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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

Eye contact is quickly and uncomfortably broken, but Jack nods once.

Sinclair sighs, choosing his words.

"Nobody gets to choose where they come from. You got dealt a bad hand, it's not your fault. This game was rigged against you, sport, and there wasn't a damn thing you were supposed to be able to do about that."

He lets it sink in for just a second, trying to regain that eye contact, smiling.

"But you did. They thought they were gonna tell you who you were supposed to be, what you were supposed to do, but they miscalculated. They underestimated you, and they paid that balance. Now, I've met people who came from dirt, worked harder than they ever thought they could and came out on top. But kid," he says with a small laugh, "you were conditioned to be nothing more than a tool, something somebody else could use to get what they wanted. And you came out of it your own person. I don't know about you, but nobody can tell me that's nothing."

Jack's jaw tightens through that whole nothing more than a tool part, because wow, Sinclair, way to tell it like it is. But he listens. He listens to all of it, with growing... well, honestly, growing astonishment.

He hasn't thought about that angle a whole lot, and he certainly didn't expect to hear it said to him. And it's difficult to buy, especially right off the bat -- but if Sinclair really believes it, that's got to be worth something.

God, but he wishes Sinclair was right.

"I didn't, though," he says; and he's finally forced the crying away but the sound of it is still heavy on his voice. "I didn't. I don't know how to -- decide right. I'm not... quick enough, I can't make things happen, I... just do what I'm told." Didn't Fontaine say as much, and a lot less nicely? Didn't Tenenbaum obviously know it? "I just--" He says the next word like it's something utterly poisonous. "--obey."

He's still talking to the floor, by the way, for what may be the longest speech of his life so far.

Sinclair laughs again, a little more in earnest.

"I don't think anybody knows how decide right. Every choice is a gamble, and that goes for everybody. Thinking your choices through, that's not a fault. Some folks don't think about them at all, they just go through life thinking every gut instinct's gotta be the right one. And sometimes it is, but I know for my part...there's a lot I wished I would've taken the time to think through."

Including but not limited to most of the events that led him to Rapture, and almost all of the events afterwards. It's been a lottery from the get go, and in a lot of ways he couldn't have possibly seen any of this coming. In other ways, though, he might have had the foresight to know that this was never going to work out in the long run. Maybe he did know, maybe he just thought he'd always have an exit strategy.

So much for that.

"Come on, kid, look at me. I've seen you make a good plenty of your own decisions. You chose to start saving those little girls, didn't you? You chose to work with me, you chose to keep on working with me. ...And I hope you're going to choose to work with me still, but it's your choice, chief."

It's time to be surprised again. It's hard to imagine all-knowing Sinclair having to regret the choices he's made.

...But then again he's down here in Rapture, so there was at least one major fuck-up somewhere along the line.

Jack does finally meet Sinclair's eyes. By now he looks, more than anything else, dog tired. Eyes red and shadowed, face blotchy from the tears. Certainly too tired to carry on arguing. I'd say he's just worried himself into exhaustion, but I'm sure we haven't forgotten the other, more trembly factor that's also in play here.

"I do want to, still."

He kind of wants to say no he doesn't, just to prove that he could, but even Jack has enough foresight to know that that wouldn't be worth it. So yep, he's still in. Unless and until Sinclair kicks him off the team, or starts treating him as a tool. Either or both of which Jack was expecting to happen like ten minutes ago, so honestly the question is vaguely welcome.

That is one hell of a relief. It's not that Sinclair thinks he'd never get out without Jack, he had some semblance of a plan before they met, but it would be one hell of a lot harder to do.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," he says with a smile, rising to his feet again. "What do you say we find that code and take a look at our new submarine?"

You know. If the code wasn't burned along with all the other stuff Jack was so terrified of Sinclair discovering.

It's okay, I don't think quest items are destructible.

"Yeah." Not a whole truckload of boundless enthusiasm, but some relief that he doesn't have to talk about difficult things any more.

"I searched through the desk here pretty well, didn't find anything. You might have some better luck."

Meanwhile there's a bookshelf over there that he could probably look through all day long and then maybe a couple days after that. ...That'll be a last resort.

"I'm gonna have another look around in here. Holler if you find anything."

He nods. Then catches himself and stops nodding. Then goes ahead and finishes the nod, because come on, Jack, don't be oversensitive.

"Got a tonic for that," he mumbles, in support of his desk-searching credentials.

The marvels of splicing. Sometimes the conveniences it allows for are pretty tempting, but it only takes a stroll through any given hallway in Rapture to make your mind up for you in a heartbeat.

Speaking of which, Sinclair can't imagine Jack is holding up too well over there, having not spliced properly all day long. He's keeping himself together well enough, but it's only a matter of time before it starts to really show. And there's that urgent need to talk to Doctor Tenenbaum, but there's nothing he can do about that right now. He forces it back down.

The other side of the room is...not likely to have anything with a code. It's mostly furniture, there are a couple pictures which Sinclair takes his time inspecting, but mostly he knows he's putting off the inevitable bookshelf search.

A few minutes longer of staring at a portrait of Andrew Ryan, checking behind it, examining the entire frame, and Sinclair gives up.

He drags himself back over to the bookshelf and sighs. This could take a while.

Jack does make a show of putting in an effort, but his heart is about as in it as the code is in the drawers. He spends more time staring blankly into them than searching them, and even more time than that trying not to look at Ryan's body, which is more prominent in the room than it has any right to be.

And honestly it shouldn't be like that, because he has to find the code to get them out and where on earth has his get-up-and-go got up and gone to?

Maybe it's that he's hungry. He makes a somewhat noisy pit-stop at the nearest trash can.

And comes up with a crumpled bit of paper, torn out of a planner, four digits written on it.

"...Mister Sinclair?"

Sinclair has pulled the first book out of the shelf and is sullenly thumbing through it when Jack speaks up.

"Hm?" he says without looking up.

"I found something," he says with cautious optimism.

The book goes back on the shelf in about .01 seconds flat and Sinclair is at Jack's side to examine his find.

Four digits.

6225.

"...Where'd you find this?"

"In the trashcan," says Jack, pointing a finger at the offending receptacle.

And there were no cakes at all, by the way.

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