's balancing a much bloodier wrench in his hand, jiggling it absently.

"I think that's all of them," he says when Sinclair emerges.

[modestman]

Sinclair wonders for a moment if he should start keeping a stopwatch, time how long it takes for Jack to clear a room. He swears he gets faster at it every time.

When he steps out into the hallway, it's perfectly quiet save for a few echoing leaks here and there. That and Jack's wrench, tapping away at his side.

It seems safe enough for him to lead the way to the bathysphere, but he politely holds the door open for Jack and shuts it behind them, taking a seat across from him.

"We need some sort of plan when we get there," he says. "We can't just go wandering in aimlessly, we'll never get anything done. I'm thinking if we start at the bottom levels and work our way up, it'll be easier to keep track of the ground we've covered."

[did_unkindly]

"That's a good idea," says Jack, who has no qualms about letting Sinclair come up with a better plan than he could.

He's still shaking his wrench back and forth in his hand, a subtle movement, and he's kind of half-frowning at it. The shaking is not deliberate.

[modestman]

His eyes follow Jack's frown down to the wrench. It occurs to him that they didn't eat anything before they left. He's never been much of a breakfast person, but Jack might have benefited from it.

Or maybe it's the coffee. Caffeine on an empty stomach.

...But the kid splices like a fiend, it's hard to believe caffeine would be enough to cause that.

Still, for lack of anything better to say--

"Little too much coffee there, son?"

[did_unkindly]

"Yeah," he says, in a slow, 'I don't know but sure that sounds likely' kind of voice.

He frowns some more, but this time it's in an effort to remember the layout of Hephaestus as well as he can. The scenery was definitely blurring together by that point, but he remembers a few key landmarks clearly enough. The office full of wire traps. The hall of Ryan's trophies.

"There's... a lot of splicers there who pretend to be dead. I think you shouldn't get too near to bodies."

[modestman]

Right, yeah. Coffee. You've totally convinced Sinclair.

But he pulls a surprised and somewhat disgusted face at Jack's second bit of news. Even for Jack, who may not be the best at reading people, it should be fairly obvious that this face has THAT'S FUCKED UP YO written all over it.

"...I'll let you clear the rooms first," he says. You know, unless you have enough ammo for him to shoot every single dead body in the face three or four times.

[did_unkindly]

Hey man, you're the one who suggested coffee here.

He doesn't entirely share Sinclair's sentiment about that shit being wack -- by the time he reached Hephaestus he basically only cared because he'd think a room was clear and then bam. At least a few overeager ones on an earlier walkway clued him in that fighting corpses was going to be a thing. He'd still take them over plaster splicers.

He doesn't entirely share the sentiment about shit being wack, but he does entirely understand the lack of enthusiasm.

"Okay," he says, and then adds in the spirit of helpful instruction: "They take a second to stand up, usually, so there's time to attack them first if you're quick."

[modestman]

Sinclair decides not to voice the concen that if he tried to quickly shoot a body lying on the floor, he would probably shoot himself in the foot.

In fact, fortunately enough, he doesn't have to say anything. The bathy docks in Hephaestus, the water rushes off of the top and they're all set to explore the true heart of Rapture.

He stands back to let Jack go first.

Remember that time Jack was afraid he wouldn't be allowed to lead anything? Is he regretting that yet?

[did_unkindly]

Not in the slightest! If nothing else, the novelty still hasn't worn off.

Hephaestus station is fancy enough, with its strong deco lines -- but compared to the rest of the city it looks raw and utilitarian. The beginning and end of design here is beaten copper, iron and bare stone. Fitting for a place dedicated to ceaseless industry.

Jack stops by a vending machine he hacked earlier and spends his last couple dollars on a health kit.

The station spills them out into glass corridors, which don't give them a lot of options direction-wise. Even the sea looks red here. There are pipes twisting and wheels turning through the water.

Oh, and a couple of splicers shouting about hiding from the light. Jack pauses, sets the chemical thrower down quickly, and then runs towards them following his own Electrobolt blast.

[modestman]

Jack disappears from view and Sinclair, feeling otherwise quite vulnerable compared to him, experiments with picking up the chemical thrower.

It's heavy, but not as heavy as he expected. He hoists it up and rests it on his hip, looking over the various buttons and nozzles. Fire, ice, electric gel. It really is like carrying around his own collection of plasmids.

Feeling considerably braver than he would with just his pistol, he steps out of the bathysphere to give it a test run. Really though, if a splicer wants to approach him with this thing spitting fire... Sinclair doesn't think it'll be an issue.

He readjusts to hold it a little more the way it's meant to be used and braces himself. The cartridge of napalm is already in there, so he pulls the trigger and WOW OKAY

...That sure is a stream of flames. Not a bad range on it either. And he can't help but smile, the way it's hard not to smile after blowing up fireworks or, if this were not the 1950s, scoring a headshot in a video game. It's just. Cool.

But despite his vision of crispy splicers in the near future, it's better not to tempt fate. He picks up the chemical thrower and waits back in the bathysphere.

[did_unkindly]

Jack is back in two shakes of a puppy's tail. It was only a couple of gun-weilding splicers, no great challenge.

"Where'd you go?" he calls into the station.

Alas, if only he'd seen the magnificence of Sinclair's test run. He would be so proud.