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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...This is impossible.

Sinclair sets the audio diary back down, staring up again at the words painted across the cork board.

Would you kindly?

It's some sort of...trigger, something used for conditioning a person to obey. This is... This is mind control.

But what does it have to do with Jack? Is he--

Is this all about him?

Is that boy in the recording...

No, that's. That's impossible, Jack is too old to have known Suchong as a boy. That's somebody else in the recording. But even if the phrase isn't about him, this room is. And the phrase...must apply to him. Jesus, how long has this been going on?

And if Jack is a slave to three simple words, words of which Andrew Ryan was clearly aware, why didn't Ryan stop him as he clubbed him to death?

None of this makes sense. Sinclair frowns and goes for the other Accu-Vox. Maybe that'll clear some things up.

He presses play and again, Suchong. "Advanced Deployment, Lot 111, Doctor Suchong, Client: Fontaine Futuristics. Baby is now a year old, weighs fifty-eight--"

Jack reaches Ryan's office, finds it empty, and goes cold.

He opens his mouth to call for Sinclair, but... he doesn't really need to. I mean technically Sinclair could have left by the door and gone somewhere else but no, what's far more likely is that he has decided to search that long corridor and jesus god they should never have come up here.

He's expended a fair amount of effort to keep the facts of his past a secret, and with good reason.

So he sprints up the corridor as if there are hounds snapping at his heels, and as the door opens he sees Sinclair -- bad -- and hears a tinny recorded voice speaking -- infinitely worse.

Jack does the first and fastest thing he can think of and yanks the audio diary straight out of Sinclair's hand, no preamble, no pause. And it won't stop talking and he's kind of panicking a bit, so with burning hand he straight up crushes it against the wall.

"What are you doing in here?" he demands, as scared as the kid in the recording when his dog's neck broke, and twice as angry. "Get out!"

JESUS

Sinclair jumps about a foot in the air when Jack appears in the room, and crushing and burning the Accu-Vox against the wall doesn't help.

He looks at Jack when he speaks, gets a full view of his face and every little emotion that flickers across it. And yes, the predominant one is fear, next is anger, but it's mostly fear. That in itself answers a question or two.

But after another moment of silence, Sinclair obediently departs. Jack is angry, but it's hard to tell how angry exactly. If Sinclair just found a sore spot, he's more than found it, he's dug his fingers in deep. And he's not sure how deep he would have to go, even by complete accident, before Jack decides to stop him.

He quickly makes his way back to Ryan's office and positions himself at the far end of the room, staring out of the window in an attempt to make sense of everything that just happened. He hasn't been thrown for a loop like this one since... possibly ever. He's usually clued in on things this big, projects and the like. Fontaine was a boastful man, something as successful as mind control should have leaked out eventually.

And Tenenbaum was up on that board. She already knew. She knew, but she was protecting Jack. And Jack thinks she doesn't care.

Sinclair waits for the sound of Jack's footsteps behind him. They need to talk. Jack's not going to want to at all, but they need to.

Jack lets Sinclair blow past him out of the room -- he's rooted in place, this is exactly what he hoped wouldn't happen, he should've ignored the splicers and gone back into the office with Sinclair and just made up an excuse afterwards. He should've destroyed everything in this room when he had the chance. He should have--

--well, he has the chance again now, doesn't he?

His hand's still smouldering. A fireball, and those horrible words are obliterated. Another, and the desk -- the photos, the horrible sneering pictures of people who've lied to him and people who don't even have the decency to exist, they're all going up in smoke, they're all going up in fucking smoke and it's only a pity they can't feel it.

He's not looking forward to going back up to the office, facing Sinclair, but he's got to. And it's with a bitter, ugly expression that he does.

And there they are, the heavy, slow footsteps of someone who just had the skeletons dumped out of his closet on the floor in front of him.

It's not like Sinclair intends to make him examine every single one, but a few questions need to be answered. For both of them, not just to satisfy Sinclair's curiosity.

But he doesn't speak. Apart from the fact that silence is an interrogation technique, to be fair he just walked in on everything that Jack had been trying to hide from him. He thinks Jack at least deserves the first word here.

Jack doesn't waste his time in having it.

"What'd you hear?" he demands. "Did -- did you listen to the other one?"

Believe it or not, he remembers that whole 'keep your temper, don't flip out' spiel that happened what seems like so long ago. And he tries, oh god does he try, he tries so hard, he says hey what's going on. But it's just not happening. The attempt's given up about three words in and his voice and his hackles rise.

Sinclair turns around, reflexively taking a step back. Jack is definitely intimidating when he wants to be.

He shakes his head, still somewhat at a loss for words. "Nothing I particularly understand," he says with a nervous laugh.

Jack is not amused.

"It's a... a trigger phrase of some sort. That's all I know for sure." And he doesn't dare say it out loud, for a multitude of reasons. The foremost of which being that he's not sure if it works on Jack and if it does, that's not anything he wants to even touch. Even if it could come in handy, even if his business sense screams that this could be an enormous asset to him, no. The idea of using it actually turns his stomach.

But he still needs to know.

"...You were conditioned," he says, and it's a statement but it's out there for Jack to contradict if he wants.

When Sinclair moves back, Jack moves forwards. Maybe he wants to be intimidating. Seems like being able to kill things is his only asset sometimes; maybe being intimidating is the only way he can actually come out on top for once in his horrible joke of a life.

When Sinclair speaks, Jack's face twists.

"Don't use it," he says, "or I'll kill you."

It doesn't even matter that it doesn't work any more, just the attempt would be -- he doesn't even want to think about Sinclair trying to use it, it's making him feel physically sick.

Now that is something Sinclair believes 100% without a shadow of a doubt.

He shakes his head, frowning deeply but relaxing a little all the same. He won't use it. He doesn't think he could bring himself to it even if he thought it would benefit him in the long run. Not now. Not anymore. And if that's the biggest thing that concerns Jack then he's got nothing to worry about, which means Sinclair's uneasiness can subside just a bit.

"Who else knows?"

If what Jack's doing is a smile then Carpenter's The Thing is a friendly household pet.

"Only one person w-who's still alive."

For the record, he hasn't backed off a single step. It's not that he knows of a reason to mistrust Sinclair specifically. But there's nothing like a room full of souvenirs of your last major hoodwinking to put the scare in you.

"And it doesn't work any more."

Sinclair takes another step back, but one more will put his back at the window.

He's obviously talking about Doctor Tenenbaum, the only person who's still alive. Probably the only person who realized what they did was about eight hundred shades of seriously fucked up.

But the fact that it doesn't work anymore takes another load off Sinclair's mind. That's one less internal battle to fight.

"How'd you break it?" he asks, keeping his tone quiet.

Oh well so long as there's a weight off Sinclair's mind.

"I'm not gonna talk about this!" he explodes, and wow apparently even looming over Sinclair isn't giving him the upper hand in the conversation, he really is a broken piece of merchandise isn't he.

For Sinclair's part, the narration wonders if it's mixed signals to be towered over menacingly by a guy who looks like he's about to burst into tears.

"You weren't s'posed to know, you weren't s'posed to know about any of it! You shouldn't've gone in there."

Alright, that's fair. That's an extraneous detail, Sinclair supposes he doesn't have to know it.

But really though, this isn't his fault. It's not like he waited until Jack was distracted because he knew that somewhere around here was a room coated floor to ceiling in the private details of Jack's past. There was no way he could have seen that coming.

And then there this sense of pity that squeezes his organs when he looks at Jack's face. The weight of what all this means for and about Jack just hits him, now that he's cleared a small path through what it means for the two of them as partners.

This is someone who never used to have any sort of free will. He was conditioned to obey, he wasn't meant to be a person.

But he is, and Doctor Tenenbaum must have seen it first. Sinclair suspects she helped Jack break out of it. It makes sense, then, why she's so bitter towards him. To give him his free will and then for him to make decisions that work directly against her.

Sinclair takes another second to choose his words, but in the end there's only one way to say what he wants Jack to know.

"Son, you can trust me."

And to anyone else it would sound like utter horse shit. Augustus Sinclair is one of the last men in Rapture anyone would call trustworthy, but he worked hard for that reputation. And this isn't about business. This isn't about earning Jack's favor to gain more information to inevitably use against him, this isn't about collecting weaknesses to sell him out later.

This is about trying to find any peace of mind he can extend to Jack at all. There's a lot they're going to have to work out if Jack decides to continue on with Sinclair, but they're not going anywhere until Jack calms down. And that won't even begin to happen until he stops feeling like he's about to be attacked, like Sinclair's going to peel him down to his scared and vulnerable core.

He hates that Sinclair's looking at him. Pausing before speaking. It must be interesting for him; not every day someone gets to meet a failed science experiment.

"Everyone's always saying that," says Jack.

Except that somewhere in that sentence his voice cracks. And then there isn't just a heat in his face or a prickling behind his eyes; there are tears boiling out and running down his face. He tries angrily to scrub them away and just ends up with both hands over his face.

Last time Jack cried in front of Sinclair, it was a little on the uncomfortable side. Sinclair didn't really know why he was crying, he'd only just met him and somehow he found himself trying to comfort a stranger when genuine kindness to strangers didn't really come naturally to him.

But it's hard to think of Jack as a stranger anymore, and this time Sinclair gets it, why he's crying. What it is that must keep him up at night, gives him nightmares when he does sleep.

"You don't have to," he says, venturing a reassuring hand on Jack's arm, "but you can."

Jack backs away from the touch. He scrubs at his face again -- stop crying, jesus, get a hold of yourself.

He doesn't know how much Sinclair found out about him, and he's not sure how to ask -- but maybe it doesn't matter, it's got to be too much no matter what the amount.

"Fontaine said I could trust him," he mutters bitterly. And then it turned out Fontaine didn't even use his own voice or name to say it. A moment later Jack wonders why he's saying anything -- but why not, Sinclair's seen the photos and heard the diaries, it's not some big secret that Fontaine's one of the skeletons in Jack's closet. And whether or not Sinclair gets it, that sentence is kind of the foundation of why Jack probably shouldn't be trusting anyone any more, no matter how easily trust usually comes to him.

Sinclair frowns in confusion, dropping his hand.

Fontaine? Fontaine was dead long before Jack came here. Or at least he seemed to be. There was a lot of stuff that seemed to go very right for Fontaine after he died. And there are ways to disappear, Sinclair just figured something like that would be a lot harder to pull off in a place like Rapture. But Fontaine was no fool, and if he wanted something he would find a way to get it. No matter the cost.

This is some breaking news.

But Sinclair forces down his questions. Jack is still very much on edge, and that's the priority here. His questions wouldn't get answered like this anyway.

"Fontaine was a crook and a liar, but he was a smart one. It's not your fault if he pulled one over on you, he did that to just about everyone he knew. But kid," Sinclair shakes his head, "you can't go on not trusting anyone because of it. You're gonna end up making your life a hell of a lot harder than it needs to be."

He's not sure how much more he can say beyond that to try and console Jack, but he adds, "I'm only here to help you out, son. We both need to get out of here, I can't do that without you. It's not gonna do me any favors to turn on you now." You know. For whatever it's worth.

Jack shakes his head, though he's not sure if he's disagreeing or agreeing 'no'. He's just...

He's calmed down a bit, at least. The initial panic has been spent and the anger has eaten itself alive, leaving him with little to feel but wretched.

He backs off a little at last, giving Sinclair some space to breathe, and collapses onto a desk chair like a marionette when the strings are cut. He's still crying, despite his best efforts -- his sleeve is probably more snotty than bloody by now, a remarkable achievement. Partly it's from the shock of raking over all those things he still hasn't come to terms with.

But partly it's because he's still waiting for a change of attitude in Sinclair, the mockery and disregard and disappointment that's part and parcel of knowing he's somebody's freak science project. If he has to wait for it to happen by degrees instead of facing it all at once, he thinks it'll kill him.

And it looks like it's not happening all at once.

"That's right," he says into his hands -- that last argument, at least, he can believe readily, if only because of where they are.

Well at least there's something Jack agrees with.

Sinclair leans against the desk and sighs.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone, chief. You have my word."

He's not sure who he would tell at this point anyway. Most of the people he kept in touch with are either dead or spliced up beyond recognition. But the sentiment is still there; Jack's secret is safe with him.

Sure, but even if the damage doesn't go further, it's already been done:

"You'll still know," he says miserably.

"I don't know what to do about that," Sinclair frowns. "...I'm sorry."

Jack doesn't reply for several moments, but when he does:

"I burned it all. So you can't -- look any more."

He's trying to sound forceful and assertive, though the miserable hiccup in his voice kind of ruins the effect.

...Not that that will change anything, but if it makes Jack feel better, okay.

Sinclair nods in agreement. "And neither can anyone else. I suppose you might consider it at least somewhat contained," he offers with a small smile. It can't do any more damage than it already has.

Although he's not sure what Jack expects him to do with it. The phrase doesn't work anymore, and the memories are painful but the fact that Sinclair knows isn't going to really change anything.

Jack has calmed down enough to stop being so violently angry, but not enough to stop crying. He sniffles quietly and Sinclair can almost hear Jack internally chiding himself for it. He wants to stop, but he can't. And it's always a little hard to watch a grown man cry.

"What are you worried about, son?" Sinclair asks, making sure to keep his tone gentle. Maybe if he can pinpoint that, he can help Jack pull himself together and they can keep looking for the code for the sub bay.

That is if Jack still plans on working with him.

...That would be. Inconvenient.

Well, that's a question with an easy enough answer. Consolidating that answer into something succinct, however, is another matter.

Also it's hard to be eloquent at this stage of crying, when you've not quite stopped, because you risk unbottling yourself and going right back into sobs. Especially if you say the wrong thing.

Nevertheless, Jack manages:

"Now you know I'm -- nothing." Any number of the phrases that've been flung at him come to mind. "A... h-half-baked science experiment."

He's staring really, really hard at the floor. And his voice is harsh.

Well that one tugs at Sinclair's stone cold heart.

He shakes his head again, this time with a little more purpose.

"Hey, kid," he says, and crouches down by Jack's chair to ensure eye contact. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

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