JUNE 9, 1959 — 11:48 PM
It had all happened in an instant, too quickly for Jack to have done the slightest thing to intervene.
He didn't dare move from where he stood until after the Big Daddy had already lumbered away. Even if he did dare, he didn't feel as though he could have moved an inch from the spot. The horror of what he had just seen only rooted him to the ground.
But slowly, surely, it was that horror that gave his limbs the power to move. He stepped forward, nearly stumbling, coming closer to where Diane lay on the ground.
That was a mistake. Not a hint of movement, not the slightest illusion of life came from her still form, much less the scattered viscera that surrounded her. The force of the drill had very nearly torn her in half; the gaping, twisted hole in her abdomen left no room to wonder if she could have survived the assault.
The sight made him dizzy, as though he'd lost the one foothold he had left that was keeping him from falling into the abyss. The scent of blood mingling with the drill's spent fuel caused bile to rise in his throat.
"Jack? Jack, come in . . ."
Tenenbaum's voice barely registered through the din of his despair, swelling upon itself and growing ever larger and louder the longer he looked upon Diane's lifeless body.
"Jack, what happened? Are you all right?"
He barely knew what to say.
"Jack? Jack, answer me."
Eventually he reached for the radio with a fumbling hand.
"She's—" He could hardly force out the words. "She's dead."
"Who is dead?"
"Diane— Diane, she..."
"What of Fontaine?"
Fontaine. Fontaine. The drill had—Jack had watched the drill go straight through Diane, while she had held Fontaine in place. He couldn't look at her again to be sure, he couldn't make himself look, but with that kind of force...
"He— He's dead, too."
"Are you all right?"
He didn't know how to answer.
"Jack?"
"I'm fine," he stammered, clutching the radio in a trembling grip. "I— I'm not hurt."
"Sehr gut. Get to the sub for us, Jack. We don't have much time."
Despite the fact that he knew she couldn't see him, the only answer Jack could muster was a silent nod.
He switched off the radio, let it hang at his side, tucked his gun back into his belt, and pressed a hand to his mouth barely in time to hold back a shaking sob.
No, no. There was no time for this. He still had to follow through on his word; he still had to ensure that Tenenbaum could get to the surface.
Jack made one final, futile attempt to collect himself, and when that failed, he decided to press on towards Hestia anyway.
But when he stepped past the bodies, just as he'd thought he was beginning to leave the scene behind, something grabbed onto his ankle.
"Not...so fuckin' fast, kid."
All at once, all of Jack's horror returned to him in a single crashing wave.
That was the voice of Fontaine.
No, but it wasn't just the voice of Fontaine. It was a voice Jack had heard long before he'd revealed himself just minutes ago, when recognition had flickered in his mind but had yet to fully take root.
It was the voice he'd heard in his ADAM-fueled haze at the back of Eve's Garden; it was the voice of his mother's murderer.
Jack turned his head to look. Fontaine had grabbed onto him with one hand, as if making to pull himself up, while in the other was clutched a syringe full of glowing ADAM, its needle already deep in his outstretched arm. The flesh surrounding the circular wound in his midsection pulsed and throbbed and multiplied as the ADAM vanished beneath the plunger and into his veins.
The shock of it was too great for Jack to do little more than jerk away from his grip with a cry. He stumbled back, nearly falling to the ground, while Fontaine's deep, rasping laughter rang out around him.
"Now that...was one hell of a close call." From the wheeze and rasp in his voice, it was evidently some effort for Fontaine to speak in his condition, but he didn't let that stop him, nor did he let it stop him from twisting himself around and continuing to drag himself forward. "But Frank Fontaine ain't one to be put down...just like that. Oh, no."
Jack should have drawn out his gun again. He should have shot the bastard in the face while he was still down. But no, instead he found himself gripped by fear.
"And if Mother Goose thinks you're gettin' to that sub—hell, if either of you thinks you're gettin' into that sub..." Fontaine laughed again; the sound of it echoed throughout the square, leaving Jack nowhere to escape. "You've got another thing comin'."
He should have gotten his gun, he should have done something.
"What are you talking about?"
But all he could do was stand there and stammer.
"What, you think I'm deaf?" The edges of Fontaine's grin were jagged, as though stretched taut by hooks. "Who do you think s'been keepin' that sub down there, anyway? All that money you gave me—all that ADAM I had those chumps steal—where do you think I've been stashin' it all, huh? It's the score of a lifetime, kid...and like hell am I gonna let you just ride away with it."
Jack took a wary step back as Fontaine dragged himself closer, inch by inch.
"Of course—if you were to give me a hand, here..." Fontaine made a huffing noise. "I wouldn't necessarily be opposed to lettin' you take a cut. And, ah—lettin' you live to enjoy it, naturally."
He should have left before things could get to this point. As soon as he saw Fontaine's first stirrings, he should have gotten as far away from him as possible—but now Jack could do nothing but stand there and listen.
"What do you say, boyo—partners?"
It was Atlas who had always called him that; it was Atlas who had offered him a hand of friendship. But there had never truly been an Atlas, had there? There had only ever been Fontaine, the very same Frank Fontaine who was now crawling towards him—the very same Frank Fontaine who had wielded total control over Rapture's criminal underground, the very same who had poised himself as Andrew Ryan's nemesis in every conceivable way—the very same Frank Fontaine who was responsible for Jack's existence, who had coded into his DNA the task of assassinating his father, who was the perpetrator behind every ounce of despair that now filled Jack's entire miserable being—no, behind all of Rapture's turmoil and more...
When the full weight of this realization washed over him, Jack still wasn't shaken enough from his fear to draw down on Fontaine and fire. His fear was only amplified instead, amplified until his mind burned with panic and his blood thrummed with adrenaline, and that was the final push he needed to make a break for the Metro station.
Fontaine's laughter only echoed behind him.
"Don't count on gettin' to that sub, kid—I'm comin' for ya!"
Jack was still in a panic when he'd gotten into the bathysphere and launched it from the bay, as though Fontaine had suddenly regained his ability to run right after him. With how eager he'd been to laugh at his retreating back, though, he wouldn't have been surprised—terrified, but not surprised in the least.
It wasn't until after the bathysphere was gliding through the water and well on its way that Jack finally began to calm down. Neptune's Bounty—he was almost to Neptune's Bounty, and then he'd only be a short distance from where Tenenbaum had said the sub would be waiting. Fontaine might have been recovering, but he was still barely able to crawl when Jack had left him, let alone beat him there. Even if he had another route besides the Metro—even if he knew the tunnels like the back of his hand, there was no way he would be able to get there before Jack could. There was simply no time for it.
But would Tenenbaum be able to get there in time?
The question weighed heavily on Jack's mind as the bathysphere made its path through the water, into the darkened tunnel of a connecting bay.
He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. The dock was near the transit hub, where he'd been before Atlas—no, before Fontaine had set the citizenry upon him. Even if people were still there, even if they were still under his command, Jack was ready for them this time. He could not, would not be stopped this time. From there it was just a short walk to Neptune's Bounty, then to Fontaine Fisheries, and then...
The bathysphere emerged from the water and pulled into the dock, and its door automatically clicked and swung open. Jack took another deep, steadying breath before he disembarked.
It wasn't until after he'd taken a step away from the bathysphere, however, that he realized something was amiss.
The station at the transit hub was a vast, open space, with docks arranged in a row to accommodate a significant amount of traffic. But the dock where he stood now was the only one to be found, as in virtually any other station than the one where he'd intended to be; instead of open space, there was only a grand staircase leading up from the bay.
Where was he?
He'd been in a distressed state of mind, sure, but—surely he hadn't been so careless as to pilot the bathysphere towards the wrong station, had he?
Jack turned to climb aboard again, to double check just which destination he'd entered, but the door swung shut before he could take another step.
"Hey—"
He was shouting to no one without even realizing it. Before he could reach for the door again, before he could make any attempt to pry it open, the bathysphere let out a long, low hiss and began to submerge itself once again.
Jack stood at the abandoned dock, too dumbfounded at the moment to realize that, wherever he was, he'd effectively been stranded.
What had just happened? Was that even possible?
Radio signals—from what little he knew of the bathyspheres' operation, he supposed it was possible to hijack the radio signals that guided their navigation. But who would do such a thing? Who could do such a thing?
Immediately, the first thought that came to his mind was Fontaine.
But no—no, no, that couldn't be possible. He'd just reasoned through it himself, hadn't he—he'd left Fontaine in no shape to capably pursue him. There was no way Fontaine could pull something like this...could he?
The ground beneath his tower of reason was growing shakier by the second. Jack reached for his radio and flipped the switch again.
"Tenenbaum? Dr. Tenenbaum, come in..."
Nothing but static came in reply.
Of course—if the bathysphere had been hijacked through radio signals, it made sense that his line of communication with Tenenbaum would be impeded as well. But the realization came as no comfort to him.
He had no choice but to leave the station and try to find another way out.
With one last steadying breath, Jack reached for the gun in his belt and made his way up the stairs.
When he emerged from the station, he was relieved to see the lights of another Metro station just a short distance away, directly down the corridor from where he now stood—but, perhaps more immediately than that, he was confused to see that he recognized the shops to his right, the corridor to his left, and the brightly lit view of the city just down the hall. He recognized them well.
Why had he ended up in Fort Frolic?
After his initial surprise had faded, he realized the place wasn't quite as he remembered it: no music, jingles or ads filtered through the PA system, and the place was devoid of its usual hum of activity and hustle and bustle. A scent carried from the corridor to his side, a peculiar scent, one he could not place but knew well enough to know that it did not belong here. It left him with a sense of foreboding he could not shake.
Still, he couldn't let it slow his steps. The other Metro station was only a short distance away; after he helped Tenenbaum secure the sub, he'd have all the time in the world to figure out what was going on in the Fort. He just had to walk another few steps...
After he'd taken just one step forward, however, metal shutters suddenly clanged down in the doorway to the station.
"No, no..."
Once again, he spoke to no one but his own fear as he ran for the station. The shutters weren't sealed so tight, not as tightly as he'd feared—maybe, just maybe, if he could wedge something between the grate, he could force it open again...
In the midst of his panicked wondering, the PA speakers came to life with a loud, electric squeal.
"Ah, if it isn't Mr. Ryan!"
Jack froze. The voice that came over the PA—addressing him, for reasons he could not begin to fathom—was one he recognized, though only through his recollections of radio broadcasts.
"Ryan the younger, the prodigal son, Mister Jonathan Aleksandr Rianofski himself...or perhaps you prefer just Jack?"
It was the voice of Sander Cohen.
"It's so good to see you've joined us at last... I was worried your invitation had gotten lost in the post."
His father had warned him of the man, Jack remembered, though never in specifics; he'd heard stories of the artist's eccentricities, though never in particular detail. He'd often wondered what it was about Cohen that made his father so intent on keeping some distance between them.
"Do come in, won't you? You'll find the gala in the atrium."
He wondered if he was going to find out for himself.
At any rate, it seemed he had little choice. He grit his teeth, kept a tight grip on his gun, and made his way towards the atrium.
What he found there was darkness—the overhead lights had been put out, and not a single one of the atrium's usual billboards and neon signs were lit. The only light came filtering in from the glass above, from the glowing lights of the city beyond, softened and colored by the deep ocean blue, but it was hardly enough light to see; it cast odd shapes on the floor below, giving shape to still, unrecognizable silhouettes that dotted the space around him.
There were other silhouettes, Jack came to realize as his eyes adjusted to the dark: the vague figures of men and women on the atrium's upper floor, looking down from the balcony above him, moving just enough that he knew they were not still.
A loud mechanical noise echoed from somewhere above him, and with it came a sudden burst of light—a spotlight, aimed squarely in Jack's direction. With a flinch, he raised an arm to shield his eyes; the sounds of murmured conversation and titters of laughter drifted down from above.
"Welcome, young Ryan! You're just in time."
At the top of the twisting staircase in the atrium's center, the bright blue neon lights of the Fleet Hall flared to life. There sat a man in a canvas chair, a man with gelled hair and the oddest mustache Jack had ever seen; beside him stood a man in a mask, a peculiar rabbit-eared mask with swirling filigree, and in his hands was what appeared to be a camera.
"Of course...I don't suppose we could have begun without you, now, could we?"
More laughter echoed down from above him. Jack could see its source now, the figures on the balcony, after his eyes had once again adjusted to the light; they were all elegantly attired, and they all wore masks similar to the one he had just seen.
What had he just walked into?
"Ah, ah—do watch your step, young man! We can't have our star player getting himself hurt before the opening act, now, can we?"
Jack had only barely begun to step forward, but those words stopped him cold. He glanced downward to see a quietly oozing oil slick mere feet from where he stood; he looked up once again, straining to see its source past the round edges of the spotlight's glow, only to see there was much more than that to be found, mingling with darkened stains upon the tile, all glistening in the city's soft light.
As soon as he realized just what he was looking at, he was finally able to place that scent he'd detected earlier.
"Yes, just like that... Now, come closer. I've only seen your face in the pictures, after all."
Slowly, carefully, Jack picked his way past the streaks of oil and blood to the center of the atrium, the spotlight tracking him all the while.
"Perfect."
The man in the chair—Sander Cohen himself, surely—had a device in his hand, apparently the one he was using to speak over the PA. He sat at perfect ease, one leg casually draped over the other, while his free hand traced over the muzzle of a shotgun propped against his chair.
Once again, Jack felt his sense of foreboding begin the slow transformation into absolute fear. But he'd already come this far; it was too late for him to think of fleeing now.
"Yes, yes, stand right there... That will do for an establishing shot."
It was only then that Jack realized the camera was rolling, and it was pointed at him.
He wanted to ask what was going on, but his voice was firmly lodged somewhere deep in his throat, too deep for any words to escape.
"What do you think of the set, dear boy? For you, not a single expense was spared. Go ahead, take a look."
Jack did as he was told, though taking his eyes off Cohen caused his nerves to jump under his skin. The oil-slick and bloodstained floor came into greater view, now that his sight was fully adjusted. The uncanny silhouettes that surrounded him took on more definable shapes, though exactly what they were remained difficult to decipher: grotesque statues, perhaps, only vaguely in the shape of man, with melted limbs twisted into unrecognizable forms.
It was the sort of indecipherable art, Jack had once learned, that marked Cohen's one signature technique. But that only made the statues' presence all the more unsettling.
"Yes, take it in, take your time... But not too much time, no. We must get on with the show."
For the first time since Jack had arrived in the atrium, his confusion outweighed his senses of trepidation and fear, and that alone gave him the power to speak once more.
"What show?"
Another quiet murmur swept throughout the small crowd. Cohen's eyebrows rose nearly high enough to reach his hairline.
"Oh, my... It seems somebody didn't bother to read his invitation."
There was something in Cohen's sharpened tone that caused Jack to grip his pistol just a bit more tightly, but he managed not to let himself flinch.
"You see, my dear Jack..." As Cohen continued, however, his words became more honeyed. "I've seen so much of you in the pictures—in the newspapers, in the journals, in your father's trite newsreels... But it's all so—so lacking. So dull, so colorless, why—there's no spirit, no spark, no joie de vivre, none of that youthful strength and taste and vigor..."
Cohen paused, his lip curling into a sneer.
"And from what dear Fitzpatrick tells me, my boy, you've got that in spades."
More titters of laughter rained down upon Jack as something remarkably like regret curled in the pit of his gut.
"The son of Andrew Ryan ought to be deserving of a much grander chronicle than that...and who would be more suited to bear that duty than I?"
Some scattered applause came from above. Jack couldn't be certain whether it came from the audience on the balcony or the PA speakers overhead.
"Yes, the grandest chronicle..."
Cohen was looking elsewhere now, up to the ceiling as though seeing something beyond the glass, and his hand slowly outstretched as he carried on.
"The son of Ryan in his most resplendent form, striving ever upwards towards perfection... But what kind of artist would I be to remain content with merely capturing such a feat? No, oh, no, my dear boy—"
At once, his attention snapped back down to Jack.
"No, you shall have my assistance with your transformation... And what a beautiful ascent it shall be."
All Jack could think of was Fontaine—still under the guise of Atlas, still under the guise of his friend—speaking of his own so-called transformation. It only served to put him more on edge.
"Ah, but there's no time to waste—hurry, now, hurry, chop chop! Your moment of glory is at hand."
Cohen punctuated his chop chop with a clap of his hands. Indistinct chatter rippled throughout the crowd, and Jack saw their silhouettes begin to move. One of them tossed a glass to the floor below, dashing it upon the bloodied tile.
"Dancers, to the stage!"
Two of the masked onlookers, both women, vaulted over the balcony rail and landed with more delicacy and grace than one might expect, considering its height from the ground floor. Then again, perhaps Jack should never have expected this crowd to be made up of any mere onlookers.
"Maestro!"
Music began to play through the PA speakers: the opening strains of Blue Danube.
"Places, now, places..."
The women remained where they stood, though they quickly dropped into a more animalistic stance. From here, Jack could see what he hadn't before: a blunt weapon clutched in each woman's hands, and an unmistakable glow behind the eyes of their masks.
Think, Jack. This is what you were built to do. You can do this, I know you can.
Tenenbaum's words were but an echo in Jack's mind, but he did his damnedest to take them to heart. He had to do this, he had to do this. He had no choice if he wanted to survive.
"And...action!"
The splicer nearest him launched herself forward, wielding the pipe in her hands with all her might.
This was vastly different from what he had endured in Olympus Heights; there was no room for cover, no safe ground to tread, no room to breathe or hardly even see from the fumes in the air and the spotlight's inescapable beam. How was he supposed to find the space to think like this?
This is what you were built to do.
He ducked backwards from the swing, then came another, and another. By the second swing, Jack could see that her attacks were hardly coordinated. By the third, he could clearly spot an opening.
Before he could take it, however, a scream from behind reminded him of the other splicer's presence. He turned just in time to see her running at him, her own pipe held aloft.
There was no time to react, almost no time at all, but still he managed to raise his gun and fire before she came close enough to strike.
"Oh, bravo!"
She went down with a cry. In almost the same instant, the first splicer's pipe came down across his back, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs.
Still, still, it wasn't enough. He twisted around, grabbed her wrist before she could bring it down again, and held her in place while he fired a second time.
"Smile, don't forget to smile!"
Automatic—it had felt automatic, the way he knew where to maneuver himself and how. It almost made him lightheaded.
But there was no time for that now. More masked splicers had leapt down from above, and the ring of their laughter echoed with the waltz's swelling strains.
"Come, now, we haven't got all night!"
Fire sparked from their fingertips as they approached him with easy strides. Instantly, Jack remembered the oil on the floor—he had no time to fuck around.
Three shots, one for each of them, was all it took. The latter two had rushed at him, but he was already too far away for them to stand a chance.
Before Jack had the time to lower his pistol, another gunshot exploded from somewhere behind him, shattering one of the statues beside him and sending him flinching away with a cry. He turned to see another splicer coming his way, armed with his own shotgun and reloading as he made his approach.
"No, no, you ignorant buffoon, can't you see what you're doing to my art?! Fitzpatrick—light up the stage!"
Jack looked to the top of the stairs just long enough to see that the man at Cohen's side—Fitzpatrick?—now cradled the camera in one arm, while his other outstretched hand became wreathed in flames.
Oh, no.
The tracks of oil on the floor suddenly burst alight, searing past him and winding past the atrium in crisscrossing paths. Jack found himself forced to shield his face from the sudden heat; the armed splicer, on the other hand, didn't appear to be impeded in the least.
The splicer took aim with his shotgun. It was all Jack could do to be the first to fire.
His shot struck the splicer, but it was barely a clip, and that had been his last bullet. Even so, the splicer reacted with enough pain and surprise that it bought Jack just enough time to put away his pistol and formulate an alternate plan.
Blue sparks arced down the length of his forearm as Jack snapped his wrist in the splicer's direction, sending bolts of electricity to stun him where he stood.
While the splicer's body shook and seized, Jack took his chance—he darted forward to close the distance between them, wrenched the shotgun from his grip as he kicked him to the ground, and leveled its twin barrels at him to finish the job.
The kick of the gun against his shoulder felt natural, like nothing new. All it had taken him was barely a moment of intuition, and now his assailant lay slain at his feet.
The splicer's crisp white shirt bloomed in red, stained by the deep gouges and gaping wound left in his flesh by the gun's buckshot. The sight of it, once Jack's mind had begun to clear, caused his stomach to turn and his pulse to race.
"My, my... You certainly are a tough nut to crack, aren't you?"
Cohen's voice did not sound impressed. Jack turned back to see, to his great fear, that Cohen looked even less so.
"Are you trying to wound me, little Jack? All I ever wanted was for you, you to reach your utmost potential, to ascend to the greatest heights of possibility, borne aloft on the wings of my genius...and this is what you give me?!"
Cohen's face was twisted with rage as he stood from his chair.
"Unacceptable—unacceptable!"
He took the shotgun that had been propped beside him and thrust it in Fitzpatrick's direction. Jack took a wary step back, fingers tightening on the gun in his hands.
"Fitzpatrick—you know what to do."
Without a word, Fitzpatrick set aside the camera and took the gun from Cohen. Still without a word, he weighed it in his hands, swung it around, and cracked the butt of it over the back of Cohen's head.
Cohen barely let out a cry as he crumpled to the ground. Jack was too stunned to do anything but remain where he stood, as he stood.
Fitzpatrick knelt just long enough to wrench the device out of Cohen's grasp.
"Testing, testing..."
His voice echoed down from the PA speakers as he slowly sauntered his way down the twisting stairs.
"I think we've all had enough of that, don't you?"
He let out a shivery laugh. Jack wanted to move, wanted to ensure that no more aggressors remained, but he could not bring himself to tear his eyes away from Fitzpatrick as he descended to the ground floor.
"I wasn't paying much attention," said Fitzpatrick, coming near enough to speak with his own voice, eyeballing the device all the while, "but I do believe this is what Sander used to route you here."
Jack had suspected as much himself. He finally lowered the shotgun, but seeing Fitzpatrick still holding onto his own didn't make him feel inclined to discard it.
"Can you reopen the bathysphere station?"
Jack's voice was hoarse, both from the burning fumes and the exertion he'd just endured.
"I can." He looked up to Jack with a tilt of his head, accentuated by the long ears of his mask. "And I might...if you would give me the pleasure of a dance."
Once again, confusion reigned. After what Cohen had just put him through, Jack couldn't understand what he truly meant.
"A dance?"
"A proper dance. No weapons, no brutality; just us."
Fitzpatrick's tone was remarkably languid considering the scene that surrounded them. Jack couldn't understand it at all.
"Here?"
"Where else?" The mask hid much of Fitzpatrick's face, but the smile he wore was clear as day. "Come on, Jack. Just give me one for the road. Here..."
He tossed the shotgun aside, sending it skidding across the floor, and tucked the device into one of his pockets.
"Now you."
Every single one of Jack's instincts told him to turn and run, or to take the device by force—to take the opportunity that had been given to him before this could get any worse.
But he'd already lost Diane. Hell, she had died because of him.
He didn't think he could bear to lose Fitzpatrick as well. He knew he couldn't bear to be the one to cut him down.
"Go ahead."
Carefully, without taking his eyes off the other man, Jack set his shotgun down on the ground. As if on cue, the opening bars of a new waltz—Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty suite—came to life over the PA loudspeakers, above the crackle and roar of the flames at his back.
Fitzpatrick extended a hand to him. Jack took a wary step forwards, took the man's hand in his own, and they began to dance.
Jack's steps were deliberate, unpracticed, but Fitzpatrick didn't seem to mind. He made a pleased, purring noise, and Jack felt the cold lines of his mask press into his neck. "You're too kind."
Jack said nothing. The smell of blood and burning fat mingled with the scent of Fitzpatrick's cologne.
"Can you see them?" murmured Fitzpatrick, just softly enough to still be heard over the fire. "A million points of light, all dancing in the air... They sing to me, you know? They tell me to bite out your throat."
Jack's hand tightened its grip on the back of Fitzpatrick's waistcoat. He only laughed in reply.
"But I won't do that."
The sound of straining violins echoed down throughout the atrium's entirety, filling the empty space with ghostly noise. Jack had thought he was leading their waltz, but Fitzpatrick nimbly directed their path around the corpse of a fallen splicer.
Fitzpatrick leaned into Jack's neck again; this time his mask shifted enough to allow for the press of his lips to his skin.
"I'm going to miss this."
Jack's grip tightened again as he swallowed heavily.
"You don't have to stay like this," he said quietly, tentatively. "You could come with me—you could go to the surface."
Fitzpatrick laughed again.
"No room up there for a man like me... Didn't your old man say something like that?" He sighed deeply, breathing Jack in. "Sorry, almost forgot... You don't like me talking about him, do you?"
The music swelled, as if filling the space surrounding them to push them ever closer.
"I want you to come with me."
"And why is that?" Fitzpatrick said with another breathy laugh. "Before you say something like you love me, I must remind you that we've spent all of three nights and a single day in each other's company...and that I nearly set you on fire just a few minutes ago."
The stinging heat of the flames that surrounded them did nothing but strengthen his point.
"Besides..." Jack could easily feel the curve of his lips against him as they curled into a smile. "You wouldn't want to be in a 'sphere with me when I change my mind. About tearing your throat out, I mean."
Jack's pulse quickened as his hands tightened again. If Fitzpatrick noticed—and how could he not—he made no show of it.
Finally, before the music had come to an end, Fitzpatrick brought them to a stop. He tugged aside his mask, put both hands at Jack's shoulders, and pulled himself up for a kiss.
Jack couldn't help himself. He slid his hands down the length of Fitzpatrick's torso, feeling the solid weight and warmth of his body beneath his fingertips, and pulled him as close as he could manage.
Fitzpatrick was the first to break away. The mask had hidden a sunkenness in his eyes, and small ADAM growths along the line of his scalp, but the smile upon his face was the same as it had ever been.
"Go." He stepped back, out of Jack's weakening grip, and smoothed his hands over the broad front of Jack's shirt. "You won't want to be here when Sander comes to."
Jack wanted to say something. He should have said something, he thought. But no words would come to him.
He stepped back with one lingering glance at Fitzpatrick, at the chaos that surrounded him, but he had no time for anything more than that. He withdrew his gun from his belt one more time, turned back towards the entrance, and broke into a run for the bathysphere station.