The Handsome Jackpot, as it was so tastelessly dubbed, was yet another testament to Jack's planet sized ego. You couldn't walk ten feet without being assaulted by some image of the man, be it the giant golden statues, posters, holographic projections, or the bodydoubles themselves. Timothy found the whole thing a gaudy, needless show, but he kept the opinion to himself.
In all honesty he wasn't surprised. Jack had always had a tendency to slap his face on anything he could. The moment Hyperion had fallen under his rule, Helios had undergone an immediate transformation as his aggressive rebranding campaign scorched every trace of the old company and its management from the station, replacing it with his own blatant self-worship.
At least on the casino he didn't have to deal with the cutthroat, corporate politics of the business world, or the violent machinations of his boss. Here he was remanded to the role of mascot, just another part of the scenery for the guests to gawk at.
Perhaps if he still had any pride left it would have stung. As it was, Timothy had learned to leave such notions behind a long time ago. He accepted his task. He turned his broad grin on the patrons and spouted Jack-isms for them, shook hands, signed postcards and kept them spending. Watched as their debt slowly wracked up.
It was easy work.
It also left him with a lot more free time than he was accustomed to.
For the first day or two he'd simply sat in the quarters they'd allocated to him. This was what he normally did when not on duty - wait for the next time Jack would call him, send him off on his next job.
Jack didn't call him anymore though. His ECHO was silent, a useless weight with an empty blinking screen. He'd almost convinced himself that it must be faulty - that Jack must be furious, foaming at the mouth as Timothy 'ignored' his instructions.
When he'd taken it down to what passed for tech support though they'd assured him it was fully functional, and had gone to the point of contacting him themselves through it to put the matter to rest.
With nothing else to do he returned to waiting.
It was almost two weeks before it finally began to sink in… that the call would never come, that Jack had tossed him aside like a toy he'd grown bored of.
Finally, tentatively, he began to leave his quarters in his off hours.
Exploring was the only thing he could think to do. He mapped out every inch of the casino, familiarised himself with each district and all the nooks and crannies it hid. Soon he had it all committed to memory, from the glitz and glam of the vice district to the giddying open drops of the impound lot.
Once this was done he was back to the same conundrum of before - an abundance of time, and a total lack of direction. He floundered for a while, pacing, staring out windows, until he remembered the cybernetic hand that had been grafted onto him. If he had VIP access, it made sense that he might as well use it.
Timothy developed a taste for hard liquor. Perhaps taste was the wrong word… He'd nearly choked on his first glass, but he found that with a bit of practice he could keep it down with barely a grimace. Just a little something to help him sleep at first, but soon the allure of a fine bottle of scotch became a constant companion regardless of the hour. It kept his thoughts pleasantly vague. Kept him from dwelling, kept him from running circles in his own mind when he already knew he was going nowhere.
The experience was liberating in a way… Jack had never let him drink. He needed Timothy sharp, ready to leap into action the moment he found a task for him, be it boardroom meetings or good old fashioned homicide.
His duties on the casino were minimal though. He could drink himself into oblivion in the comfort of his quarters so long as he sobered up before it was his turn to wander around posing for photos and anything else the guests required.
At least scotch sounded refined. A gentleman's drink. He could almost kid himself into thinking he was becoming a man of culture, not latching onto the first indulgence he could find to fill his embarrassingly open schedule.
The hours before his shift were always bad though. Then, the pleasant fog would fade and the world would sharpen around him, leaving him restless and fidgety as he tried to avoid looking at the nearest bottle.
These were the moments he most desperately needed to occupy.
A good two months into his term on the casino he found his answer. He started writing again. Just a little exercise at first, where he would recount everything he could remember about himself before. His name. Where he'd grown up. His mum. His first pet. His favourite food. And when he came to a blank, he would keep going, move on to the next thing he could recall, however stupid it was, anything so that the words kept flowing. Then, when he was done, he would read it all back to himself.
It always felt like reading the life of a stranger.
Words were tangible though. They existed in a very solid way, and reading them, feeling the paper in his hands, it made him feel like maybe Timothy Lawrence was a person and not just a ghost in his own head.
Jack visited the casino sometimes. He preferred to stay in his tower, away from wretches he bled for cash, somewhere he could kick back and treat as his own private getaway while counting his riches.
Timothy always sobered up just in case, but even when Jack ventured down it was never for him. Which was good. No matter what he did he couldn't shake the lingering part of himself that still expected something though - a task, a torment, a test… all the things he'd resigned himself to long ago.
He never slept on those nights.
Then Jack would disappear without any real fanfare, and he would be back to the same routine - playing the role of a man he despised, and drowning himself in liquor the moment he was off the clock. Maybe finding a hooker or two if it was a good day. Maybe passing out on the bathroom floor if it wasn't.
Writing snatches of a life he could barely recall for no one's eyes but his own.
Sometimes the old anger resurfaced… a fit of hatred for the man who had ruined his life. That man who'd robbed him of his identity, his morals, his dignity, his purpose…
And maybe worst of all, the man who'd left him here, trapped in an endless cycle of tedium, slowly destroying himself because he couldn't fathom what to do when he wasn't blindly following orders.
Tossed aside, but not freed - no future but whatever cage he was gifted.
If he was in a pragmatic mood he was willing to admit it was a pretty cushy gig. Fancy food, high class entertainment, drinks on the house and no gunfights.
It was just that he had a bomb in his face that would explode if he took one step off the place, and a perpetual terror anything he tried to build would be torn down the second Jack glanced in his direction.
So he drank. And he wrote. And it wasn't really living, but he doubted he'd been doing that for a long time.
Wilhelm was the first to die. Timothy didn't know what to make of it when the news reached him. He'd never exactly got on with the guy, if anything they tolerated each other, because that was the politest way Timothy could think to put it. Wilhelm liked money, and killing things, and getting shiny new augments, and not much else. It made conversation a little stilted.
But still, they'd fought side by side… had even saved each other once or twice, even if it was only a job…
He was someone from the time Timothy liked to think of as 'the start'. Back when he was adjusting to his new role, and Jack hadn't flown completely off the rails. Back when things were still bad, but not as completely terrible as they could have been.
He didn't even think he missed Wilhelm. But… he was someone who had known him, maybe not as Timothy, but as something more than a handsome face in a sea of doublegangers. And he was gone.
Nisha was the second to die. Timothy was pretty sure she deserved it. He'd always been a little terrified of her, and not the good kind of terrified, the kind where he had the feeling she was constantly contemplating skinning him alive to stave off boredom. She had a sadistic streak that matched Jack's own, and an equal taste for blood.
He'd been relieved when she'd left Helios to run her own town down on Pandora. Her visits back were blissfully brief, and she was usually too busy with Jack to spare him the time of day. He definitely didn't miss her.
But… she'd helped him with his aim, and had always had his back in a fight… even beyond that she'd had a knack for telling him and Jack apart. Had only failed once. And sure, mostly she used it to tease or torment him, but she still knew, and that had been… oddly reassuring. In a demented 'Tim you're clutching at staws' kind of way.
And now she was dead, and he supposed that was fine. At the very least it would make Jack furious, and a sick little part of him relished the idea, because anything that made Jack's life worse felt like a sorely needed dose of karma. A balancing of the scales.
And it could never be enough, but this was what he was reduced to… sitting back watching with his bitter, vindictive sense of satisfaction flaring up like it meant anything… like he wasn't just a coward, trying to taste victory in someone else's work.
But what else was he supposed to do?
He was eating a kebab when the news hit like a freight train. Handsome Jack. Dead. Just like that. And Timothy Lawrence didn't know what he was feeling.
He left the restaurant in a daze.
The news was spreading quickly around the casino, he could tell by the sudden nervous look in people's faces, the growing chatter, but he paid it no mind. He just kept walking.
Perhaps he should be feeling joy… or relief… years of his life suffering at the hands of a maniac, and suddenly he was free. But the news was so abrupt, and it felt hollow… like it was missing a piece he hadn't even known he needed.
He'd always thought… no, dreamed that when the moment hit, it would be sweet… filled with all the righteousness it deserved. Maybe he'd wanted to be there… to see it… to watch him suffer, finally see with his own eyes the monster of his nightmares bleeding out and pleading, as he'd made so many others do…
Maybe he'd wanted to kill him himself, even if he'd never had the guts.
But the news had hit his Echo while he was eating, and none of it had felt real. He should be celebrating, but when he got back to his apartment all his body wanted to do was sit and stare at the wall. Why? Was he so messed up he couldn't even enjoy the one moment he'd been longing for ever since the Lost Legion, since the brand, since the countless murders he'd carried out to save his own sorry skin, the movies, the loss of his entire fucking identity?
His life had revolved around Jack for years - there had been nothing else.
And now there truly was nothing.
What was a man supposed to do with news like that?
In the end he drank an entire bottle of scotch. Then he went to visit Trent, because Trent really only cared about one thing, and Timothy thought it would be nice to think about only one thing. To not worry about what his life even meant at this point, or thoughts, or feelings, or everything else that wanted to drag him down and bury him.
He wished he could say the distraction worked. His memory of the night was foggy though, and when he woke up it was with a splitting headache, and a sensation like emptiness in his chest.
A week after Handsome Jack's death, the casino was on edge. This was the point where the lights went out. This was the point where people started to realise they couldn't leave. This was when they noticed that no-one else was coming in.
Timothy was busy worrying that the supply of top shelf booze was probably going to run dry. As little good as drinking himself numb did, it eased the panic a little, because he'd realised it too. He couldn't step off of the casino without Jack's authorization, and Jack was… well, very dead. Remembering that you had a bomb in your face was always a little panic inducing.
It was a surprise when one of the other body doubles approached him.
Typically they rarely spent much time together, because Jack felt it ruined the illusion, but there had been enough of them that they occasionally crossed paths up on Helios. He'd seen several of them around the casino too. Mostly they just gave each other a nod - a little acknowledgement, nothing that would risk going off script.
This double actually seemed to want to talk though. He shuffled right up, helping himself to the barstool at Timothy's side, elbow propped up on the counter and body angled toward him.
Timothy said nothing.
After several seconds the double seemed to realise this wasn't about to change, and he took the initiative. "Could use your help, if you're interested."
Timothy gave him a long stare. "With what?"
"Look…" the other double said, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "We're in the same boat, and it's a really shitty boat, I get it... but if no one does anything this place is going to fall into chaos. I've been talking to a few of the others. We've got VIP access, we can use that to make sure everyone's taken care of. Get them food, supplies… set up some kind of system. There's enough of us that we can probably spread out across the districts…"
Timothy couldn't help the sneer that pulled at his lips. "And take power for ourselves?"
"No, it's not like that! Man, come on, we're not him, not all of us are terrible... 44-B is a bit of a weirdo but no one's seen him in days anyway." The man actually sounded offended, and Timothy almost believed him. Wanted to. But honestly, he wasn't feeling particularly optimistic given how his life was going so far.
"What I'm saying is we can actually do some good," the double continued. "Get a society going before the looting starts."
"And then what?"
The double shrugged. "I don't know, live in peace and harmony? If we're stuck in this damn casino, the least we can do is make sure it doesn't go to complete shit. We make sure everyone survives. We get by. Work out the rest later. Beats wallowing in misery, am I right?"
He sent Timothy a wry smile, as if it were a joke they were both privy to, before spreading his arms wide in a gesture of expectation. "Well, are you in?"
Timothy didn't reply immediately. He sat there for a moment, drinking in the silence as he tried to settle on an emotion. For some reason it was anger that flared.
He wanted to blame it on the DNA, just an echo of a man ready to snap without warning, but maybe it really was all him. Tired, and bitter, and faced with all the things he wasn't anymore.
He pulled Handsome Jack around him like armour, and when he spoke it was with all the contempt, all the mockery he'd practiced until he didn't even need to think about it anymore.
"You must be… completely friggin' stupid if you think any of that's going to work. I give it a month tops, kiddo, then they'll be peeling your face off for a pizza party. You think they want to take handouts from a Handsome Jack knock-off? Orders? News flash, he's the reason everyones stuck on this friggin' pile of space garbage in the first place!"
The body double pursed his lips. "That's not our fault."
Timothy laughed. "You think they'll care? One month, kiddo… count it down if you like."
He turned back to his drink, effectively ignoring the other double and whatever expression he might be wearing.
Several seconds later he heard the scrape of the barstool as the man got up. "You could have just said no."
Yes, he could have. Timothy knew he could have. But he had nothing more to say, no apology, no retort, so he sat and waited until the sound of footsteps finally retreated. Then he was alone.
He tried to hold on to the anger, relish it rather than surrender to the wave of misery and shame that followed.
Maybe the rest of the doubles weren't that bad. Better than him, even. What did Timothy do in the face of a life sentence but drink and pity himself and curse every one of his decisions? They actually wanted to do something. Make a change. Help the people he hadn't even given a second glance… god, he was so used to pretending not to care that maybe he really had stopped caring somewhere along the way… it was easier, wasn't it? Easier when it was just yourself.
Perhaps the other body doubles really would turn the casino around… make something of it. That would be a nice world to live in. It wasn't the world he deserved though, and after so many years under Jack's thumb it certainly wasn't the one he expected.
In the days that followed Timothy kept his distance from the other doublegangers. He watched though, from the sidelines… whether this was out of a lingering sense of guilt or a morbid interest in the inevitable disaster that was sure to occur, he couldn't say. Or maybe he was just short on entertainment since the fate of the casino had brought many establishments to a standstill as they tried to figure out the safest way to proceed.
On the whole, it was a boring spectacle. Things went ahead just as the double who had spoken to him had said they would. They used their access to the casino's VIP supplies to make sure everyone was fed, provided rooms to those who couldn't afford them, and doled out enough necessities to make people as comfortable as possible while under involuntary lockdown.
Even their rulership seemed a vague and ill-defined thing - they didn't throw around commands or demand obedience - people just gravitated to the atmosphere of camaraderie and hope they seemed to be trying to foster.
Timothy hated them a little for it, but mostly because it ran in stark contrast to his own behavior.
Jack was dead, and there they were, the men with his faces, helping the people his boss would have happily trampled beneath his feet. Meanwhile Timothy did precisely what he'd done while Jack was alive. Nothing.
Here he was, waiting… and waiting for what, exactly? Someone to fly in and rescue him from this dump? Orders that would never come? The day he finally drank himself to an early grave?
There was no direction now except the one he chose, and languishing in various states of inebriation was increasingly beginning to seem like an inadequate path.
Maybe he should join the other doubles. Maybe that was the right thing to do, the honorable thing. A small step toward making up for all his past mistakes.
He couldn't quite bring himself to make that leap though, but he managed to cut down on the scotch at least, and from there settled for smaller undertakings to keep himself busy.
He found himself a change of clothes in one of the many casino gift shops. Still Hyperion branded, but far better than the alternative. Every single piece of the Handsome Jack costumes he'd been issued he fed down the nearest recycle chute.
For the first time in years he walked around in something he'd picked out himself, not Jack's bizarre interpretation of 'smart casual', and it felt… strange. But in a good way. There was something uniquely humanising about putting on an outfit that wasn't an exact match for over two dozen look-alikes.
Still riding high on the coattails of the experience he nearly shaved his hair off as an act of true rebellion, a deviation from which there would be no return, but lost his conviction at the last moment and set the trimmer aside. He'd have plenty of opportunity to work his way up to something drastic later if he was feeling it. For the moment, it was enough just to be out of those stupid waistcoats and sneakers.
The body language was harder to shrug off. It had become ingrained in him, and it took a conscious effort not to square his shoulders and swagger around with Jack's customary overconfidence.
That was the work of the DNA again, Timothy decided, because that was totally how DNA worked and far better than the possibility that he'd forgotten how he used to move. That what was once an act had become his natural state…
He practiced little habits, nervous tapping feet or twitching fingers, anything that came to mind until something would click and he could add it to his repertoire. A patchwork of traits that might once have been his own.
There was a philosophical question posed once that spoke of a ship. Over the years of wear and tear that it suffered the battered pieces of its body were replaced, one by one. A new hull, a new engine, a pristine windscreen, modern wings… and the day would come, eventually, when not a piece of the old vessel remained. On that day, was it still the same ship?
The question plagued him more than it should. He found himself thumbing through his writing, reading the same words he'd scribbled on repeat to fill the empty hours. The last vestiges of the man he'd been before, proof of his own existence in a form he could grasp tight, even when he struggled to align it with the present.
An identity crisis did have the benefit of distracting him though, and it wasn't… all bad. Sometimes it even felt good, when he parsed together something resembling Timothy Lawrence, a facet of his being that was distinct and removed from the role he sought to shed.
To realise that… yes, cat posters were kind of cute, absolutely adorable even, and there was no one to stop him standing there and staring at them anymore. Or that he had a penchant to sleep in without his alarm, and forgo breakfast in favour of beginning his day with a hearty brunch. Little things. The building blocks of a real person.
And there were times he would go back to watching the other body doubles, and hate them all again, for how easily they dedicated themselves to the aid of others while he pottered about slowly unearthing his own personality. For their optimism. For the fact they still had yet to fail.
Conversely, there were times he resented himself, and entertained daydreams of ditching his solitary lifestyle and dipping his toes in the waters of their fellowship. Tried to picture a world not shackled by his fatalistic outlook.
He never closed the distance between them.
Timothy supposed the option would be there though, if he needed it. If there was one thing a life sentence granted it was a plentitude of time. Perhaps the years would mellow him out, shave off the sharp edges of his distrust and cynicism, shape him into a better man. Perhaps he would find it in himself to believe in something again…
Or… perhaps not. His track record was hardly encouraging.
Regardless, rushing in was a fool's errand.
The doubles fell on the same day the lights came back on. The casino roused from its low power slumber, and all the neon signs and flickering holograms and digital billboards shone in sudden, blinding glory, breathing life back into the metal husk that was their tomb. So too did the security systems - the gleaming metal of every combat bot, every auto-turret, every drone…
The peaceful society that had been slowly growing in the wake of Jack's demise went down in a hail of gunfire and screams.
Watching over the carnage on the big screen was their newly declared overlord. Pretty Boy, as he purported to be called.
His voice sounded like grease. There was an oily quality to it that reminded Timothy of the sort of person that threw a fresh coat of paint on a stolen vehicle and tried to pass it off as new, and was probably wanted on multiple accounts of fraud. His slicked back hair and thin mustache didn't improve matters, even if you looked past his squashed up features and the fact he'd introduced himself in the midst of a massacre.
The casino was under his rule now, he declared - every debt was his to collect, and anyone trying to undermine his system would end up riddled full of bullets and regret. He controlled the casino. From Jack's tower he could set the security on any target he pleased with the push of a button. No one could stop him.
Timothy, a seasoned survivor by necessity, took that as his cue to lay low and let things play out. What little he saw of the ensuing chaos only encouraged him to double down on the decision.
Unable to exact their revenge on Pretty Boy, the people who had once readily accepted handouts from the body doubles instead turned on them like rabid animals. Those few that had escaped the earlier slaughter unscathed were torn to pieces.
It was like Timothy had said… Jack was the reason everyone was trapped on the casino. When people started looking for someone to blame, they didn't have to look far.
It was a pity he didn't earn any real satisfaction for being right.
Timothy didn't know what to expect the second time another body double approached him. It certainly wasn't the steel pipe that cracked into the side of his face.
He barely managed to catch himself as he hit the ground, jarring his elbow but sparing himself the pain of smashing his forehead against the metal walkway.
Static buzzed in his ears. He thought he could taste blood.
"Ow," he managed, running his tongue over his teeth to check they were all there, "what is wrong with you?"
Rather than reply, the double swung the pipe again, forcing Timothy to roll to the side to avoid the blow. The sickening clang as it hit the space he'd been in reverberated all the way through his skull.
"Seriously, what the hell?" Timothy snapped, kicking out at the doubles legs in an attempt to unbalance him. The man stumbled for a second.
Trying to stagger back to his feet while he had the chance, Timothy reached for his gun. The pipe cracked into his ribs before he even got his fingers around the grip.
His breath left him. He hit the ground in a blur.
Gasping against the cold metal floor he tried to persuade his body to move. He couldn't lie still, knew better than that, had learned better than that. His side was in agony though and each breath was laced with pain, thoughts foggy around the edges when they should have been sharp. Maybe the hit to his head had been worse than he'd thought. He needed to move… had to move...
He managed to roll over so that he could at least see the other double, but he couldn't react fast enough to stop the pipe smacking into his cheekbone with enough force to knock him senseless.
Timothy saw stars.
There was still sound, somewhere distant, muffled and faded against the ringing of his ears. There were shapes, shifting, distorted and indistinguishable as his eyes failed to focus. He felt as if he were underwater. He felt tired. More than anything he just wanted to sink into that oblivion, to let the world slip through his fingers because he knew that would hurt far less, would be far easier, but some stubborn part of him refused. It found the pain and latched on to it like it was an anchor.
He could feel every bruised rib, the pulsing of his skull, the blood leaking through the cracks in his mask and dripping in a steady trail. It was the sharp edge he needed to cut through the fog in his head and drag himself kicking and screaming into the present.
Timothy found himself flat on his back, staring up at the body double. The pipe was gone. Instead, the man straddled him, and Timothy realised to his horror that his hands were going for his neck.
"This is all your fault," the double hissed as his fingers closed around Timothy's throat, lips contorted in a vicious snarl, and for just a second… for a split second Timothy thought he actually knew. That somehow he had found out all about Elpis, about his part in Jack's rise to power. All the times he could have struck back if he'd been just a little braver. A little wiser. How many lives could have been saved? How much disaster averted, if he had been more than the coward he was?
But that was impossible… the only people who knew exactly what had transpired on Elips had been there, the tale wasn't one Jack, or anyone else, had been keen to share. People didn't know him as Timothy Lawrence, they knew him only for his face…
And then he realised, and Timothy almost felt like laughing. Of all the people he'd expected to hate him for that face, it was never another body double.
Any irony he could dredge from the moment was wasted though, because the man was absolutely trying to strangle him and there was no way he was about to die, not like that, not someone who looked like that. It was too close to his nightmares.
His first instinct was to grapple for the man's wrists - anything to get them away from his neck. Struggle as he might though he couldn't pull them off, nor loosen them enough to snatch a desperate breath. Timothy choked in silence, legs scraping at the ground but unable to find any kind or traction.
Abandoning that avenue, he tried to reach for his gun, but it was strapped to his thigh and the double was on top of him and very much in the way. He wanted to scream in frustration. Instead, he stretched out an arm to fumble blindly around him in the hopes of finding the pipe.
Blood was roaring in his ears. His pulse, lightning quick, did nothing to help.
He did not want to die. He would not die.
But he could not breathe, and black spots danced across his vision like ominous clouds gathering on the horizon. His fingers grasped uselessly and found nothing but air.
He had no weapons, he had no time, all he had was the same desperate, pitiful need he'd always had, to cling on to existence by whatever means possible.
He went for the face.
The double flinched back, hands leaving Timothy's neck as he tried to defend his eyes. That was all the opening Timothy needed.
He could shift his torso, finally throw his weight around, and in one practiced move flipped them both over so that the other double crashed into the ground with a look of astonishment.
Then it was Timothy's hands around his neck, squeezing. Choking the life out of him.
The double fought back as best he could but unfortunately for him, Timothy had a lot more practice killing people, and he knew better than to make the same mistakes. He pinned the man's arms beneath him before he had a chance to put them to use, and kept his weight where it was difficult to shift. He did not let go.
Staring down at the struggling man, Timothy tried to see what the double had - tried to imagine it really was Handsome Jack, writhing and gasping in futility while the hatred in his eyes turned to fear. The chance to kill a nightmare, to take every ounce of fury and pain and suffering and pour it into one act of vengeance, the catharsis they so longed for.
It was only an illusion though. The double was a fool - he could kill the face he so despised, but it would always still be waiting for him, only a mirror away. Timothy might have pitied him if it wasn't for the anger bubbling under his skin.
After everything he'd endured. Everything. This idiot, this entitled shitbag thought he was the one who deserved some kind of compensation, as if he'd ever had to put up with Jack the way Timothy had. As if he could ever know how bad it could really get.
And as he watched the man's struggles grow weaker and weaker, watched the light fade from his eyes until he finally fell limp, Timothy felt a surge of satisfaction.
DNA, Timothy told himself furiously, it was the DNA, it had to be, it was the only possibility, but he let go of the double's neck as if it burned him. He shoved himself away from the body, but his first attempt to stagger to his feet got him nowhere, and he sank back down to his knees with no further strength to rise.
His hands were shaking. His breath was coming in pants.
It wasn't his fault, it was just the DNA…
That thought became a mantra, echoed again and again over the next few minutes until his heart finally began to slow. He prayed it was the truth.
When he looked back at the body double now he felt only a profound sense of loss… he didn't know the man's name. He'd never know. Another life, drowned in the shadow of Handsome Jack, with no one to mourn and no one to remember. Maybe the double had tried to kill him, but nobody deserved to go out like that, as if they'd never existed in the first place.
With a sigh, Timothy laid a hand on the corpse's chest. He closed his eyes. "Picked the wrong line, pal," he said softly. "We both did."
The casino seemed to have found its rhythm, and its rhythm was chaos. For all that Pretty Boy claimed rulership over the place he did little to police the behaviour of the guests, and even less to provide for them. Further destruction just added to their debt. As long as no one began to establish something he could conceive of as an opposition, he was content to sit back and let the rabble run amok.
So the looting began. Honestly, Timothy didn't think it would be long until people started eating each other. Hell, chances were that had already happened, somewhere - wasn't like it would take much of a push.
It was almost funny, in a sick kind of way - that just when he thought his life had hit a standstill, it found a way to dig the shovel in and keep on burrowing. Jack's legacy - the gift that kept on giving.
At least his VIP access made it a little easier to keep out of the way of the loosely formed roving gangs and their guns, hiding out in areas they couldn't access and using the short-range VIP teleporters to cut down on time spent out in the open.
If the option had been available to him he might have taken to the life of a hermit. Alas, supply runs necessitated he stuck his head out every few cycles. On those occasions he pulled his hood down as low as it would go and kept to the shadows, his gait hurried and purposeful as he catalogued each threat he passed, his hand hovering over his pistol.
Having survived this practice for several weeks, Timothy found the courage to make a detour through the vice district in the hopes of a well deserved bottle of scotch to soothe his nerves. Maybe check up on Trent while he was in the area. They weren't close, but he owed him the courtesy of a quick social call just to see if he was alive.
He should have learned by then, of course, that luck was never in his favour. Barely a dozen yards in and the air was split by the crack of gunfire and screams.
Taking cover as best he could behind a nearby vending machine he peered out to assess the situation.
The scene appeared to be this: several thugs hauling their freshly stolen loot from a building with a door off its hinges, while exchanging shots with a woman who was shrieking expletives at them in a foreign language. There was no mistaking her fury. It burned in her eyes, smouldered in the snarl that graced her lips.
Actually, a lot of things were burning, since she was wielding a Maliwan SMG and appeared to take a liberal approach to aim.
He thought he recognised her vaguely - one of the casino's many performers. Evidently her work hadn't prepared her for fighting off packs of well armed looters, although she was doing better than a lot of people would while so greatly outnumbered.
Naturally they were right between Timothy and where he needed to go.
The smart thing to do… the smart thing… was to keep on walking. To turn around and slink off down the nearest alleyway before anyone noticed him. He could retreat to his latest hideout and come back once the heat had died down and the corpses were cooling.
This wasn't his problem. There was no reason to go getting himself involved. He knew better than that.
Yet still, his feet refused to move…
Maybe there was a tiny spark of chivalry still buried deep within himself, or maybe a crazy part of him actually missed his combat days. The comfort of a perfectly weighted gun and the satisfaction as each bullet found its mark. The thrill and the fear, mingling together until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Whatever the case he couldn't leave, so with a string of curses under his breath Timothy pulled his pistol from his holster and advanced.
His first shot was clean - cleaving right through the back of the nearest thug's skull. The man dropped without a sound. His second shot was less tidy, but only because he opted to take out a wrist rather than go for another killing blow. Give them the chance to run. To escape with their lives.
It had been a long time since he'd been so generous.
Dropping his weapon, Timothy's second target let out a sharp scream as he clutched the splintered mess of his wrist. His eyes went first to the performer, then cast about in confusion as they sought the true culprit. Timothy had almost reached him before the man finally picked him out from the decor he wove his way between.
A smart man would have recognised the threat - would have ducked for cover or called for help. The thug just reached for his grenade, so Timothy put him out of his misery.
Two down. Six to go.
Unfortunately, the element of surprise was well behind him, and as a bullet whisked past only inches from his ear he dove low and took shelter behind a nearby pillar.
His heart was pounding. Every muscle was taught, every nerve thrumming with anticipation. He felt more alive than he had in months. He was, Timothy decided, certifiably insane, but there was no denying how near death experiences really got the blood pumping.
Another scream split the air and a victory cry from the performer followed. Peering out, he got a fleeting view of two approaching thugs before gunfire forced him back out of sight.
His hand reached automatically for his watch. He swore.
Of course, it was gone. He knew that. It was just that it was so instinctual, a habit drilled into him through countless skirmishes across the surface of Elpis. Trust Jack to strip him of his most valuable weapon right before his death. Asshole.
Changing tactics, he pulled an empty flask from the inside of his jacket and tossed it to the left just before he rolled to the right. The thugs took the bait and he managed to get a shot off and take down the larger of the two. The second twisted at the last second. Instead of the crippling blow he'd intended, the man scraped by with a grazed shoulder, and his gun whipped over to point at Timothy.
He never got the chance to pull the trigger. Nor did Timothy.
Before either of them could move, a barrel by the thug's leg exploded in a sudden roaring ball of flame, consuming the man whole.
Laughter echoed across the floor. He realised it was the performer - an unhinged sound, but brimming with an almost childlike exuberance that defied the horrorshow he was witness to.
Swallowing down the urge to gag, he stepped past the charred remnants of the thug and made his way to her side.
The remaining three went down fast. The performer clearly had little experience working as a team, but Timothy knew more than enough to compensate, and she never questioned him when he called out enemy positions or asked for coverfire.
With his crew dead, the last thug finally took the hint and staggered away while clutching his bleeding arm.
Timothy let him go. Like it made a difference, like his hands weren't already stained bloody a thousand times over… But he felt a little better for it, catching his breath as the performer yelled taunts after the retreating man. There were enough corpses for one day.
He stood where he was, fingers picking at a hole in his jacket that a lucky bullet had scored while he watched her. She was pretty, in the right light… basking in the dying glow of the last flames that licked their way over the casino's decor. It was that more than anything that sparked his memory.
"You're Ember, right?" he said. "Caught one of your shows back before the whole… whatever this mess is."
She turned to look at him, hip cocked to one side and her SMG hanging loosely at her other.
"Did you now? You enjoyed it, I hope?"
"Oh, yeah, absolutely, it was very… flamey. Look, not that it means anything, but I'm sorry about those guys… everyone's losing their frickin' minds in here, but there's no reason to go destroying stuff like that."
"It is a pity… the fire though, she is very beautiful, is she not?" she said.
Not the words Timothy would have chosen, but he supposed there was something about it, if only because of the way it made her smile. It took a certain strength of character to have your door busted down and your possessions strewn across the ground by armed men who would happily have seen you dead, and to still stroll through the rubble with such vivacity.
Stooping, she retrieved a necklace from a broken jewellery box and fastened it on before considering him again.
The vivid blue of her eyes were intense. "Your face I recognise. Should I call you Jacque?"
"It's-"
He almost said Jack. Almost. But he paused, took a moment to reconsider. Jack was dead. Finally gone, proper to god gone, and… and his contract meant fuck all. Who cared what he said now? Who was going to stop him?
And so instead, he stammered, "Timothy. It's, uh, Timothy Lawrence."
The name felt unfamiliar on his tongue, but in that moment he felt lighter than air.
"Timothy?" Ember mused. Her accent gave it an almost lyrical quality, but he didn't think that was the only reason it sounded beautiful to him. When was the last time he'd heard someone call him that? His real name?
Probably Athena. He didn't even know how long ago that was now.
"Yup. That's me." And still as awkward as ever. Great job, Tim.
If anything she just looked amused, maybe even a little pleased. "Well, Timothy, thank you for your help in clearing up the neighbourhood. Perhaps we can do this again sometime, no?"
And because Timothy's brain was still catching up to several life changing epiphanies at once, all he had to say was, "Cool."
Honestly, it was a wonder she didn't burn him on the spot.
He didn't think it was Ember that inspired him exactly, but maybe something about their fumbling first official meeting did something to shift his outlook. To really drive home the fact that, if he just stopped behaving like an asshole all the time, he could actually, just maybe, get to know a few people. He didn't have to play at being Jack anymore. He didn't have to worry about all the terrible things his boss might do to anyone he was foolish enough to try and forge a connection with.
Yes he was still trapped on the casino for the foreseeable future but that didn't mean his life had reached the end of its track.
When he picked up his pen and paper this time he wrote something new. Not fragments of a distant past, disjointed and decaying in the threadbare tapestry of his mind, but whispers of something yet to be told.
He wrote of a man who could change his face to anything, and one day he looked in the mirror and realised he could not recall his own. It felt poignant somehow… but try as he might he could not find a fitting end for it.
((So, screw it, I'm just gonna chop this into more pieces, my chapters are long enough as it is. Next one should (hopefully) be the last one before the events of the dlc, and I'm hoping to wrap up the dlc + aftermath in one chapter each.
Yeah... I realise this is probably my least popular fic to date, but it's still something I want to write. It's kinda cathartic in a weird way? And yes, maybe it's not my most polished work, maybe it's a little disjointed, but I think it will be satisfying to complete.))