Disclaimer - I own no rights to the Bioshock universe.

Six Months Later . . .

Jack tilted the bottle up all the way, let the vodka pour straight to his liver. He could hear footsteps outside of his cramped office. He shoved the lid back on and quickly returned the bottle to its hiding spot.

The door opened a crack.

"You've got some potential customers waiting."

Jack rubbed his aching forehead.

"Okay. Be right out."

He forced himself out of his uncomfortable chair and stepped out of the office, across the foyer, and into the open lot. A family of three was waiting. A clean-shaven man in his thirties in a jaunty tweed suit and felt fedora, a woman in her Sunday best, and a three-year old girl in a shabby sundress, already fussing and trying to break free from her mother's iron grip. He knew the make and model of the automobile they were looking at, but the vodka and his general apathy were clouding his memory of it.

"Hi, I'm Jack." He extended his arm, but the father was too busy looking disapprovingly at Jack's drunken gait to shake his hand. "I see you've spotted our little beauty, here, and let me assure you, it's exactly the mode of transportation you and your family are looking for."

"It is a nice car," the father said in agreement, "but we were actually hoping we could see something a little cheaper."

"What for?" Jack said. "This is the perfect car for you. Why look any further?"

"Well, we were actually looking for something a little . . ."

"Come on, cheapskate!" Jack snapped. "Just buy the damn car!"

This was too much for the already-fussy three-year old, who began wailing as soon as Jack raised his voice.

"Well, I never!" the mother spoke up.

"Look, did you come here to stroll around our lot, or do you actually wanna buy a damn car?"

"It's a little too expensive," the father said indignantly. "We were just looking at it until we could find someone to help us."

"I'm here to help you now," Jack said. "Now, what would it take to get you behind the wheel of this car?"

"You're still not listening to me!" the man said, more angrily this time. The little girl began crying louder. Jack clenched his fists.

"Shut that kid up! If you don't shut that kid up, I swear to God I will!"

The mother pulled the little girl in closely. The father was now clenching a pipe in his mouth so tightly he nearly bit the tail off.

"I'm sorry," Jack said, trying to regain some composure. "You want to see something cheaper? I'll show you. Come on."

The father took the mother by the hand and they began to walk away.

"Wait! Come back! I'll show you something cheaper!"

It was too late, and now the manager was marching up to him.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm trying to sell a car. Just trying. To sell a car."

"Not here you're not. I gave you a job as a favor to an old friend, but I can't put up with this anymore. Drinking on the job? Bullying customers? And I put up with it just so you can pay for your drug habits? Not anymore. You're fired."

"But, sir. You don't understand. It's just been a really bad day, and the little girl kept . . ."

"No more excuses. I want you off my dealership before I call the cops."

Several hours later, Jack woke up in the bed of his rundown apartment. His undershirt and shorts were soaked in warm sweat, and a half-empty syringe of heroin was sticking out of his arm.

A drawer slammed. His beautiful girlfriend was throwing clothes into a large suitcase.

"Wha—what's going on?"

"I'm leaving, Jack."

He pulled the syringe from his arm, threw it down, and tried to stand up.

"You promised me you'd quit."

"I tried to quit, Jill. You know I tried. But it was a really bad day at work today."

"I heard. I heard you got fired because you're always either drunk or all strung up."

Tears were streaming down her pale cheeks. Jack finally managed to get on his feet.

"That's why I need you to stay. I don't have anything else anymore. You're all I've got now, Jill. You're all I've got."

"Not anymore."

She slammed the suitcase shut and latched it.

"Jill, wait . . ."

He grabbed her arm and she shook him off.

"You haven't shaved or showered in days. You live in filth. And you don't even stay sober long enough to notice. I stayed with you longer than I should have because I felt sorry for you. But I can't now. Not any longer."

Jack stumbled out of the apartment, in his underclothes in broad daylight, as Jill's cab was leaving.

"Come back!" he shouted. Judgmental eyes peered out every window at him. "Come back. Come back, please."

All Jack had for food was some pastrami and some rye bread, and the bread had gone completely stale. As it was unfit for human consumption, he found himself sitting on a park bench, throwing bread crumbs to the pigeons. His only friend, Gary, sat beside him.

"I thought you'd given up the drugs," Gary said, after Jack had finished telling him about everything that had happened that day. "The heroin and the booze."

"I thought I had, too," Jack said. "But I keep coming back to them."

"So, what are you going to do now?"

Jack stroked the thick stubble on his chin.

"I don't know. But I can't stay here. There's no reason anymore. I don't have the job. I don't have Jill. They were the only things holding me here."

"Where will you go?"

"Away from here. I just need to get away from here. I don't belong. I never have." He tossed a thick chunk of the stale bread to a couple birds who were fighting over a small crumb. "That's how I've always felt. Like I belong . . . I don't know . . . somewhere else."

"Is there any place specific you've ever really enjoyed? Some happy memory from your childhood?"

"That's just the thing, Gary. I have no memories. I've been working at the same job for the last couple of years. Before that, I don't remember anything. No school or friends or hobbies. My past is a complete blank to me."

"That's no surprise," Gary said, crumbling another piece of the rye bread to crumbs in his fist. "You've killed so many brain cells with the drugs and booze it's amazing you can even remember this morning."

"That's not quite true," Jack said, staring into the distance, into nothing. "I remember my parents. I remember the little farm I grew up on. And ever since I can remember, my folks told me, 'Son, you're special. You were born to do great things.' You know what?" He chucked another slice of stale bread into the grass. "They were wrong."

Gary stood up and brushed the stray crumbs off his overcoat.

"Don't do anything rash," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe a change of scenery will do you good." He and Jack shook hands. "Good luck."

When Jack made it back to the apartment, there was a package waiting for him at the door. There was an envelope labeled "From Mom and Dad" on top of a box in blue wrapping paper. Jack picked up the gift box. The blue paper was decorated with paisley insignia, and a big red bow held a tag in place that read: "To Jack, With Love, From Mom and Dad. Would you kindly not open until . . ."

He opened the envelope and found a single plane ticket inside.

"Hmm," he said to himself, studying the ticket. "Why not?"

A/N - Hope nobody's too offended by what I did to Jack. Had to give him a personality somehow.