JUNE 4, 1959 — 12:32 AM

As soon as Jack returned home with his precious cargo, more precious to him than anything else in the world entire, he locked himself inside. He would not leave again, he decided, until he had learned every secret of himself these documents had to offer. To this end, he was more determined than anything else.

He didn't know what he would find, but whatever it would end up being, he knew with certainty that he needed to find it.

Of all the things he suspected he might find, however, none included the possibility of what he did find: lines upon lines, rows upon rows of heavy, impenetrably black strikes.

The file contained a great many pages, but as Jack sifted through each of them, it seemed increasingly as though not a single one had any new knowledge to offer him. His eyes skimmed over each page for breaks in the black, fitting together fragments of sentences with fragments of words, joining them to make any significant meaning in his mind, but his efforts were for naught.

Towards the back of the file, amid the sea of black ink, he found a series of pages that charted his growth—from an embryo to something like an infant, to something like an adolescent, all within the span of 1956 to 1958. There were asterisks and checks, footnotes and milestones, rows of notes recorded beneath the carefully-lined charts and graphs, but nearly all of them were obscured. These pages told him nothing he didn't already know.

Was this what he had betrayed his father for? His stomach turned at the thought.

He didn't regret giving his trust to Atlas, nor did he regret giving him his aid. He didn't regret his want to do something better for the people of Rapture. But it wasn't precisely regret that stung him now, that twisted his innards and left a dull ache in his heart and his mind. It was something more like disappointment—a futile disappointment, the resentment of a child against the things he cannot change, the impotent frustrations of a man who might as well be a speck of dust against the swirling cosmos, struggling but unable to fight the forces that shape his world.

His efforts had been useless thus far, utterly for naught, even in terms of his own self, and he knew they would only continue to be this way unless he changed—unless something changed. But what change could he hope to bring about in the world around him if he could not change himself?

What change could he hope to bring to Rapture if he could not bring himself to act in his own interest—purely his own, and nobody else's? How could he manage the will to act in his own interest with the knowledge that he could accomplish nothing of worth?

He stared at the fan of papers he had laid out on his bedroom floor, at the rows of black that stared back at him. His mind felt numb. Every part of him felt numb.

He had to turn his thoughts to another angle if he wanted to salvage anything from this—if he wanted to salvage any part of himself.

What had Atlas said to him?

I mean that there are things you may not yet know about yourself, Jack—things in those documents that your father would have every reason to keep from you.

Jack had found nothing new in these documents, nothing that his father or the scientists had not already told him. But much more than that was hidden, so much that Jack couldn't possibly know whether or not Atlas had been right...but then again, how could he know? What had Atlas seen in this file that would give him reason to suspect some greater conspiracy than the one Jack already knew?

There was the possibility, he supposed, that Atlas hadn't counted on Jack knowing anything at all about his origins, what with how practiced he had made his cover story. But he hadn't seemed surprised enough for that when Jack proved to the contrary.

There had to be something he was missing.

He looked through each one of the papers before him, as though the rows of black would break upon themselves and rearrange into some pattern of meaning before his eyes. He turned over each and every one, scanning for some hand-penned or lightly-inked line, or some other scrap of information tucked away in a margin or on the back of a page, before he finally discovered something of note: a page towards the very back that, once he plucked at it with his finger, split itself in twain.

The two pages must have gotten stuck together by chance, though he wasn't sure how. He didn't particularly care to figure that out at the moment, because the page that now revealed itself had not been redacted in any part.

CONTRACT OF SALE
This contract is made on March 30, 1956 for the sale of one (1) human embryo between Mary-Catherine Jolene and Fontaine Futuristics.

A pang of confusion shook throughout his entire being and settled low in his gut, turning his stomach with dread.

He read on to the back of the page, to the list of the undersigned:

Mary-Catherine Jolene
Brigid Tenenbaum
Frank Fontaine

Frank Fontaine.

All Jack knew of the man himself were the words of hatred his father espoused, the only words Andrew Ryan ever had to spare for his memory. He was a crook of the highest degree who flouted Rapture's few laws for his own gain, whether it was in risking the city's safety from the surface world to smuggle in illegal goods, or providing for the so-called needy and taking advantage of their trust. To make things worse, he was also an exceptionally shrewd businessman, gaining footholds in every market and building up an entrepreneurial empire to rival Ryan's own.

He had also pioneered the plasmid industry, Jack remembered. Tenenbaum and Suchong had worked under him long before they had ever worked under Ryan. It was his funding of their research that made plasmids possible. Ryan Industries now owned the ADAM market, but Fontaine had been the first one responsible for it.

When he first came to learn of it, Jack had thought it odd that his father had chosen to nationalize Fontaine's assets rather than giving them to the people, in accordance with the man's will—sensible, but odd. It made sense to him that Ryan would be loathe to do anything in accordance with Fontaine's wishes, and it made sense to him that Fontaine Futuristics and its dominance over the plasmid market seemed a mighty prize in the aftermath of Fontaine's death. But to take the man's business by force, even after he was dead in the ground, hardly aligned with what Jack knew of his father's philosophy, and the thought that he would betray that philosophy at any cost, no matter what the prize may have been, seemed odder to him than anything else.

It was in the midst of this arrangement of facts and the links he forged between them that an answer occurred in Jack's mind, appearing to him as a bright light piercing through a cloudy haze.

Fontaine Futuristics controlled the development of plasmids, and had the most skilled scientists of all Rapture under their employ. Ryan needed an heir of his own flesh and blood, one he could be sure would survive Rapture's inevitable turmoil and enact his will without question, and he needed one as quickly as possible.

No one else must know what you really are, Jack.

No one—and that included most of all Ryan's greatest nemesis, even if that man had played a significant part in his creation.

Frank Fontaine had been killed in the earlier months of 1958, not long before the beginnings of Jack's conscious memory—not long at all before his debut to the public of Rapture, before his official crowning as Andrew Ryan's son and heir.

What he had learned of Fontaine's death was that it had resulted from a shootout between his men and Rapture security, during a raid which was meant only to result in his arrest. But Jack was no longer certain that his death wasn't the primary objective of that night.

Jack was no longer certain his father had no other reason to want Frank Fontaine dead, nor any other reason to seize Fontaine Futuristics.

His stomach turned again. His heart hammered in his chest. He stumbled back to his bed, trying desperately to process what this could possibly mean for him.

Why would his father keep Fontaine's involvement a secret from him? What would he stand to gain from it? Why would he keep that knowledge from him and nothing else?

That thought spurred another, which sent sparks of panic dancing down his spine:

What else could his father be keeping from him?

He had to confront him over it.

No—no, no, no. In the split second after Jack considered the idea, he didn't hesitate to quash it. It wouldn't just be the most foolish decision he could make—it might just be his very last. Ryan had frequently warned him of the consequences of failing to meet his expectations, enough so that Jack didn't have any doubt he meant to follow through on them. Ryan now had the resources to build him entirely at his fingertips, his own and no one else's; Jack could easily be replaced.

His head swam. He tried to think of someone, anyone else he could go to, someone who could help him sort this out...

Atlas.

But no—that wouldn't do either, would it? Atlas had his own business to see to, after all, and besides, he'd said himself that perhaps the less he knew of Jack's history, the better—hadn't he? Even if he had already noticed the Fontaine connection for himself—why, wouldn't that just mark him even higher on the list of Ryan's foes? If Ryan had been so willing to eliminate Fontaine himself, to stamp out every trace of involvement he'd had with Jack's creation, who else would he be willing to eliminate to keep that secret buried? What would stop him from killing another?

He felt lightheaded, sick and lightheaded, perhaps more so than he'd ever felt in his life. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he should do.

But he did know one thing: he couldn't stay where he was, locked in his room, surrounded by the secrets of his life that he had never before dared to consider.

He hadn't been sure where he was headed after he finally gathered himself well enough to leave his apartment some hours later. But sure enough, before long, he found his feet tracing the route back to Fort Frolic.

The piano in Kyle Fitzpatrick's cramped studio affair remained untouched for the evening. Fitzpatrick himself played a concerto upon Jack's torso instead, letting his long fingers run and splay over the hard lines of Jack's muscled chest.

"Mm." Fitzpatrick purred the soft noise into Jack's neck. "You know," he murmured, lips ghosting over Jack's skin, "Sander's always crooning about your old man... But I guess I beat him to the punch, when it comes to getting a Ryan into my bed."

Jack's stomach turned. His hands tightened on Fitzpatrick's bare hips where they straddled his own.

"Don't talk about my father while I'm here."

"Whatever you say."

Fitzpatrick didn't say anything at all after that, only arched his back and rocked bodily into him as his hands dipped lower, as he attached himself to Jack's throat with teeth and lips and tongue. Jack tipped his head back with a groan and shut his eyes, willing his mind to be stilled at last, willing himself to be lost in it all.

JUNE 4, 1959 — 9:22 PM

Yi Suchong's private quarters were hardly the most luxurious to be found in the high-class Mercury Suites. But it was here that Andrew Ryan found himself, not entirely of his own will, peering through inscrutable scientific notes with a careful, appraising eye.

"Did I not grant you private laboratory space at my facility?"

"Bah." Suchong was still busily at work, not one content to let even a man like Ryan make any interruptions in his routine. "You say private, but hardly any privacy at all. Not enough for this. You want this work to be private, you let Suchong do it his way."

Ryan's lips pressed into a thin frown as he took a closer look through Suchong's scattered documents: further notes of a scientific nature, torn envelopes addressed to and from a T. Telamon, pinned bills and receipts marked with red ink. As long as the man got him results, he found little reason to argue with his methods.

"Is it ready?" He had come here under the impression that it was, but the haphazard look of Suchong's workspace seemed to imply otherwise.

"Yes—almost." Suchong finally stopped for a moment to adopt a contemplative look. "Very close now. Phase one of the process is already complete. All plasmids in current circulation now have the modified formula."

"I am aware," Ryan said brusquely. He looked beyond Suchong, to the array of steel drums looking oddly out of place, over-sized in the man's cramped kitchen lab. From them emanated a sickly scent. "And these would be...?"

"The pheromone compounds, of course. The new plasmid formula is such that only heavy, very heavy ADAM users will be affected, but that will be enough. Once these pheromones are dispersed through the air filtration, every splicer in Rapture will be dancing to your tune."

A method of bringing the splicer problem fully, literally under control. When Ryan had first put the task to his scientists, the solution Suchong had returned to him was loathsome. The very thought of stripping away any man or woman's right to self-determination was something that stood at polar odds with all that Ryan stood for—no, with all that Rapture stood for.

But, he soon rationalized, that was the sacrifice he would have to make for the greater good. These splicers had forfeited their right to free will in the same instant they had forfeited the safety of his city and its people.

"What is left to be done?"

"Well." The look on Suchong's face was somewhere between a scowl and a frown. "The method for their control has not been tested. No subjects to test it on—pah! Your man Sinclair needs to send us more warm bodies."

"I'll pass it along," said Ryan in a flat tone. Nothing would come of it. Sinclair had been cagey as of late where the subject of Persephone and its warm bodies were concerned, as most people were when troubling topics came up in Ryan's presence. Whatever the matter was, it wasn't something he needed to concern himself with at present.

"Yes, yes... Anyway. Further testing must be done to ensure the method of control is secure. It is certain to work, of course, but tests are needed to be extra certain."

Extra certain wasn't quite enough in Ryan's mind, not where the future of Rapture was concerned.

"And what is the method of control?"

"Very simple, very, very simple: a trigger phrase. The pheromones disperse, you get on the public address, say three little words—Rapture is glory—and poof! Splicers become bonded to the sound of your voice."

The words trigger phrase were enough to make Ryan's mood sour entirely.

"No." His sourness became sternness. "The use of a trigger phrase is impractical and insecure. I won't have it."

"Impractical?" Suchong's tone suggested a laugh behind his words, but it seemed he knew better than that. "The phrase only needs to be spoken once before it takes permanent effect. Much more practical than that wind-up toy you call a—"

He suddenly stopped, realizing nearly too late just how far he had overstepped his bounds. Ryan took a slow, fuming breath through his nostrils, just enough to let Suchong know it hadn't been missed.

"The use of a trigger phrase, as you've described it, is too simple. The risk of someone else taking advantage of it is simply unacceptable."

"What risk?" said Suchong as he folded his arms over his chest. "You and I, we are the only two in all of Rapture who know this phrase. The risk is just the same with that boy of yours, is it not? And yet he lives."

There was no direct insult this time, but Ryan still felt the stirrings of anger upon hearing his son mentioned in such a way.

"There is no one alive in this city apart from you and I and Tenenbaum who knows of the existence of any trigger phrase in that boy." His voice was quiet but colored with fury. "Not once have I used that phrase to control his path; not once have I even considered it. It is through my guidance and his own capability that he will find his way—that alone, and nothing else. Do you understand me?"

Suchong seemed doubtful, but he was willing to relent.

"Tenenbaum would disagree, perhaps. But if you insist."

Ryan felt another stir. Tenenbaum had been cagey as well, though he had never supposed that whatever troubled her had anything to do with Jack. Perhaps he had supposed incorrectly.

"In any case..." That was something to deal with later. "The citizens of Rapture, these splicers... They are another matter. Regardless, a trigger phrase will not do."

That put Suchong on his guard. "Mr. Ryan, you have to understand, these pheromones are already coded to respond to that trigger phrase."

"My decision is final."

"But to implement a new method of control would mean to start all over—"

"I told you once already that my decision is final." Ryan didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "Do not make me tell you again."

Suchong could only sputter and glare. After a moment of this, however, he finally relented.

"If you insist, Mr. Ryan."

When Ryan left Mercury Suites shortly afterward, stepping into the chilled air of Olympus Heights, he found that his disappointment over Suchong's progress—or rather lack thereof—was only tempered by the question of Tenenbaum's doings.

Her newfound attachment to the Little Sisters was questionable enough that Ryan often wondered what she hoped to gain by continuing to work with them. He had also wondered why exactly his son had needed to see her so pressingly over the past few months, what with his making far more visits to her than what was necessary at this point in his development. When questioned, Tenenbaum's answers had always been vague and imprecise. Such was the nature of her conversational skills that Ryan hadn't thought much of it at time...not until now, at least.

Jack hadn't discovered his mother's identity entirely on his own, Ryan was sure of that. But what would Tenenbaum stand to gain by giving that information to him? What would she stand to gain by defying Ryan's will?

More importantly than that, however, was the question of how much further she would go to aid his son in defying him, and that was something for which he could not stand.

A uniformed security officer waited for him at the tram station. Ryan could not recall seeing the man's presence before.

"Chief Sullivan needs to speak with you right away, sir. Says he's got information for your eyes only."

Ryan frowned. Further complications were just what this night needed.

"Tell him to meet me at Central Control. I have other matters to see to first."

JUNE 5, 1959 — 8:02 AM

When Jack emerged onto the streets of Fort Frolic the following day, the numb haze of his mind seemed only worse than it had ever been.

He shouldn't have expected anything less, he supposed. He could no longer remember what he had expected.

But if nothing else, at least he felt calm—no more at ease than he was the day before, but he was calm. He still didn't know how he was going to sort through the mess he had stumbled upon, but he felt some scrap of confidence that perhaps he could. He just needed to return home once again; he needed to go over the facts one more time.

He pulled his coat more tightly about himself as he passed through the atrium. It felt almost as though there was a chill in the air.

When he passed by the entrance to Poseidon Plaza, however, his attention was drawn by the scene of a uniformed officer standing guard at its door, and the small gaggle of people crowded around him.

"Can you believe this? Why'd they have to shut down the whole Plaza?"

Jack felt a shiver of dread.

"Excuse me—" He tried to catch the attention of a woman in the crowd with a tap at her shoulder. "Sorry, but—"

"Oh, Mr. Ryan!" Her face beamed with recognition the instant she looked up at his face. "It's such a pleasure to meet you—"

"Can you tell me what's going on here?" he said quickly, hoping to cut her off.

"Oh, well... I heard something about a murder?"

"Yeah, that's it," said another man nearby, putting himself in the conversation with a forward lean. "One of the strippers down at Eve's Garden. Somebody found her in the back room this morning, beaten to death, poor girl. They got the whole Plaza on lockdown while they investigate—"

"Who was it?" Jack stammered out.

"Why, it was their star dancer—Jasmine Jolene."