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]

Lying is going to get him nowhere, he can tell. But telling the truth? About where he comes from? The fact that he was made? And then used?

That's not something that appeals. Sorry not sorry, Mister Sinclair.

He starts shaking his head unconsciously, and on his face is... unhappiness. Not sadness, not discomfort, not the blues, but something more injured and angry. No, his being here isn't an accident; it was Fontaine. Every moment of his existence is because of Fontaine. That's something he's still coming to grips with, it's enormous, it's like a weight bearing down on him and every time he thinks he has a hold on it, he realises it's bigger than he thought.

And he got revenge. He's glad he did, he's glad he killed Fontaine. But that didn't make it better. And so his hackles are starting to rise.

"I'm not going to tell you why I'm here."

[modestman]

Well Mr. Ryan Junior, that's not an answer that's going to satisfy Sinclair.

"If any of this is gonna work," he says with a vague gesture, "you're going to have to come clean at some point. If there's anything I need to know about you or your circumstances, son, you've got to tell me. I need to be able to trust you."

Okay, so it's something of an empty emotional appeal. He doesn't need to trust Jack with anything just yet, but to fair he may very well need to some time in the near future. You never know.

[did_unkindly]

"There's nothing you need to know."

Wow. He shouldn't have gotten thinking about Fontaine again. Now he really wants to punch someone in the face with exploding buck.

[modestman]

Okay, that's fine. He can shift his angle if he needs to, he has no problem with that.

"If you want to get out of here, you're gonna have to tell me." Business partners don't keep secrets from each other, after all.

[did_unkindly]

Jack opens his mouth, then stops. He's not exactly sure why to begin with. Then it dawns on him: Sinclair's argument is off, from what he's understood of the conversation.

"I thought I was helping you get out," he says. "All you have is money."

[modestman]

"You're misunderstanding me, chief," Sinclair shakes his head. "We're helping each other. Neither one of us is likely to get out alone, but we're damn sure not to get out of here if we're not on the same page."

[did_unkindly]

"It doesn't matter why I'm here."

Jack would rather not kill Sinclair -- even without the proposition, this is the most anyone's talked to him in what seems like forever -- so he's trying to keep his cool, but it's easier said than done.

By which I mean he's keeping his cool about as well as a broken refrigerator on a hot day.

[modestman]

"I'm gonna have to disagree with you there. If there's somebody who might swoop in at any minute because they're keeping an eye on you and they don't want you leaving, that's gonna end up mattering. I need to know what I'm dealing with here. It's a little difficult to work out a proper strategy if I can't even see all the pieces."

And that much is actually true.

[did_unkindly]

"They won't be swooping in. They're dead."

And Jack still has a lot of unresolved anger about it as well as everything in the world ever, but that doesn't keep him from speaking with an abrupt and savage satisfaction.

[modestman]

So there're two bodies.

Well, there's more than that, but--

that is curious.

Jack looks a little too pleased about that and it unsettles Sinclair to some degree, but he ignores it. This is a matter to return to later, he knows he won't get anything out of Jack right now.

"Alright, sport, if you're sure." He looks at Jack again for one more confirmation that this mysterious third (fourth?) party is definitely not going to be an issue for either of them.

[did_unkindly]

"I am," he says loudly, and eats some more ham as if he has a personal vendetta against it.

He's actually shaking a little with unexpected adrenaline. Fontaine. Fontaine Fontaine Fontaine. If anything, he'd like to go back and kill the man again. The fake memories of a family, the fake friendship down here, building words of control right into his brain -- yeah, let's just say there are not enough days in the week for all the therapy Jack is going to need.

But he is still trying not to flip out too hard, because he's fairly sure Sinclair wouldn't zap back in the nearest Vita Chamber.

[modestman]

Sinclair watches Jack's attention return fully to his canned ham and thinks maybe he's beginning to figure out what it is that disquiets him. In and of itself, it's not exactly a suspicious thing, but it's another unanswered question and the more of those he can eliminate, the better.

"Where did you say you were from?"

[did_unkindly]

Jack glares at Sinclair, swallows his ham, opens his mouth and prepares to give a home state that hasn't been fed into his head by a scientist. And then -- it's not happening. There is no such thing.

This, of course, just makes him angrier.

"Kansas."

If there was a plasmid for making looks kill...

[modestman]

"Not a fan?" Sinclair asks, outwardly amused despite being fully aware that there's more to Jack's anger than just frustration at being questioned. "I'm a Georgia man myself, some beautiful countryside out there. But I'm sure you're familiar with that. I hear Kansas is grand in the fall."

[did_unkindly]

Well, at least false memories come in useful sometimes, because he can call up an image of Kansas as clear as if he had seen it himself. Hell, he might have done, it's not like he can tell which memories came from real life and which ones came out of a bottle.

For a minute, he's not sure what to say, as snapshots of childhood mingle with the knowledge that they never happened, not really.

His face feels hot. He swallows and mumbles:

"Corn mazes. And the state fair every fall."

[modestman]

"Well that sounds like a lovely tradition," he says. "'D you have a favorite attraction? I used to love the ferris wheel when I was just a tadpole."

Small talk, that's all this is. Dead bodies and escape plans make for such weighty conversation. Lighten the mood is all Sinclair's trying to do. He would pursue this topic even if it didn't look like it made Jack horribly uncomfortable.

[did_unkindly]

Jack is suddenly afraid that he's going to try to answer a question and find a place where the memories run out.

But he goes along with it, for now, because at least Sinclair isn't asking why he's here any more.

"Shooting range. Clay pigeons."

It doesn't even feel like lying, that's the odd thing. It's all there in front of his eyes if he wants to see it.

[modestman]

Shooting range, why is Sinclair not surprised. It's almost like Jack was born for serving up headshots to rabid splicers.

"My granddaddy gave me my first shotgun when I was about twelve years old, tried to teach me how to shoot but I was never much good at it. Aim was always just a fraction to the right, couldn't ever seem to make up for it," he says, squinting one eye shut and holding his arm out to try and illustrate the scenario. "Who gave you your first gun?"

He's interested. Really. Jack's life story is fascinating, he's sure.

[did_unkindly]

And there it is. There's the wall.

Fontaine's people must've wanted to stop him from wondering how come he could shoot. But apparently they paid less attention to crafting a backstory that nobody would ask for.

He tries, furrowing his brow, but it's just not there. The statement, '________ gave me my first gun'. It's as absent as the other ones are ingrained.

Not the first time this has happened since he found out and really started thinking. But it still unsettles the shit out of him.

Quickly: "I don't remember."

[modestman]

Sinclair gives him a surprised look. "Everybody remembers their first gun, chief. Do you at least remember how old you were when you got it?"

[did_unkindly]

Probably less than a year old HA HA HA...

...HA...

"Pretty young."

Without looking at it, he fishes in the cabinet behind him and comes up with a cake bar. Jack is going to eat his feelings.

[modestman]

So Sinclair supposes the question now is whether Jack genuinely does not remember these things or if he just really does not want to talk about it. He watches Jack enthusiastically tear open a cake wrapper and shove it in his mouth (the cake, not the wrapper, although he appears to be hungry enough to eat both).

"When was the last time you ate, son? I mean real food. You look famished."

[did_unkindly]

He looks at Sinclair in surprise, because dang this guy is leading the conversation all over the shop. He answers readily, though. With his mouth full.

"On the airplane I had broccoli and steak and uh... potatoes."

(he didn't finish the broccoli)

(but they gave him dessert anyway)

[modestman]

So it's been days, that explains a lot. "Where're you staying?" he asks.

This is probably a bad idea, but he can't help but feel a little sympathy for Jack. And after all, he'll be useless if he's too hungry and tired to function.

[did_unkindly]

That and his completely insane metabolism. He swallows the cake.

"Wherever I can."

He's tried fortifications, but he's a fighter, not a builder or a mechanic. The splicers always get in and he has to move on and find a new place to sleep. He hasn't done more than cat-nap since he got here and it isn't doing much for his nerves.