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

[modestman]

Sinclair nods, grinning proudly. The look on Jack's face is priceless, and while it hasn't ever really been much of a priority to make sure people around him are happy, it doesn't hurt when it's a side effect of something he wanted to have happen anyway.

"I can smell your feast already, son. We're gonna be some of the wealthiest men in the country."

[did_unkindly]

And so the day passes. Sinclair packs his luggage, money-making masterpieces and all. Jack, who has nothing to pack but lots to do, stays at the bathysphere and takes occasional breaks to scavenge for parts or murder over-curious splicers.

As artificial evening falls, he's in the bathy's cabin, poking at the jury-rigged steering. He's pulled up a lot of the floor, cut the rudders off from their original radio controls. It's not pretty; there are splinters and wires everywhere. But it's let him stretch salt-saturated ropes from those rudders to a kind of makeshift joystick cluster.

He's even tested it a little. He figured that, if worst came to worst and he was trapped underwater in a non-functioning sphere, he could shoot himself in the head and start over again. But that was never necessary; he managed to take the sphere a few feet down the docking rings without incident, and even got her back again, although it took at least an hour to figure out how to turn around.

Jack is still jubilant from that test run. His heart beats faster every time he thinks about sunlight.

He's whistling, even, completely tunelessly, as he lies on his stomach to check the integrity of his knots.

[modestman]

Sinclair returns to Jack a few hours later, walking into the docks with a bag full of Rapture spoils hefted over his shoulder. This single bag is what's going to secure them both an extremely comfortable life on the surface. And Jack is so tolerant of the effects of ADAM, he might even be able to show the right people how it works. And it all starts here, tonight, leaving Rapture and never looking back.

"How's it looking, chief?" he says, setting his bag down on the bench.

[did_unkindly]

He knows it's just another verbal quirk like kid or son, but Jack finds he likes this one. Chief. Has a nice ring to it.

"It runs great," he says proudly. "I made it steer, look."

He tugs on one of the jury-rigged joysticks. The water in the dock is already choppy, so the movement of the submerged rudders isn't really visible, but if Sinclair peeps inside the bathysphere he'll be able to see the taut rope jerking something around in its depths.

Sorry about the mess, by the way.

[modestman]

"Hey, nice work!" Sinclair says, patting Jack on the back. "When do you think she'll be ready for lift off?"

[did_unkindly]

Jack tenses at the sudden approach, because there are some things you have to get used to again after all the fighting for his life he's been doing. But he appreciates the compliment, he really does.

"She can go now," he says, and he says it with unusual fervour. A minute surrounded by Rapture and its memories is a minute too long. "I tested it."

[modestman]

Sinclair couldn't keep the grin off his face if he tried. Finally. After fruitlessly trying to piece together some sort of exit strategy, the son of Andrew Ryan falls from the sky (quite literally) and now, a whole 24 hours later, he can already feel the sand between his toes.

"Well what are we waiting for then? You got everything you need?" he asks.

[did_unkindly]

Jack nods, then thinks of something.

"Did you bring anything to eat?"

The box of goodies is loooong since picked clean, and they won't be served in-flight snacks by friendly attendants, so uh...

[modestman]

He looks over at the box from earlier and sure enough, as full as it had been, it is now barren.

"Anyone ever tell you you eat like a horse?" he says, laughing. "Alright, I'll bring back some more of that. How's that thing on gas? Fill it up?"

[did_unkindly]

"I get hungry," says Jack, extremely helpfully.

Oh, and he also answers the question that isn't rhetorical.

"I put gas in it. But I used it. I'll fill it up now."

He springs up and makes a beeline for the handy filling station behind the dock.

[modestman]

Sinclair picks up the box and makes as quick a trip as possible with his healing leg. Which is feeling considerably better, by the way, though it still aches more than he'd like it to. It's easier to ignore with the bubbling excitement in his belly. Sure, he was excited when he came to Rapture, but this...this is different.

Rapture is toxic. Staying here is a slower and more painful death than anything an atom bomb could do. This is a chance to start over. Sinclair's had his run, playing the game, turning a profit. He's beyond ready to cash it in and live out the rest of his days in luxury. Real luxury, not Ryan's artificial paradise. That's what all the work was for, anyway. This is it. It feels like Christmas.

"I'm telling you, kid," he says upon his return, setting the box down outside of the bathysphere. "This is the best thing that could've happened for either of us. A clean slate, starting fresh. You're gonna be able to do whatever you want."

[did_unkindly]

"Whatever I want?"

A smile grows on Jack's face. He likes that idea. Deciding what he likes to do, not taking orders from endless voices on the radio who may or may not turn out to be a dead guy. It's the final looked-for slap in Fontaine's face, he realises. He, Jack, was supposed to do whatever he was told. Well, now he's going somewhere where that won't ever happen again.

Yes, he likes the idea of that a lot.

[modestman]

"Anything at all. Now what do you say we get this show on the road?" he says, collecting his bag of treasures from the bench. There's a mess of stuff lying around the dock, a trash can full of gasoline, but for all Sinclair cares this entire city could be painted in shit. They're out of here, none of it even matters anymore.

[did_unkindly]

Nodding more eagerly than he thinks he's ever done in his life, Jack hops into the bathysphere and crouches next to the controls.

Of course, of course, this is the moment at which singing becomes audible outside the bathy station.

Jack's hand goes automatically to his revolver, and he half-rises again.

[modestman]

Ah, well that could put a damper on things.

"Goddammit, Weir," Sinclair says under his breath. "Hope you were right about this thing being ready to go, kid." He shoves the box through the threshold onto the floor and drops his bag on the seat before reaching for his own gun.

[did_unkindly]

Hurriedly -- he's not let splicers spoil his progress before; he's not about to start now -- Jack kicks the bathysphere into whatever kind of gear it's capable of. He slams the door shut. Airtight seals hiss; the needle of a pressure gauge wavers back and forth.

The bathysphere rocks for a moment and then starts to descend. Hang on, Sinclair. It's a bumpier ride than usual. While Jack hauls at the joysticks, he keeps one eye glued on the station entrance -- and the splicers who've begun to appear there.

They're shouting abuse, some of them running towards the sphere. Their voices are muffled and echoing but it's still possible to make out the words.

"Where are you going?!" "Think you can escape, monster?" "Hold the door for your elders and betters." "The spheres? In service again? At last! We can take the children to Arcadia!" "DON'T LEAVE WITHOUT ME!"

They make it beneath the water. A few seconds later, there's a splash and a crash and the bathy rocks alarmingly. A pair of feet appears at the window, kicking wildly, half-crushed against the wall by the descending sphere. Sound travels well underwater, and they can hear the exact moment when the drowning splicer stops screaming.

Nobody else follows them, after that.

[modestman]

That's never really something you get used to. However, there's nothing quite as relieving as the silence that follows the death of a splicer. Once the last one shuts up, Sinclair relaxes back into the seat.

As for the bathysphere, it's not the smoothest ride, but it gets the job done. It seems like that usually how he does business anyway, so he supposes it's really only fitting.

"Runs beautifully, chief, nice work," he says, grinning at Jack. "Hardest part's over! How do you feel?"

[did_unkindly]

It's definitely how Jack does business. His plans are as second-hand and cobbled-together as his arsenal, but they haven't permanently killed him yet.

He and Sinclair make a great team!

Jack's seen probably nastier deaths, and a whole lot of them, so the dying splicer mostly worries him on a level of whether it's going to damage the sphere. But they're home free now, out of the building, sailing through the docking rings and out into the open sea. They're free.

They're free.

"Good," he answers, grinning back, and it's clear from his tone that this is the understatement of the century.

He cranks the joysticks -- it takes some effort and finesse, since the rudders were never meant to work this way, but between his muscles and his tonics Jack has strength to spare -- and keeps them coasting through the water, well clear of the drowned skyscrapers all around them. The buildings drift past serenely, almost in slow motion.

Jack leans forward and peers out of the porthole. He can't see the surface from here, it's too far up. But it's there. It's calling. He'll be seeing it very soon.

[modestman]

The hope, the optimism all over Jack's face right now is purely an accidental byproduct of Sinclair's plan to escape Rapture. Completely unintentional, since, after all, he'd had this plan (or at least one like it) since before he even knew Jack existed. But watching him lean into the porthole, looking up towards the surface... sometimes things just feel like they were supposed to happen. Sometimes you can just tell that you did something right.

Or maybe it's just Sinclair's own buzzing anticipation that makes everything seem so much promising. Either way, this is the best he's felt about the future since before he came to Rapture.

"I don't reckon it'll take us too long to get up there, the long part will be finding land. If we head west, that'll take us towards the U.S. Unless you're feeling more like we should visit Iceland. You're steering, I suppose it's up to you," he laughs.

[did_unkindly]

"We should go to Georgia," Jack suggests. Recommends. States, even. He doesn't need a particular reason for wanting it; he's making a choice. "I want to see it."

He keeps his eyes on the road, and tries to keep his mind on his ongoing wrestling match with the steering. But his thoughts are already topside.

He pulls at the rudders that will tip them onto an upward course.

Below, near the seabed, something starts to move in their direction. Maybe a squid, maybe a fish.

It begins to pick up speed.

[modestman]

"We can go wherever you want, kid," Sinclair says. "You might like Georgia. I'm sure there's a ton of places you'll wanna go, though. Comparatively speaking, there's not a whole lot about Georgia that's remarkably interesting."

Whatever this mysterious thing is, Sinclair is wholly oblivious. There's only one porthole in this bathy and he's not really at an angle to catch much besides sea motes.

[did_unkindly]

Jack's not wholly oblivious, but he's busy with the controls and doesn't give it a proper look for another few secoNDS HOLY SHIT THAT'S A TORPEDO

Seriously, you don't need military training to recognise a torpedo, it's big and metal and murder-shaped and it's heading straight for the bathysphere.

With a shout of alarm, but without any more warning than that, Jack takes evasive action. He yanks with all his strength at two of the joysticks, spinning the bathy out of the way. In the next heartbeat, the torpedo goes past so close that they can hear the angry pinging of its sonar.

[modestman]

That extremely alarming noise sends Sinclair straight to his feet.

"What in the hell was that?" he asks, although he has a feeling he already knows. They should have accounted for it, and it had crossed his mind for a brief second in the preparation of all of this but...it's been months since anyone's tried to escape, and sea life grows with a vengeance. All of that should have stopped being functional by now.

[did_unkindly]

"Hold on!" says Jack urgently.

Alarm bells are going off in his head and self-preservation kicks into high gear, and he yanks the controls again as the sonar noise swings back around behind them.

The bathy, not designed for this kind of off-road nonsense, starts to spin. The torpedo misses them again. But good luck guessing which direction it went, or even which direction is up, as the sphere rotates like a fairground ride.

Jack, teeth gritted, fights to get them back on course. But it's not like there are seat belts. He's half tugging on the joysticks, half hanging onto them for dear life.

[modestman]

Sinclair is forced back onto the seat as the bathysphere takes a sharp curve, and he ends up on the floor, hanging onto the seats for whatever kind of security they can offer.

This was definitely not part of the plan. Even if it should have been, it wasn't. Sinclair tries to rifle though everything he's learned about Ryan's defense system for some sort of piece of instruction he can offer Jack, but he comes up dry. A missile was fired, the only thing to do is try and avoid it. And that part's already in action.

"Get us straight again, kid!" he shouts, "Straighten us out!"