Disclaimer – I own nothing . . . nothing! Except my copies of the Bioshock games, of course.
A/N – I realize it's been another long gap between chapters. If it helps my case any, I've been working on this chapter on and off for the last couple of weeks.
Zero612 – Sorry to have to test your patience again. After taking a little extra time to get this chapter just right, I hope you'll find it worth waiting for.
CaliforniaStop – As you're the baddie fangirl here, this chapter's for you. I hope I got it right.
Flatfoot88 – Welcome to the game.
Jack tried to bring his arm up to tug his blankets to his chin. First he realized he couldn't move his hand very far. Then he realized it was because his wrists were handcuffed together behind his back. Opening his eyes, he looked up at the ocean and realized there were no blankets. That he wasn't in his bed.
Still, beside the pain in his wrists from the tight cuffs, he felt better than he had in a long time. The headaches , shakes, and shivers were gone. The aches and pains of his recent experience had disappeared so completely he was about to dismiss it as a bad dream. For the first time in a long time he felt refreshed, energetic, healthy even.
Then he saw figures in front of him. Four men wearing rooster masks, and another man standing in the center of them, wearing a worn-out tuxedo with a wilted rose stuck in the lapel. He was tall, just above six feet, and slender. Probably somewhere in his mid 60's. He had a ghostly pallor, as if he'd never stepped foot in the sunlight, even when he was above the ocean. He had a thin, neatly waxed Salvador Dali mustache and an equally neatly slicked back mane of graying hair.
Jack immediately began struggling to escape, but he found himself thrashing against a clear glass panel an inch from his face.
The man in the tuxedo put a finger to his lips and gently made patting motions in the air, like a man trying to quiet a crying infant. Then two of the men in rooster masks leaned forward and the glass panel slid open.
"You're finally, awake little moth!" the pale man said.
Jack struggled some more. The man in the tuxedo was making cooing noises as the two men grabbed Jack by his shoulders and hoisted him to his feet.
"Yes," the pale man said. "Another moth lured to Fort Frolic by the flame that is Sander Cohen! There's no need to struggle. You are among . . ." He took a deep breath, carefully considering his next word, and then, as he exhaled, he said, "Admirers, here." He clapped his hands. "Fitzpatrick! Finnegan! Help our guest out of his chains!"
Cohen spoke with the voice of a Hollywood character actor. Every syllable was crisp and fully annunciated, and the accent was definitely American but so posh it almost sounded British.
After the two men in rooster masks had their hands over Jack's wrists, the handcuffs fell off, and they backed away with their lock picks.
"You've heard of me, of course?" Cohen said.
Jack had. And he'd heard just enough that he realized he didn't want to aggravate the man. Not when he was standing midst him and his followers, half-naked and unarmed.
"You do plays right?"
For a moment, Cohen's thin lips twisted into a sneer, and Jack witnessed something sinister flash in his eyes. But it was only an instant and then the lips twisted back into a smile.
"But of course, you're new down here." He made a grand flourish with his hands. "I believe the word you are looking for is . . . artiste."
He gestured towards a row of plaster sculptures.
"Just take a look at some of my work."
Jack stepped forward and touched the white plaster. A trickle of blood leaked out from a crack somewhere and dropped on Jack's hand. He recoiled when he realized what he was looking at wasn't a sculpture, but a preserved cadaver.
"Wonderful, aren't they?"
Jack swallowed, even more assured that he did not want to anger the man.
"Yeah. They're really great," he said. "They really speak to me."
"Yes. Yes." Cohen circled around him. "You are not without a reputation down here yourself. How long I've waited for something tasty to come to this sleepy burg!" He leaned in and sniffed Jack's bare neck. "Ooh, I can smell the malt vinegar on you."
Cohen stepped back. He must have noticed Jack cringing, because he clapped his hands again.
"Rodriguez! Cobb! Why are we letting our guest stand here unclothed like a common animal? For God's sake, get him into wardrobe."
He walked towards a doorway below a neon sign identifying the building as the "Fleet Hall", two of the men in rooster masks gently guiding Jack behind him.
"Of course, we'd heard stories of a mysterious stranger who'd just come from the surface, making his presence known across Rapture. But we dismissed them as filthy rumors," Cohen said as he passed through the box office and into the auditorium. "Now, seeing you in the flesh, I'm convinced you're perfect for a part in my latest opus."
"Thanks," Jack said. "I'm flattered. Really. But I don't think I'm cut out for theater work."
"Nonsense!" Cohen insisted. "You're just the new talent we're looking for. New blood, as it were."
There was a small room off of the auditorium, and Cohen's four followers busied themselves pulling clothes from a dusty old wardrobe.
"But I haven't even seen the script," Jack said. "And there's no way I'll be able to learn my lines in time to . . ."
"Don't worry about the script, little moth. We'll be playing to your own unique talents tonight. Just follow my lead and improvise!"
Jack shuddered, wondering what unique talents the strange pale man could possibly be referring to.
Meanwhile, the four men in rooster's masks' hands were travelling up and down Jack's body. They buttoned him into a moth eaten dress shirt and a vest in marginally better condition, while fitting him into a gray suit coat and slacks.
"The rest of you have all read your scripts, correct?"
Fitzpatrick, Finnegan, Cobb, and Rodriguez all nodded in enthusiastic affirmation, as one of them slapped spirit gun between Jack's upper lip and nose and pressed something hard against it. Jack looked into the mirror and saw a mustached man in a gray suit staring back at him.
"Perfecto!" Cohen shouted, blowing a kiss into the air. "Rodriguez, young Fitzpatrick, raise the curtain! Cobb, Finnegan, get our performers into their places! This shall be my masterpiece."
Jack watched from his spot backstage, flanked by Fitzpatrick and Cobb, as Cohen strode into the beam of a spotlight fixed centerstage.
"All rise for our national anthem," he intoned.
Somewhere, a phonograph began playing, and then Cohen began to warble in a reedy voice.
"Rise, Rapture, rise! We lift our hearts up to the skies . . ."
Jack looked nervously at the pistols Finnegan and Cobb were holding. Maybe they were stage pistols, but he wasn't ready to risk his life on that assumption. Although his "costume" made him feel a little more comfortable, he was still unarmed and out of EVE.
Cohen cleared his throat.
"The Wild Bunny, a poem by Sander Cohen. I want to take the ears off, but I can't . . ."
Fitzpatrick and Rodriguez glanced away from Cohen to Jack. Even if he could move fast enough to deal with Fitzpatrick and Cobb, he'd still have to worry about dealing with them, or even Cohen.
"Intermission," Cohen said, striding towards Jack. "What do you think of the show so far?"
"It's brilliant," Jack lied. "I really don't feel worthy to be part of it."
"Fret not, my beautiful little moth. It's Act Two where you will shine! You'll be playing the villain of the piece." He stood back and took a good look at Jack. "It's been a while since you've partaken, I can tell. Perhaps we should revitalize you before your grand debut."
He waved a hypo of EVE, seemingly from nowhere. Jack almost nodded, almost felt his tongue wagging, wanting to plunge the beautiful blue substance into his arm.
Cohen seemed ready to offer the hypo to Jack, when the needle disappeared again.
"But how silly of me," Cohen said. "Frank Fontaine never used EVE himself. I want you to be in character. We must respect the method!"
"Umm, Mr. Cohen?" Fitzpatrick interrupted meekly.
Cohen swiveled his neck towards Fitzpatrick. Even from the angle Jack caught of his profile, the intensity of Cohen's glare caused Jack to take a step back.
Cohen said nothing, so Fitzpatrick cleared his throat, took a step closer, and waved a thick wad of papers.
"It's just a couple parts of the script I'd like you to take a look at . . ."
"Take a look at? Fitzpatrick, I've seen the script. I wrote the damned thing."
"I know, Mr. Cohen. It's just that I . . . will, I don't really think some of these scenes will work on the stage. It's just that . . ."
"Are you doubting my script, Fitzpatrick?"
For the one small step Fitzpatrick had taken forward, he was now taking three large steps back.
"No. It's just that . . ."
"Because you sound like you're doubting me. And that makes you a doubter. And you know how we feel about doubters."
"Please, Mr. Cohen. I didn't mean anything by it."
Fitzpatrick's voice came out in a high pitched screech, choked out by a sob.
"Keep playing, my young protégé. All must suffer for the art," Cohen said, a note of sadistic pleasure in his voice as Fitzpatrick hammered the keys on a mistuned baby grand piano in the orchestral pit in front of the stage of Fleet Hall.
Jack felt a pang of pity watching. Sweat was starting to seep through Fitzpatrick's dirty shirt. The piano he was sitting at was covered in sticks of dynamite and, from what Jack understood, they were rigged to explode the first time Fitzpatrick played a key that Cohen hadn't incorporated into his score.
"Up the tempo!" Cohen demanded as the other men in rooster masks busied themselves setting up furniture and props on the stage. "Faster, little boy."
The cheerful ditty Fitzpatrick was playing was a stark contrast to the terrifying situation he was in, bound to the piano.
"And now, the hero of Rapture!" Cobb said. "Our beloved founder, Andrew Ryan."
Sander Cohen climbed up to the stage, wearing a well-cut brown suit in slightly better condition than the gray suit Jack was wearing, bowing graciously to imaginary applause. He crossed to center stage again, the spotlight beaming once more directly upon him, and held for the nonexistent clapping and cheering to subside as the triumphant piano melody Fitzpatrick was playing wound down.
"Good people of Rapture," Cohen intoned, "you have joined me in our glorious city because you believed there was a better world than the one above, a world in which each man was his own master and each person's business was no one's business but his own. But now, Frank Fontaine and his followers have begun to undermine these principles . . ."
Finnegan tapped Jack on the shoulder, distracting him from Cohen's overblown monologue.
"This is your prop," he said. He placed a revolver, much like the pistol Jack had been carrying before his encounter with Sullivan, into Jack's hand. "Be careful with it."
Cohen took his bows and stepped back behind the curtain as his stage hands began rearranging the set. Fitzpatrick flipped the page in the score, the sheet fluttering in his shaky grip, and then began playing a different piece.
"Don't just find the key and hit it!" Cohen's voice boomed. "Tickle those ivories, damn you!"
Again, Jack felt a little bit sorry for Fitzpatrick. It was a cruel punishment for his hardly inflammatory comment. Fitzpatrick's instinct would be to play the piece slowly, meticulously making sure he hit the right key each time. But Cohen kept insisting Fitzpatrick play at a faster tempo. His demands were distracting and kept making Fitzpatrick nervous. And the more nervous he was and the faster he played, the more likely he was going to botch the piece. Jack wondered if Cohen had ever even let Fitzpatrick rehearse the music before.
"Please," Fitzpatrick begged. "I'm sorry. Just let me stop."
"The show must go on, young Fitzpatrick!"
The other men were dragging paper mache rocks and various other props out on to the stage.
Cohen placed a hand on Jack's shoulder and smiled with wicked glee.
"This is your big moment, my dear little moth. Try to just relax and act naturally out there. I have the utmost faith in your dramatic instincts."
With that, Cohen shoved Jack out onto the stage.
Staring through the stage lights, Jack saw what Jim had referred to as Cohen's "captive audience." Scattered among the seats were splicer corpses, manipulated into various poses and then plastered: laughing, crying, sitting, standing, clapping, cheering, leaning forward excitedly, leaning back reflectively. They were all, literally, unable to turn from the stage.
Fitzpatrick had begun hammering out an ominous scherzo in the orchestral pit. Cohen was standing between the front row of the audience and the stage, conducting with his hands and humming along with the piano.
A small throng of armed splicers huddled behind Jack. He tried to stay calm as he felt the warm breath of one on the back of his neck. On the other side of the stage, Jack recognized the figures of Finnegan, Cobb, and Rodriguez, their rooster masks discarded, being led by another splicer.
He was dressed and made up to resemble Security Chief Sullivan, triggering an almost physically painful flashback to how Jack and Teagan had suffered at that maniac's hands. Teagan. Poor, young Teagan . . .
A bullet whizzed by Jack's shoulder. He crouched down, taking cover behind a paper mache rock. Which was soon blown to bits by another shot.
Evidently, they weren't using blanks.
One of Jack's splicers returned fire, only to collapse with a bullet in his throat. Another quickly followed.
If their guns have real bullets, Jack thought, then maybe . . .
"No, no, no!" Cohen was yelling, in response to Fitzpatrick's sobs, still loud above the scherzo. "Allegro! Allegro!"
Jack stood up and fired his revolver. Finnegan's gun fell from one hand while the other grabbed that shoulder to try to stop the bleeding.
Jack scrambled behind a larger fake rock as Cobb shot back. He reached around and fired again. This time, Rodriguez stumbled back.
A bullet flew through the paper mache, and Jack jumped back out into the open. Finnegan was now unarmed, but as Jack tried to draw a bead on him, icicles spread across Finnegan's arm, and Jack jumped out of the way just as an icy blast turned the paper mache beside him into a solid wall of ice.
Now on one knee, he took aim and caught Cobb directly in the forehead.
"Brilliant!" Cohen cried. "Perhaps you're not a moth. Perhaps you're an angel. Faster, young Fitzpatrick. Your playing is hindering my climax."
Jack's next bullet sent Rodriguez staggering back, and he was about to fire a second shot when another beam of ice from Finnegan's palm sent him scurrying for cover.
The man dressed as Sullivan was getting too close. Jack unloaded a bullet into his face, almost at point blank range. The revolver felt lighter. Jack realized the next bullet would probably be his last.
Just then, the piano music came to an abrupt stop.
"I can't do it," Fitzpatrick said. "I give up."
He slammed his face into the keys, and an explosion rocked the stage.
As the splicers regained their balance, Jack realized he didn't have to play Cohen's game anymore. He jumped onto the charred remains of the piano and climbed over Fitzpatrick's burnt body into the house.
"No," Cohen said. "This is all wrong. You're taking too many liberties with the material. You're supposed to be shot by Sullivan and fall into the artificial river in Neptune's Bounty, never to be seen again."
Jack ran towards him, firing his final bullet at Cohen.
He'd hoped the shot would frighten Cohen enough to force him out of the way. Instead, Cohen flinched, and then glared at Jack furiously.
"Do you know who you're dealing with?" he roared. His fists both burst into flames, the fire reflected in his eyes. "I'm Sander fucking Cohen."
Jack bolted in the opposite direction, running through a flurry of bullets and dodging balls of ice. Cohen hurled fireballs at Jack, missing and setting the elaborate posters hung on the wall alight.
Jack hurtled out into the box office, still dodging Cohen's fireballs.
"Fly away, little moth!" Cohen called, giggling a little bit. "Fly!"
Jack heard the man laughing. He pushed through the doors of Fleet Hall, back into the atrium of Fort Frolic. Even as the laughter became more and more distant, Jack didn't slow down.
Not until a hand caught his shoulder. Jack's heart almost stopped.
The hand pulled him through a pair of saloon-style doors.
"Welcome to the Fighting McDonagh," Evelyn said, welcoming him with a smile.
A/N – Can't give anyone a clear guess to when I'll start working on the next chapter, but we should be in the last third or fourth of things now.