Jack Ryan (
did_unkindly) wrote in
weathertop2013-02-23 02:59 am
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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
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 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.
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"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.
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"Well that won't do at all, we're not gonna get very far with you stumbling over yourself in exhaustion. I've got a sofa with your name on it, kid."
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Staring a little, he answers without thinking.
"Thank you, mister Sinclair."
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And in his head, he's counting all the things he might need to lock up or hide away, the valuables and the things he would just plain rather not have Jack see. There doesn't seem to be too much, not that he can think of anyway, but there's nothing to say Jack's not going to try to take off in the middle of the night with anything he can sell. It's a risk, but then again Sinclair sincerely doubts Jack is going to be able to come up with a better way to get back to the surface. Another way, maybe, but not one that's going to secure him a happy life.
"I've got a place up in Olympus Heights. I'd say it's a walk, but it looks like you've got that part covered."
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"But that's full of splicers."
(says the guy whose hand was on fire not half an hour ago)
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Yeah, okay, there's a little excess pride in his tone but he set up those turrets himself. They've been there for a while, they hold a pretty impressive record.
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It's not exactly a boast. He's gotten past a lot of turrets, is what he's saying.
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That actually makes him feel a little bit better about himself.
He nods, accepting the claim, and pushes himself forwards so that he's no longer leaning back against the cabinet. Settles into a resting pose that's ready to move, like a soldier at ease.
"When do we go?"
He's over his hissy fit, and now he's looking at Sinclair for direction.
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"We can go right now, if you want," Sinclair says, pulling his pistol out of a drawer in his desk and holstering it. "I could go for another trip in the bathysphere. All this walking wears me out." He walks to the door and holds it open, allowing Jack to step out and lead the way if he chooses.
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He pats his belt as he goes. There's the wrench, heavy and reassuring. There are the pockets full of ammunition, and those two hypos safe in a hanging pocket under his shapeless jumper. He has plenty of places to store things, and not a one isn't utilised for instruments of destruction. And out there in the city he's hidden bigger weapons, the research camera, the deadly chemical thrower with its preciously rare ammo. Jack Ryan is kind of a powerhouse.
The pistol goes away and the shotgun comes off his back. Break, check ammo -- it's running on empty, he finds, and so as he leads the way he pushes heavy electric buck into its chamber. Fast, deliberate, efficient. It's second nature.
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Following him is definitely not objectional.
He doesn't speak again until they're safely inside the bathysphere, headed to Olympus Heights.
"From the docks we can head into the hall and there's a locked door down a few yards to the left. I'm gonna need to disable my turrets for you, so you may need to wait just a minute outside once we get there," Sinclair warns him, although not with too much urgency. It is useful information, but he says it mostly to take up air space. Somehow being in a silent room with Jack Ryan is about three times as intense as it would be with anyone else.
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He's looking balefully out of the window at Olympus Heights. Its black shape looms out of the greenish blanket of the sea and the neon splashes of the city itself. And one bit in particular stands out, at least in Jack's eyes: the skyscraper raised out of a skyscraper, Frank Fontaine's erstwhile apartment.
The windows are dark. The windows will be dark for a very long time.
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The tallest building in view from the bathysphere is Olympus Heights. Realm of the gods among men. Intellectual and financial nobility. And at the top of the shit pile rests the once gleaming abode of the man Frank Fontaine himself. Dead for several months now, at least. He points to it to direct Jack's attention.
"Frank Fontaine used to live all the way up there, son. He's the one who developed all these plasmids. Well. His money did, anyway. I don't believe he spent more than two seconds looking over any of the research. You'd better believe he knew how to turn a profit, though. Can't knock a fella for that."
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"Did you -- know him?"
And secretly, he hopes and prays that Sinclair says no, or at least that they weren't friends. That would be even worse than being Ryan's man.
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He shrugs, visibly trying to decide how to answer. "I knew him. Didn't talk to him any more than I had to though. He may have been good at doing business for himself but I know grifter when I meet one. No thank you, he can keep his hands well out of my pockets. Or could have, rather. He's nobody's problem anymore."
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If only Sinclair knew it, by badmouthing Fontaine he's gone up quite a few points in Jack's estimations.
"Because he's dead, isn't he."
An expression crosses his face which I can only describe as a pained kind of smirk.
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"Stone cold," he says. There had been rumors floating around for a while that perhaps he was still alive, but Sinclair knows that to be impossible. "Shot dead in the middle of the street by one of Ryan's. As you can see, Rapture's been a place of peace and unity since long before you got here."
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Not that he knows Normal from Adam, but. He thinks he'd like to learn.
He's not sure what to say, though. He knows that Fontaine didn't die that day, so he probably shouldn't comment, because he gets the feeling that he isn't a very good liar. He sort of wants to answer the joke with another one, to impress Sinclair.
Let's go with that second one, let's give it a try!
"It's... very nice."
...
...
well for a first attempt i suppose that's
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The bathysphere finally docks at Olympus Heights, bobbing in the water for a few seconds before it begins to stabilize. Sinclair stands up and pushes the door open, right hand immediately seeking out the gun at his hip.
Did he say they'd be safe here? Obviously he meant they would be as soon as they got to his room. Even from here, it's easy to hear the deranged yells and muttering and occasional singing from not far enough away.
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"I don't know if you can fight," he admits, standing close to Sinclair so that they can talk without raising their voices.
Because it's going to come to a fight between here and the safe house, if the last couple of days he's spent in Rapture are any indication. He can't walk five steps down here without something gibbering and throwing a bomb at him.
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The air suddenly fills with shrieking. The spider splicer is a blur of rotten breath, shrill curses and vicious metal hooks. She takes a swing, and at the same time, Jack shoves Sinclair out of the way with a good bit of his strength. Where the man lands is a secondary concern. ♥
Then he lifts his pistol and gunshots overtake the splicer's screaming. There's quite a lot of blood and quite a lot of noise, and she crumples into a heap, her head one great jagged exit wound.
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loveshove sends him sprawling gracelessly back onto the door of the bathysphere with an equally as graceless noise of surprise. By the time Sinclair regains his balance, the splicer is already gushing blood onto the cement. Sinclair looks at Jack for a moment of wordless thanks, but even as he does it he's already moving for the door. That's going to have attracted the attention of others, they don't have much time.He places himself by the entrance to the hall, gun drawn and ready as he takes a look around the corner. He sees nothing, motions at Jack to come forward. Sinclair could be the first one to run out, but he's always been a man of options and right now that doesn't sound like the best one. He'll just follow Jack, if that's alright with everyone.
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