Every seventh cycle he and Ember shot target practice together. Timothy decided this was a Thursday, because he appreciated the normality of it, even if days of the week had very little meaning in space.
So, he would pull his hood down low over his face and make his way over to the vice district to meet her, and they would line up empty bottles and take turns blasting them to pieces. Sometimes he brought some with him - evidence of a habit he hadn't quite kicked. Sometimes he just left it to Ember to arrange. Always, he felt a little better for the company.
Her aim improved dramatically over their time together, and it wasn't long before they started to make a competition out of it. Just for bragging rights, at first, but once they were comfortable with the tradition they began to wager on the outcome. They bet small things - a secret, a favour, a trinket… nothing they couldn't afford to lose. He found he learned a lot of her from this alone.
Ember was… passionate about her craft, protective of her people, and liberal with her body. She enjoyed attention. She never backed down from a challenge. She'd named her own ship after a pun, and had admitted to him after his third victory in a row that her greatest fear was finding her spark withering out in her old age until she was nothing but a husk of her former self, as bland and uninspired as the doddering old pensioners that spent their days mindlessly working the same slot machine in the hopes of a big win.
His own choice of 'heights' felt paltry by comparison.
If there was one thing he liked most about her though it was her total indifference when it came to the subject of Jack. People always seemed to fall into one of three categories where he was concerned - the wild fanaticism of his admirers, the obedient terror of his subordinates, or the unbridled hatred of those who's lives he'd torn asunder. Ember treated his legend as if it were inconsequential, and Timothy knew for a fact that nothing would have infuriated the man more. It was an enviable stance.
Made him feel a little less self-conscious in her presence too, like maybe he didn't need to worry about what she saw when she looked at him. Not even his occasional slip, where Jack burst forth in a particular choice of phrase, or a careless gesture - mannerisms he still fought to smother. He wondered if she even noticed.
Suffice to say that he looked forward to their regular meetups, and not only because it was the backbone of his conspicuously bland social life.
Things had been proceeding as usual that particular Thursday, with them passing Timothy's pistol between them and taking turns to thin the line of bottles arranged on the balcony rail. The score was neck-a-neck but his mind was elsewhere. He fired on autopilot, busy bemoaning how their disconnect from the ECHOnet had left the airwaves a barren wasteland, populated only by the few channels that operated from inside the casino. As the Jackpot itself fell to insanity, even they disappeared, and there was little left but the screeching of rival gangs keen to proclaim their superiority and promote the deranged tenets by which they lived.
The last tolerable channel had fallen three days prior.
Timothy had never taken a great interest in the medium. However, lying low involved a lot of sitting around inside an enclosed space with no one but himself for company, and having made leaps and bounds in becoming a person again he had rediscovered boredom.
"Perhaps you should start your own channel, no?" Ember suggested.
"And broadcast my location to every crazy person on this dump? Yeah, no thanks."
He shattered another bottle before holding the pistol out to her. She didn't take it. Instead she leaned back against the wall, her eyes studying him intently.
Timothy quirked an eyebrow at her.
"What?" he asked.
She shrugged. "There are two bottles left. We have yet to wager."
"Oh. Right." It was likely pointless since he suspected today would be a draw, but there was no harm in keeping the tradition alive. Waving a hand around vaguely he searched for inspiration. "Uh… if I win, find me something to listen to I guess? Figure you performers have to have music stashed somewhere, but I'd settle for old ECHO logs at this point."
"Hmm. A simple prize."
"Yeah? What did you have in mind?"
Ember smiled at him. It was a slow smile, coy and more than a little playful. "If I am to win… how about a kiss?"
That stopped him in his tracks. Staring at her dumbly for a moment, he found his mouth suddenly dry as he echoed her words. "A kiss?"
"Or is that, how you say… off the table?" she asked.
Timothy hadn't even been aware there was a table, metaphorically speaking. Not that he hadn't contemplated the idea. It was far easier to grapple with as an abstract fantasy though, than a concrete possibility with all the messy details it entailed.
He liked Ember. She was fun, confident, and just the right amount of terrifying. And maybe, guiltily, she reminded him just a bit of the biggest crush of his life.
But it had been an eternity since he'd had anything passably described as a relationship (he wasn't counting Trent because the man was allergic to romance). Heck, he didn't even know if a relationship was what she wanted, maybe just a casual fling… How did you start a conversation like that without immediately killing the mood? Or was he just getting ahead of himself? This was still just flirting, right? He could do that. Definitely wasn't going to lose his cool the second an attractive woman suggested a kiss. He was a goddamn adult.
"No…" he managed, "no, that's fine, sure. No problem."
Real suave, Tim.
Ember's smile only widened. "Excellent."
At last she took the gun from his hand, levelling it at one of the two remaining bottles. Her eyes narrowed in concentration, her body taunt, poised more suggestively than he'd taught her but she still hit her mark.
Twirling the pistol she offered it back. "Your shot, mon chéri."
The weight of the weapon settled comfortably in his hand. Taking aim he tried to focus on the final bottle, and ignore how close Ember had chosen to linger.
He could… miss, if he wanted to. Make it look like an accident even. Probably wasn't in the spirit of things, but he could live with that. Wasn't every day he was given such a clear invitation…
Was that what he wanted? Kind of yes? But also it felt like a complication he hadn't accounted for, he didn't know precisely where this was leading and he didn't know if she did either. And that was kind of terrifying, and also kind of electrifying.
Steadying his breathing Timothy narrowed his attention to his target. His finger tightened over the trigger even as his arm continued to waver by a near imperceptible degree - the difference between a perfect shot and a near miss.
He'd hit the railing, he decided. Give himself plausible deniability.
Timothy was just about to fire when the acrid scent of burning reached his nostrils. His arm jerked up, the shot went wild, and he abandoned all thought of their game in favour of frantically patting out the flames licking at the hem of his jacket.
"Ember! What the hell!?"
She appeared absolutely unrepentant. Examining the nails of her prosthetic hand she laughed. "Dommage, Timothy. Looks like you missed one."
"Yeah, because you set me on fire! Again, what the hell?"
"A little fire never hurt anyone."
"Not true, and also, definitely cheating," he muttered. He didn't think there'd be any salvaging the garment, the edge of it was ragged and blackened where the flames had eaten away at it. He'd just have to toss it in the back of his wardrobe in case his standards ever dropped enough.
"Oh?" she enquired. "Is a kiss so terrible?"
Timothy paused. "No," he amended, glancing up cautiously. "I mean… I just… can you please not burn any more of my clothes? Pain in the ass to get new ones these days."
Ember made a non-committal sound. "I make no promises."
She was already close, but she somehow sauntered even closer still while Timothy moved not an inch, until she was all but flat against his chest. He found he was suddenly unsure what to do with his hands. Was she expecting him to touch her? To grasp her hips, or her waist, or her arms, or… something? What would Jack do?
No, why was he thinking of goddamn Jack now of all times?
"Now…" Ember murmured, "to collect my prize, unless you still object?"
Timothy swallowed. "Right now? Like… this second? Not grabbing a drink first or-"
Rather than answer she cut him off with the press of her lips.
For all the fire he'd expected, it was surprisingly gentle. Warm, inviting, and lingering just long enough that he began to respond in kind before she pulled away.
Her vivid blue eyes watched him curiously. Timothy could feel the tips of his ears burning an embarrassing shade of pink, but he couldn't for the life of him think of what to say. The only words his mind would conjure were the standard Jack one-liners - the kind of cocksure, swaggering overconfidence he could quote in his sleep. He let the silence eat him alive instead.
Ember's hands settled on the lapels of his jacket, adjusting them to her satisfaction.
"I will see you again next week," she said eventually. "Until then, think on what it is you wish to shoot for."
The third time another body double approached him, Timothy wasn't taking any chances.
"Hey, no need to be like that," the double said, hands raised and a disarming grin in place. "I just want to talk."
Timothy didn't lower the pistol he had trained on the man's head. "Yeah, funny thing about that... I'm not really interested in talking."
"That's fair," the double said. "I get it. Trust me, though, you're really going to want to hear this."
Oh, sure, like that wasn't totally suspicious. "Nope. I really, really do not. Do us both a favour and get those legs marching the other direction, chop-chop - I'd rather not waste my bullets and I get the feeling you'd rather not be shot at."
The body double frowned. "Alright, yeesh, you don't have to spell it out for me. I just figured you might be interested in a way off of this casino."
Of course he was. Everyone on the goddamned casino was. For Timothy, though, there was always the same complication every body double faced. Strange that this man seemed inclined to ignore it.
His expression turned scornful. "There is no way out. The bomb-"
"Yeah yeah yeah, the bomb," the other double cut him off. "I know, not exactly something you forget. But think about it for a minute… Jack changed the parameters when he sent us here, made it so leaving would set the thing off… that means there's a way to change it back, or deactivate it entirely. Has to be."
A trick. A ploy designed to draw him in, that was all it was, all it could be… but still, Timothy allowed himself to play the thought out, and he was forced to admit there was a certain line of logic there.
He wet his lips, considered his words for another moment before speaking. "Codes. We can fool most of Jack's security, so he used codes, you can't alter the bomb without them."
The double's grin was triumfant. "Right. And I know where to find them."
Timothy stared at him. There was only one answer to that, and he wondered why it had taken him so long to see it. "Jack's tower…"
"You're quicker than I thought. Yeah, the tower. Only problem with that is it isn't exactly easy to get in there what with all the security. I can't do it by myself, and you may have noticed by now that most people here happen to hate us, so… you're my best bet. We've got the same goal here."
"Still sounds risky."
"Never said it wasn't. My name's Ian by the way… although if you know me by anything it's probably 7-F."
The number meant nothing, but he hadn't expected it to - he'd never care enough to memorise any but his own. But perhaps that was old thinking… There was a safety in maintaining his distance, viewing the others only as what they were, but never who…
He had no name for those who had died in Pretty Boy's initial massacre, nor the double he'd killed with his own two hands.
"Timothy," he relented.
"You go by Tim?"
"Sometimes."
The double nodded. "Nice to meet you then, Tim. And, hey, not to be rude or anything but since we've got introductions out the way do you think you could maybe get that gun out my face now?"
Ian was a coffee drinker. This was not remarkable in itself, except that he treated the habit more like an addiction, constantly taking guilty sips from a battered thermos any time a conversation stretched too long.
"Calms the nerves, you know?" he'd said.
"Sure," Timothy agreed, for whom caffeine did nothing of the sort. He appreciated those differences though, evidence that they were still distinct despite the face they wore. Sometimes he needed that.
They were neither each other, nor Jack. He wondered what little habits the other doubles had hidden, the quiet pieces of their lives he'd never known. He wondered how many were even left.
His own morbid line of thinking had little space to brew though, for in those next few days they were both absorbed in their work.
The plan, if it could be called that, seemed far too reliant on supposition for Timothy's liking. He appreciated the concrete stability of certainties. Ian on the other hand had a slapdash approach to planning, and a habit of handwaving Timothy's more prying questions aside.
This invited a degree of suspicion. There was too much he didn't know, too much riding on the moral fibre of a man he'd only just met…
Timothy wondered if he was paranoid. That would be a neat little condition to add to his neurotic collection.
If he was forced to confront his feelings, he would begrudgingly admit that he… kind of liked Ian. He was approachable. Easy to talk to. Spoke enough to fill the silence, and breezed over those few moments when Timothy failed entirely to make a response.
Timothy didn't like a lot of people. Or maybe he didn't know a lot of people. His life had been consumed by the role of Handsome Jack for years, and now he finally had the chance to shrug it off he'd been keeping a low profile out of a natural desire to not be shot by the nearest hoodlum to take offence at his face. He was… kind of a shut in.
On the fifth day since their initial introduction, they met in the remnants of an old arcade just outside the spendopticom. It had never been much of a money maker - the real profit was in the slot machines - but Jack had tried his hand at every luxury entertainment plausible when designing the Jackpot. Anything to squeeze a few more pennies from his patrons.
Timothy hadn't given the place much thought. Like the rest of the casino, it had been ransacked of any valuables, and later trashed as the unlucky inhabitants explored new and exciting ways to vent their frustrations. It was the place Ian chose though. Having been the one to carefully select all their previous rendezvous, Timothy decided it was only fair to humour him.
So he picked his way over the glittering shards of shattered glass, and followed Ian's lead past the broken machines into the depths of the arcade.
It was a plain door that they arrived at, and placing his hand on the palm-reader Ian quickly had it open and ushered him through.
The room was dark.
"Pretty sure that used to be for employees," Ian said in his usual conversational tone, "but VIP access can get you most places. Which, I'm sure you already knew… Never seen anyone else here though so either they're dead or found somewhere else to be. Works for me."
He must have hit the light switch, because the overhead striplighting flickered on. The room was filled to the brim with arcade machines.
In contrast to the space they'd passed through they looked pristine, untouched by the careless looting and vandalism he'd learned to take as a given.
"Just a moment," Ian muttered, and as he fiddled with some more switches sudden colourful lights flashed and the room came to life. There were pinball machines, and claw machines, and racing games, and classic 8-bit platformers, and shooters, and VR booths… all vying for attention in a kaleidoscope of vivid title screens and cheerful blips and whooping sound effects.
Unable to articulate anything meaningful, Timothy settled for the only thing his brain was willing to supply. "Neat."
Ian grinned. "Yeah. Pretty sweet place to unwind, and private enough too."
"You live here?"
"Nah." He tapped the side of his nose and winked. "That place is a secret. Call me cautious, but you did threaten me with a gun."
"I didn't know if I could trust you," Timothy said.
"Hey, I'm not offended. Got as much right as you to a bolt hole though, right? It's not a friendly place for people like us out there."
That was an understatement.
"Yeah… especially not with Pretty Boy. I hear he's in the market for a body double… offering cash. Ten thousand last I heard, which is kind of insulting, but also… not great."
Ian just rolled his eyes. "God, don't remind me… he'd have better luck if he hadn't gone and killed half of us in the first bloody place, hindsight's twenty-twenty and all that. But that's a downer of a topic. Look, why don't you have a go on one of these things while you're here?" He waved to the rows of brightly flashing machines. "Take your pick."
Timothy stared at the sea of colour before him, but made no move to approach. It felt all at once too much. Lights, and sound, and cheer - a whimsy that served only to burgeon the beginnings of a stabbing headache.
"I wouldn't know where to start," he said, which in some ways was true.
"Then start anywhere."
When Timothy remained rooted to the spot, Ian moved instead, pacing along the line of machines until he stopped at one and set his hand to it in an almost fond gesture.
"There used to be an arcade at the end of the street where I grew up, you know," he said. "Couldn't keep away from it as a kid. Wasn't half bad at the racing games, but my real weakness was those claw machines. They'd fill them up with junk and I'd dump every penny I'd scrounged up into them, no matter what the prizes were. Think I just liked the idea of winning something, you know? Not money, but something, a trophy maybe. Back then I probably would have thought being stuck in a place like this would be heaven… bit ironic, don't you think?"
He glanced back over at Timothy, watching his expression.
The proper thing to do was probably to offer some kind of consolation, to commiserate, or maybe just launch off into his own tangent on life before…
Timothy couldn't bring himself to do either. Instead, he said, "Irony's a bitch."
Ian gave a sharp bark of laughter. "You can say that again! Well, fuck irony. I'm getting out of here, and that's that."
There was a harshness to the words, a conviction that belayed his otherwise casual attitude. Timothy marvelled at it.
To him, the idea still felt… abstract. Alluring, but some part of him couldn't seem to follow the thought through to its conclusion. As much as a small seed of hope had started to grow, some part of him was still waiting for the other foot to drop. For their hastily built plan that they'd patched together over the previous days to come crashing down around their ears.
Perhaps that was another thing Jack had left him. A fatalistic sense of coming doom.
But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. There was a way off the casino. And he had to grasp for it, had to take that chance, because the other option was surrendering to the prison his former boss had left him to rot in. He was done suffering for Jack.
"Well?" Ian asked eventually, patting the side of a pinball machine. "Sure you don't want a go one one of these things?"
Timothy eyed the machine. There was a familiarity to its shape, something that suggested this was a thing he had played before, or at least seen… perhaps his hands would find the buttons almost naturally and a piece of him would come rushing back. Or perhaps not. It was the uncertainty more than anything that dissuaded him.
"I think…" Timothy tried, "we should probably just get on with planning. Like you said, we're getting out of here… that's the whole point of this. That's what we should be focusing on."
He didn't think it was disappointment that coloured Ian's face, but there was a hint of… something before he shrugged, pulling his wry grin back into place. "Suit yourself then. This way."
There was a small coffee table crammed into the back of the room with a few plastic chairs surrounding it, and Ian wasted no time in settling into the closest seat and kicking his legs up. He sipped his coffee, pulled out a few rolls of paper from his jacket, and waited.
The legs of Timothy's chair scraped loudly across the floor as he nudged it closer.
"So," Ian said when Timothy was finally done faffing about with the position of his chair.
"So?" he echoed, since the pause felt like an invitation to speak.
"So I say we grab the blueprints tomorrow, hit the tower the same day."
Timothy laughed. Stopped suddenly when he realised Ian wasn't joining in. "Oh," he said, staring at the man in horror. "Oh you're actually serious. That's… I mean, that's…"
He couldn't even finish the sentence but Ian seemed to take his meaning.
"It's a risk but I'm telling you, the longer we wait the more chance this thing gets blown to pieces before we even get started. If Pretty Boy catches wind…"
"Bad things. Yeah. You don't have to paint me a picture, I get it. I just don't know if rushing right now is the best play. What about the doors? What about-"
"I've got it covered, don't worry," Ian said, with a casual flick of his hand as if brushing the matter aside. "The hardest part of all this is gonna be once we're inside, and that's something no amount of planning will help. Either we can handle it or we can't."
"But-"
"Do you want to get off this casino or not?"
There was no delicacy to the question. No softening of the blow. It stood between them in all its ugliness, and they both knew there was only one answer.
"Yeah…"
"Then trust me, alright? We need each other." And he smiled.
Timothy stared at him, struck at once by all he knew and all he did not know. Ian, with his nonchalance, and his secrets, and his coffee, and his private little arcade. Ian, who he'd known for a matter of days, and who asked him to risk everything in the name of freedom. A man who he almost certainly liked, but whom he was only beginning to unravel.
Abruptly he stood, the legs of his chair screeching with nail dragging sharpness as he pushed away from the table. "I need another day. To think."
"Aww, come on, Tim. Don't be like that."
Timothy was already retreating though. He turned his back on the other body double. Hesitated for a moment, and said, "I'll contact you tomorrow."
"Tim…"
He ignored Ian's call, instead picking his way past the lines of flashing machines, out through the door into the dilapidated ruins of the old arcade itself. The gloom felt almost comforting, serene in the wake of the riot of sound and colour that had clogged his senses. The broken glass crunched under his feet.
Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was just overwhelmed - too much happening at once after months of solitude, surfacing only briefly for those few hours he shared with another's company.
But the need to leave nipped at his heels. So he pulled his hood down low, ducked out into the neon glow of the casino's thoroughfare, and cut a swift pace toward the nearest short-range teleporter.
Spare time had never been Timothy's friend. Once, it had meant only waiting. Then later it became something to fill, to quell his restless thoughts with anything at hand, be it a bottle or scratch of a pen against the rough surface of ageing paper. There were days he almost missed the dreamless stupor he'd been conditioned to, too deadened to the world around him to conceive of the waspish energy that filled him now.
He meandered for a time. Took paths he knew better than to chance before finally making his way back to his hideout. There, he poured himself a glass of scotch, and sat eying it across the table before getting up and leaving it untouched.
He went to visit Ember.
It wasn't unusual for him to find his way to her's these days. Whether they were dating in any official capacity was something he'd never found the courage to ask, but Ember herself seemed content to leave their relationship unlabelled, and in some ways that was easier. He could worry less about what was expected of him and focus on the gestures that felt right - a present when something caught his eye, a kiss when the whim took him, a night of revelry when she snared him by the collar and whispered pleasant little suggestions in his ear…
He hadn't told her about the plan. Hadn't told her about Ian, either, and he couldn't say why. Perhaps it was simply because he didn't know how she would react. He would say 'I'm getting off of this casino', and maybe she would nod, and take his hands, and say 'then I'll go with you'. Or maybe she would smile at him sadly and say 'my place is here', because it was, in a way that Timothy's had never been.
The people of the Vice district were her people. Sometimes the way she spoke of them made them seem almost like family - names she uttered with fondness, or exasperation - a collective that would fight viciously to protect its own.
He wondered if that was what the body doubles would have become if they'd ever been given the chance. He wondered if he ever would have joined them, or if he would have remained always the outsider, watching from afar with only his bitterness and self-pity for company. He wondered if Ian would have joined them.
"I know that face."
Timothy glanced up from the cards in his hands. They were playing poker while sitting on the abundance of cushions her apartment harboured. Just regular poker today - strip poker, as he had soon discovered, was a lot less fun when challenging someone who could easily wipe the floor with you.
"What, this face?" he asked. "The same face I always have?"
"Your thinking face. Brooding. You lose yourself in thoughts that are not kind to you, it is always this way…"
He wished it wasn't. With a sigh he set his cards down. "It's… complicated."
Ember arched one elegant eyebrow. "When is it not?"
Great question. Perhaps he should tell her the crux of the matter. Perhaps that was something she was owed… and yet some part of him still shied away from the necessity. He could tell himself it was a kindness, sparing her the truth - that he would always want to leave, regardless of her choice.
He needed to say something though. Not just because of the expectant way she was looking at him, but because of the disquiet that twisted inside of him. It was Ember he had been driven too. Ember, always, who lended a willing ear.
He dropped his head into his hands, choosing to stare at the patterned carpet instead of the piercing blue eyes that watched him. Dancing shapes and lines - a rhythm, a reliable repetition that life sorely lacked.
"I don't… I don't want to rush things," he found himself saying. "Or maybe I'm just being a coward. I don't know. It's like… if things go right I get everything I friggin' want, but when has lady luck ever flipped a face card in my whole goddamn life? And if it goes wrong, I'll probably be dead. Which means I won't have to worry about this anymore, but I'll be… you know… dead. So take it slow, right? Except if I do that then maybe this whole thing will fall apart before I even get a chance to do anything, and then I've got exactly nowhere…"
Ember leaned to the side, propped up by one elbow as she considered him. "And it is death that you fear, no?"
He shrugged, unable to express anything more eloquent. "I guess?"
"You?" She made a dismissive sound. "I have seen you fight. You don't fight like a man afraid to die."
"Oh, I'm constantly afraid. Absolutely terrified. I just have a lot of practice at shooting things first and panicking later."
"Then what is it that stops you now?"
He peered through his fingers at her. She smiled back at him, a smile equal parts knowing and pitying.
"Aahhh Timothy… there is a saying for this - nothing ventured, nothing gained. Me? I don't waste time on these questions. If I want something, I take it. If I want something gone, I burn it. It is simpler."
"I'm not you though, Ember."
"You're not. You brood," she said, reaching over to poke him in the arm in playful admonishment. "Some risks are worth taking. It is the question that eats at you, not the answer. Once you make up your mind there will be nothing in your way."
"I haven't even told you what this is about," he said.
She put her cards aside then, scooting closer until she could press a kiss to his cheek. Her words were barely a whisper. "You don't have to, mon chéri. I know what you're capable of."
He left before the start of the next cycle, traipsing through the dim interior in the synthetic pre-dawn. The glass of scotch he'd poured himself was waiting where he'd left it. Timothy downed it, then another, then capped the bottle and shoved it as far back in the cupboard as he could, well out of sight. A hangover was the last thing he needed. If he was actually going through with this, that was…
But what reason did he have to hesitate? Was it cowardice? Was it the parts of the plan still in flux, breezed over by Ian's absentminded reassurances?
Yet what reason did Ian have to lie? They had as much at stake in the matter as each other. Both the remnants of a dying breed, trapped on a casino surrounded by lunatics that would happily gut them for sport…
He thought again to the vehemence of Ian's declaration. Fuck irony, I'm getting out of here.
Maybe what he truly feared… the hidden hand that held him back… was the thought of giving in to that hope, only to have it snatched away. To believe again in a future, a life, and watch as that dream crumbled. To know that it was never meant for him.
What cruller fate than that? Better the sceptic than the fool…
No. That was a lie. It was this place that twisted him, poisoned the mind… the longer he languished the more he gave into that despair, that acceptance…
He needed out. He needed to be away from the steel walls and fluorescent lights, away from the cramped little room he spent the long stretching hours in, alone and maddened by the silence. From the image of his former boss - plastered across every wall, cast in glittering gold statues, staring down at him with ever following holographic eyes above the open courtyard of the spendopticom. Mocking him.
He needed to leave, and then… finally… he would be free.
Ember was right in some ways - once he reached that decision, the weight of it no longer pressed on him. He could focus on practical things.
Timothy picked out a caustic SMG and several magazines of ammunition to hide beneath his jacket. Grabbed a new pair of boots while he was out too, something solid and unlikely to trip him. Tested them both out. Found the gun had more of a kick to it than he was expecting, not like the sleek, well tuned models he'd been equipped with during his time on Elpis. He could handle it though. Loaders and security bots tended to be bulky, easy targets without the need for pinpoint accuracy.
He counted his supply of grenades. Counted the bullets for his pistol, too. Went over every piece of equipment he had, cleaning it, checking it, tweaking it to his satisfaction.
A sniper would have been a comforting addition, but they were hard to come by on the casino.
At last he reached the end of his arsenal, and paced for several minutes before picking up his ECHO.
Despite the early hour Ian didn't hesitate to answer when he put a call through. "Well?" he asked.
"Okay," Timothy said. "Where do I meet you?"
He came to awareness slowly. Small pieces at first - the steady rush of his own breathing, the cold seeping through the synthetic skin of his mask where it pressed against the metal floor. The rough itch of rope around his wrists.
Peeling his eyelids open he squinted at the dark shape that moved across the room.
"Ian…" Timothy's voice came out more as a croak, scratchy and unused.
"I'm sorry. I didn't have a choice."
The voice was Ian's. The first thing to hit him was a sense of relief - Ian was alive then. He must have avoided whatever trap had awaited them. If Ian could get him loose then they could grab the blueprints and both be out before more trouble arrived.
"What are you talking about?" he mumbled. "What-"
And it was then that it clicked. The last of the fog that surrounded his brain slipped away, the curtains drawn wide, and Timothy stared at the other double for several mute seconds before he trusted himself to speak. "Pretty Boy offered you a deal."
Ian didn't respond immediately. He uncapped his thermos and took a long draught. His fingers, seemingly moving of their own accord, twisted the lid back and forth. "He's sending someone down," he said without meeting Timothy's gaze. "I hand you over, he gives me the codes. He gets his body double and I get to leave."
Of course. Of fucking course it would be something like that. What, had he actually thought life would toss him a bone for once? Him?
Heaving himself up into a sitting position Timothy did nothing to hide his contempt.
"I thought we were in this together," he spat, "you absolute dickweed, and now- now you're just stabbing me in the back? Just like that? How can you even-"
"Because I tried, alright!" Ian snapped. "And you know what I found out? There's no way we get through that tower. Turrets? Sure. Doors? Maybe. The rest? We're just two guys, not an army. I'm not gonna die on some suicide mission… I wish it were different but that's just the way things are."
He took another sip of coffee, pacing across the room in directionless loops.
"He won't kill you," he said in a softer tone. "The winning hand's only any good with the right DNA - Jack's DNA. He needs one of us alive for that."
That might well be true. The casino's inhabitants had quickly discovered as much after the initial massacre. Once the blood dried up and the flesh rotted away, a winning hand was nothing more than a fancy paper weight.
Timothy found it a poor comfort.
"Oh, sure, so he'll just chain me up for eternity. That sounds fun," he said, surreptitiously testing the strength of the ropes.
"Look, it's not personal. I just want to get out of here. You'd do the same if you were me."
"Is that supposed to help you sleep at night?"
Ian turned away. "He won't kill you," he said again, almost to himself.
Timothy took a steadying breath. There was a rage simmering beneath his skin, the urge to threaten, to lunge at the man, even, despite his restraints. That would get him nowhere though. He needed to focus on a way out of this, because if one thing was for sure, he had no intention of sitting around waiting for Pretty Boy's goons to show up.
Timothy let himself assess the situation one piece at a time. The first and most important detail was that he was bound, wrists and feet, and tightly. Wriggling loose was not an option. Snapping the ropes through brute force was a pipe dream. If he had the luxury of a few hours and something to wear them down with, well… maybe, but even if he did Ian was sure to notice.
The other double might be avoiding eye contact, but he was smart enough to stay in the same room.
Finding no obvious solution Timothy decided to sideline the problem for later.
Okay, next point. This was the absence of his pistol. The holster at his side sat empty, and the grenades he'd had clipped to his belt were also gone. He'd been disarmed.
Or had he?
There was something resting against the small of his back, and it came to him then that this was the SMG he'd so recently acquired, hidden beneath the bulk of his jacket. Ian hadn't patted him down then. Oh boy… rookie mistake.
The difficult question was how he was supposed to reach the damn thing with his hands tied.
A wall, Timothy decided. If he could get himself to a wall he might be able to dislodge the gun from its holster and grab it before Ian noticed what was happening.
Having made his mind up he began to scoot slowly backward, inching his way toward the nearest surface.
"Where are you going?" Ian demanded.
Timothy looked over at him, caught the glint of a gun in his hand. Recognised it as his own pistol a second later.
Fighting to keep the fury from his face, he adopted a dry tone. "Oh, you caught me, I was just going to crawl my way to freedom."
Ian hesitated for a moment before lowering the pistol. "Don't do anything stupid."
"I'm just trying to get comfortable, asshole. You have a problem with that?"
"Just… don't make this harder than it already is."
Harder? Oh the absolute entitlement… To earn his trust only to trade him away like a poker chip, and to stand there, moaning about how hard it was. Like it meant a thing. Like he really knew what hard was. Like he could even touch upon the horrors of what Timothy had endured in the name of his own survival.
Ian was nothing but a slimy little weasel that grasped at the first opportunity to save his own skin rather than face any real challenge.
Jack would have put him in his place. Jack would have crushed him beneath his heel, and laughed. He could almost hear him. Almost taste that vicious, gleeful fury, that swept up all in its path like the raging swell of a broken dam.
It was oh so easy to embrace.
His back hit the wall and Timothy didn't pause for a second. The moment he dislodged the SMG from its holster he twisted, seizing it and whirling on his target.
Ian caught the movement.
Maybe if he'd had more time to think he might have been able to do something. Maybe if he'd been a better marksman things might have gone differently. But Ian's shot clanked off the wall, and Timothy's tore through flesh like it were paper mache.
The bitter, keening cry that followed could have cut glass. Clutching the ruins of his wrist, the other double let the pistol tumble from his grasp and turned to clawing at the sizzling skin that melted like putty in the wake of the caustic bullets.
Timothy took the opportunity to turn the gun on the ropes that held him, grazing them enough that the corrosive substance could do the rest of the work. Then he was on his feet.
His pace was measured, a slow approach that didn't falter.
Ian watched him coming with wide eyes. "Tim," he tried.
Timothy said nothing. Kept walking. Ate up the distance between them one step at a time.
Perhaps sensing the danger Ian began to back off in the face of Timothy's advance, leaving a trail of blood dripping behind from his injured wrist.
Almost leisurely Timothy stooped to pick up his pistol as he passed it, and wiped it off on his jacket. He checked the clip.
"Do you know how many people I've killed while pretending to be Jack?" he asked.
"Tim, listen, we can talk this out-"
"I don't," he said. "Stopped counting after a while. Pretty sure it's bigger than whatever pathetic body count you're toting though."
Slowly he aimed down the sight at the other body double.
Ian dropped to his knees. Both of his hands were wracked with tremors but he held them up regardless, imploringly, as the blood ran down his wrist. "Please… Look, I can just disappear. You never have to see me again. I'll keep out of your way, I swear it, just… just please…"
He really was pathetic. No honour. No scruples. And worst of all, no class. To think someone like that actually believed they could pull one over on him.
It was almost laughable.
"Nice try, cupcake, but it's a bit late for that. By all means though, beg," Timothy said with a sneer. "Who knows? Maybe I'll let you live just a little longer, if you make it entertaining."
Ian drew in a shaky breath. A sound slipped between his lips - half moan, half sob. "G-god," he stammered, "I don't… it wasn't personal, okay? Please, just let me-"
"Boring."
Timothy shot him. One shot would have been enough, but he unloaded the entire clip. Just kept pulling the trigger until it clicked empty and he stood breathing hard, staring down at the mess at his feet.
Perversely it wasn't the sight that shook him from his rage. It was the smell. The rich scent of coffee mingling with the iron tang of blood… the battered thermos from which it spilled rolling to a gentle stop as it met the wall.
He staggered back. Dropped the pistol. Dropped the SMG too. His hands covered his mouth as he bent double, fighting the urge to retch.
It was the DNA, the DNA, the DNA… how hollow those words echoed. How flimsy they held against the scene before him.
This was his work. This was his doing.
The blood that crept across the floor, stretching ever closer to the toes of his boots, that was on his hands - stained both literally and figuratively.
There was once a time he had faced down a wounded and weaponless soldier, had listened to him plead for his life…
And Timothy had said, "I'm not you, Jack."
How that man would loathe him. But maybe that man was dead too, and who did that make him now? His own ghost? Jack's?
He found no answers in the stifling silence of the room, only the accusing stare of a corpse. The same heterochromatic eyes that fit his own face. They might as well have been peering into his very soul.
In another life, would he have called Ian a friend?
For several minutes Timothy did nothing but breathe. He could focus on just that - slip away for a time, finding calm in the repetition of the act, waiting for his body to steady before he allowed his thoughts back in.
It took a monumental effort to persuade himself to move, but he did, falteringly, stiffly, finding his equilibrium as he went.
First the hands - pulled back from the bloodless line of his lips and settled at his side. Then the legs - straightening slowly until he stood to his full height.
The corpse still waited.
He did the only thing he could think to do. He forced himself to step forward until he could lower one trembling hand to close Ian's eyes and said, "I'm sorry."
Timothy stopped carrying his pistol after that. The SMG he kept, but that, he swore, would only ever be for loaders.
Ember hid him. He hadn't asked her to, but she'd been the one he came to - staggering through the vice district with the bloodstains still fresh on his clothes. He didn't know where else to go.
She cleaned him up and got the full story out of him, and after that she'd let him lean his head against her shoulder while he tried not to think about anything and let the emptiness swallow him whole. He fell asleep like that, and in the morning she announced in her most authoritative tone that he would be staying. Timothy didn't argue with her. Not at first.
Those initial days rolled by in a blur, but slowly he began to piece himself back together, and everything else came rushing back unbidden - the fear, the self-loathing, his usual pessimistic tendencies - all clawing over one another in a bid for control.
He wanted to run. He wanted to cower from the world. Maybe he just wanted to disappear for good.
There was one thing he was sure of though, and that was the desire he tried to focus on, the one goal that had any meaning.
"I don't think that other double was lying," he told Ember, "about the codes I mean… I knew Jack, if he put them anywhere it would be in that stupid big tower of his. If I could just… if I could get my hands on them-"
"Nobody gets into that tower, you know that."
"But there has to be a way! I can fool the security, it's just-"
"Everything else?" she said. "Timothy… forget about the tower, you will get yourself killed. Here, with me, you are safe… Pretty Boy cannot get to you. Is it really so bad?"
Yes, he almost said, but the cruelty of such an admission was undeserved. So he bit his tongue, and instead said nothing at all.
Timothy returned to the comforting numbness of alcohol. He probably would have drunk himself into oblivion, but Ember had a habit of swiping his bottles any time he began to build a stash. For molotov cocktails or pyrotechnics, she would say. 'Think of it as your rent'.
He knew the real reason of course, but he never said anything. When he finally began to kick the habit it was mostly out of practicality - it was too risky, dashing about above ground just to load up on booze. His face, his hand - they put a target on his back. He knew that. Hated that.
He would stare at the cracks spider-webbing their way across his mask in Ember's dressing room mirror, and imagine it crumbling away. Imagine a different face beneath. Freckles… all the other details were fluid though, shifting faster than he could count, features tried on for size and discarded like ill-fitting clothing. No matter what he did he couldn't find anything that felt right.
The first time his frantic fingers found the clasps of his mask, and he almost undid them, powered by some desperate, senseless need that felt too close to panic. The thought that somehow he could pull the mask away and it would be right there - the face he sought, the one he needed.
He stopped himself at the last second though. He knew what was beneath the mask. It was only Jack, only ever Jack… Maybe it was Jack the whole way down.
The urge for a strong glass of scotch grew.
Timothy found himself a stack of paper and a pen instead. Try as he might, the mirror always pulled him back, but he supposed it was a better pastime than staring at his gun.
It was an inevitability, of course. A wonder, even, that it took so long. But the day came after a night lost to his usual vice, when he woke groggy and reaching blindly for a glass of water to soothe the pounding of his head, draining the entire thing before at last he opened his eyes and found Ember sitting beside him, flicking through the pages of his manuscript.
He must have forgotten to hide it. Too late to snatch it back, all he could do was curse his own carelessness and the evils of liquor.
Timothy lay there for a moment, frozen, watching as she continued to scan the words.
When she looked up her expression was inquiring. "What's this?"
Timothy bit his lip. "Nothing."
"You wrote this?"
He considered lying. Realised all too quick the foolishness of such an endeavour. Instead, he turned his head to the side to hide his awkwardness, scraping at the wild shocks of his hair still mussed from sleep. "Yeah… I mean, have to pass the time somehow, it's… really not important."
"You never told me you write. You are full of surprises, Timothy Lawrence… Is this what you studied, before?"
"Sure. Let's go with that," he said, because it was better than admitting he didn't know anymore. That he'd sold his life away for a degree he couldn't even remember, and that it had all been for nothing, so completely, utterly meaningless. Sometimes it made him want to laugh. Times like this, though, he just wanted to disappear.
He startled at the touch on his shoulder, but Ember was gentle, running her fingers across him in soothing patterns. Timothy just sighed.
"You could read to me, sometime," she said, softly. "I think I would like that."
He chanced a glance over at her. "You sure? Not sure my stories have enough fire and chaos in them for your tastes."
"Then add some for me, mon chéri. You can always change a story."
Timothy decided to leave. He took the cowards way out, waiting until Ember was gone before packing his things and heading for the door. For a few moments he hesitated, wondering, perhaps, if he should leave a note… something to explain his sudden departure in a way that didn't feel quite so callous. But what good would it do? She was safer without him, and she would understand. He hoped she would.
Ember had been kind to him, but the good things in his life always ended in tragedy, and she deserved better, far better than a man with his face could ever give her.
He could tell himself it was a noble act. The truth, though... the truth was that he was afraid, and he was selfish. They'd had a good thing going. Maybe not true love, but affection, and he tossed it aside because that senseless, panicky side of him couldn't shake the feeling that it would somehow go terribly wrong. Maybe Pretty Boy would catch her, or maybe he'd snap and act a bit too much like Jack and she'd realise her mistake, or any one of the hundred other possibilities he'd entertained in his head. Waiting to find out which it would be wasn't something he was prepared for.
It didn't matter if Ember felt it was her own risk to take. Life was easier when there was nothing to worry about but yourself. He'd survived that way for years, and he could fall back on it now, untethered, uncaring, with nothing else to lose.
So he ran, and the only thing he left for her was the story of fire and carnage she'd asked for, open and incomplete on the bedside table.
He never called.
((Whew, so, next stop DLC! Only two more chapters... if you haven't dropped a comment yet consider letting me know your thoughts before the end.
I'll be honest, I'm not totally happy with this one. I feel like the middle could do with more work - time to flesh the other body double out more, make things more impactful - but I kinda decided it's best just to keep moving. I can always go back and change things later if something strikes me. There's no rule to say I can't. Besides, this was originally a exercise in just getting myself to write again, without stressing about stuff. Kinda defeats the purpose if I dither over it.
Aaand I'm also going to make my own explanation for the obvious plot hole (if there were loads of body doubles, how come no one kept their hands for VIP access?) because the game conveniently forgot to address it.
Anyways, hope you're doing well, and thanks for reading!))