JUNE 9, 1959 — 10:12 PM
In the span of a single night, Ryan's city had fallen from his grasp.
He stood at the console in his office, alone, contemplating the machinery that should have put the whole of Rapture at his fingertips. Sullivan had left some hours before, after the passage to Central Control had been secured against Atlas and his bandits. None could reach him now. But his personal safety seemed to matter little in the face of all else around him.
With the input of a single command, he could reroute the flow of power to ensure Hephaestus's destruction. He could eliminate the parasites that prowled about him in one fell swoop. But with the destruction of Hephaestus would surely come the destruction of all Rapture, and the question of whether he was prepared to go so far was one he looked upon with doubt.
Doubt. It already had its hooks in him, whether he liked it or not. He found, however, that doubt was a preferable companion to Atlas and his ilk.
Even so, it was far from the only thing that now caused him doubt. He'd allowed himself to wonder about his son, about what he had done to turn Atlas against him, about what choices he must have made to lead to that end. He wondered what choices Jack must have made that would have led to any of this happening, and he wondered what choices he might have made himself to have prevented it all.
In the cracks and recesses these questions left in his mind was where doubt made its home, curling ever inward and digging its roots ever deeper.
But he could not allow it to remain. He would have to uproot his doubts once and for all, and he knew of only one way to do so with certainty.
Somewhere in the distance, down the winding hall that led to his office, he could hear the distinctive click and slide of an opening door.
He would have to acknowledge his mistakes. He would have to face them down, however loath he may be to do so, and he would have to correct what he could.
Ryan had come to this decision some time ago. When the door to his office finally opened, he knew that he had never felt surer of it.
"Come in, sin moj."
At his command, Jack entered the room with slow, wary steps. When Ryan turned to face him, it was to see a gun clutched tightly in his hand.
"Father."
He had expected nothing less.
Ryan looked his son in the eyes before he spoke again.
"I suppose Atlas bade you come here to murder me, did he?"
The gun shook in Jack's hand.
"He told me...I'd have to do it. Or else he'll have to kill the both of us."
Ryan snorted.
"You won't have to do anything, Jack—and if Atlas thinks he can put down either one of us so easily, then he's sorely mistaken." He took fearless strides past his son, back to where his desk sat. "Come."
Jack followed, though he kept the gun at hand.
"Atlas may have wrested some power over the people of this city..." The mere thought of it put a snarl in Ryan's lip even as the words passed from his throat. "But he has no such power over you. Only you are the arbiter of your own destiny, Jack. So, with that in mind..." He sat at his desk, and leaned back in his chair. "What do you want to do?"
Jack remained where he stood, clutching his gun ever more tightly.
"I don't want to kill you."
"That's not what I asked."
The words caused Jack's lip to curl, rather not unlike Ryan himself.
"I want things to be better in Rapture." The gun shook again. "I want to make Rapture better, even if—even if that's not what I was created to do. And...I want to know why I was made like this."
Now there was a curious development, one Ryan hadn't foreseen.
He supposed it would only make the rest of this that much easier.
"Tell me, sin moj—who told you what you were created to do?"
Jack winced, visibly reluctant to answer.
"Dr. Tenenbaum."
Of course.
"And what did she tell you?"
Again, Jack hesitated. But he must have known there was no use in hiding the truth from his father.
"She told me that...that you had me built as a weapon."
There it was. Either Tenenbaum had lied, which didn't seem likely, or Jack had misinterpreted the truth.
"My son..." Now, of all times, despite the determination that burned within every fiber of his being, Ryan found himself forced to look away. "I had once hoped this day would never come, but...I believe it is time to tell you the truth of your origins."
Jack was silent for some time. Then he sat in the chair in front of Ryan's desk, as though attempting to meet his gaze.
"What do you mean?"
Ryan indulged him by lifting his head again. The look on his son's face was some troubling mix of worry and fear, and it took a surprising amount of will to keep that look from weighing down his determination by even the slightest bit.
"I am not the one responsible for your birth, Jack. Though you are doubtlessly my flesh and blood, I was..." A seedling of doubt had once again begun to crack through the wall of his fortitude, and Ryan had to shake his head to brush it off. "I was not the one who made you this way."
The color seemed to drain from Jack's face, and the confusion in his eyes only made itself ever clearer.
"I..." The boy's jaw hung slack for a moment as he struggled for words. "I don't understand."
Ryan took a deep breath through his nose.
"I did not order your creation. I merely discovered you long after the fact...in the wake of Fontaine's death."
A look of dawning realization came over Jack then, though it soon became obvious that his eyes were wide with fear rather than epiphany.
"Fontaine..."
"Fontaine purchased you from your mother long before I was ever made aware of your existence." Anger stirred somewhere deep inside him, but he willed it away, just as he had willed away his earlier doubts. "Fontaine was the one who made you like this, who ordered you molded into an assassin..." For all his will, however, he couldn't keep his hand from clenching into a fist. "Into my assassin."
"No."
Jack was shaking his head; his gaze had fallen away again.
"No, no... No, I wouldn't—I would never—"
"You wouldn't have had a choice," Ryan said firmly, attempting to cut short his son's rising hysteria. "Not if Fontaine had his way. You would have been a tool to achieve his ends, and nothing more."
"Why..."
Jack didn't seem certain of exactly what question he wanted to ask. Though he might have normally done otherwise, Ryan felt it prudent not to prompt him along for now.
"Why didn't you tell me?" There was desperation in his look now, clear on his face as it strained through his voice. "Why couldn't you have just told me the truth instead of...instead of hiding everything from me?"
"Consider it, Jack." Ryan didn't quite have the patience to humor him, but for now, he had to at least try. "Is that the sort of life you would have wanted? To have known that the only reason you exist is because of a man who wanted me dead? To be constantly reminded of the fact that he never intended for your life to have any greater value than that?"
The thought of it was sufficient to silence Jack for a moment. The silence was long enough that Ryan felt it his place to continue.
"It was...disturbing, to have seen my own flesh and blood perverted in such a way."
Jack flinched, and Ryan found himself taking another deep breath before he went on.
"But when I made the choice to keep you alive—no, to claim you as my own... I decided that there was but one thing that could undo even a small amount of what poison Fontaine had put upon you: to keep you as free of his memory and influence as I possibly could."
Jack still didn't seem like he fully understood; Ryan could hardly blame him. He leaned forward, just enough to rest his elbows on the desk and fold both hands at his chin.
"In my attempts to grant you a life unburdened by Fontaine's shadow, however...it appears I have only burdened you with my own, instead."
Jack's brow knit. "Father..."
"All I wanted for you was to live a life of your own determination and will, Jack." He gave his son a hardened look. "That I wanted you to someday bear my legacy always came secondary to that. But, I fear... Somewhere along the way, I lost sight of that."
"No, father—" Jack was shaking his head again. "I do want to bear your legacy. That's what I've always wanted—that's never changed."
"Is it, Jack?" Ryan lowered his hands. "Then how is it that you've come to align yourself with Atlas?"
Again, Jack paled.
"I didn't... I just..." Then that look of realization came over him once more. "I just...wanted to make my own decisions."
"Because I pushed you to defy me." He sighed, then looked down to his hands, where one had begun to clench into a fist again. Somehow this was even more difficult than he'd anticipated. "I got what I wanted, I suppose...but to wish for both—for you to become a man of your own will, and to become a man like me—was folly enough to destroy any chance at you fulfilling either one."
Jack's other hand tightened on the arm of his chair.
"I don't understand."
"Atlas has divined your so-called true purpose, Jack." He couldn't put it any more plainly than that. "He knows what you are, and he's made certain I know that as well—and he has every intention of using you to finish what Fontaine started."
Ryan found it difficult to believe that Jack hadn't figured out any of this for himself. Even so, the shock that entered the boy's face was palpable.
"No—" He seemed to remember for the first time that a gun was still in his hand, as he stared at it in horror before slamming it onto the desk, then recoiled from his seat and paced the length of the office. "No—no. I won't do it, I'm not—I'm not going to do it. I won't."
"Won't you?" needled Ryan. "But Atlas will kill you himself if you don't—is that not what you just told me?"
"No!" Jack put his head in his hands. "No, I won't—I don't care. I don't care what he wants, I don't care if he means well, or if he really wants to change Rapture for the better, I don't... I'm not... I'm not going to kill my father!"
Ryan took yet another deep breath, then stood, reached for the gun on his desk and gingerly slid it closer to himself.
"If it was truly a choice between your life and mine...I would have to ask you to reconsider."
Jack looked up then, to once again stare in horror at the gun beneath Ryan's fingertips.
"Fortunately for the both of us, however, the reality of the situation is far more nuanced than that." Ryan lifted the gun for a closer look, checked the chamber to find it fully loaded. "The reality is that I have made mistakes...many mistakes, many of which have led us to this point. But as every man who has ever made mistakes surely knows, nothing was ever gained by mourning them."
Jack carefully, warily began to approach the desk again, hand outstretched and face filled with worry. "Father..."
"Atlas would sooner see the both of us destroyed, along with all that we stand for, before he submits—and likewise, I would sooner see Rapture destroyed than leave it for him and his parasites to plunder." He placed the gun on the desk again, but did not remove his hand from it as he stared his son down. "As such, we are at an impasse...one which does not leave this city a safe place for you to become a man of worth."
Jack could only hold his gaze for a moment before he looked down at the gun again. "I... I don't understand."
"I mean that you must leave, Jack."
Never had Ryan found such difficulty with words, but still he said them with as much strength and evenness as he could ever muster.
"In no country was there ever a place for a man like me... But it appears that there is no place in Rapture for you to reach your potential, either."
Jack's visible reaction was no worse than Ryan had predicted, but it was far from any better.
"No..." Jack shook his head again. "No, I can't... Where would I go? The surface? I've never..." His hands clenched as he advanced on Ryan. "I can't. I can't just leave Rapture, I can't—I don't want to. I don't have to, I can still—we can still change this city for the better, I can... I can talk some sense into Atlas, and—"
"The very instant you fail to prove useful to Atlas and his cause," said Ryan sharply, before his son could babble on any longer, "he will have you slaughtered. That is something I will not allow."
"No." Somehow Jack still saw some need to argue. "No, I... Fine, then I'll—I'll put a stop to him myself. I can stop him—I will stop him."
"And in so doing—assuming you succeed in the first place—you would fulfill the purpose Fontaine set for you to begin with: an assassin to be used by whomsoever happens to be pulling your strings."
Some flicker of resistance remained within him, but Jack's resolve was weakening. It burned Ryan to do this to his son—but it had to be done, or else his fate would be assured.
"But I... If I stop him..."
"For what purpose would you stop him, hm? To eliminate whatever threat he poses on my life?"
"No!" Jack snapped, defiance suddenly returning to him in full force. "To protect Rapture... To save Rapture. That's all I've ever wanted."
"Is it, Jack?" Ryan lifted his brow. "Or is that desire merely one I've put upon you?"
All that fiery defiance left Jack almost as quickly as it had come.
"Answer me, sin moj."
"I don't know." The words came out in another snap, but this time with an icier tone. "How am I supposed to know that?"
Ryan took another deep breath.
"Go to the surface," he said quietly. "Find your answer there, once you've made yourself a man of worth...a man of your own worth. And then, perhaps... Perhaps, should you choose to return, this city will await you."
"No— Father, please." Jack no longer made any attempt to mask his pleading tones behind something more dignified. "Didn't you want me to be a man of my own free will? How is this letting me make my own choices, when the choice I want to make is to stay here?"
"My decision is final," Ryan said firmly, leaving no room for further argument. "To remain here is to ensure the death of what free will you have left, if not your death in more literal terms."
"Father..."
His son's pleas were reaching into excruciating levels. But there was one thing left to be done before Ryan could send him on his way.
He leaned down to open the bottommost drawer of his desk. Inside was a small, tightly-sealed plasmid flask; the ADAM within it glowed a bright, peculiar green.
"This is for you."
Jack stared first at it, then at Ryan in confusion, and took it with a hesitant hand.
"I had hoped that one day I would give this to you under...happier circumstances." Ryan sighed. "But these are desperate times."
"What is it?"
"Take it with you, sin moj," continued Ryan, "and under no circumstances must you splice yourself with it until you've reached the surface. Do you understand me?"
Jack only nodded in reply. His confusion was still readily apparent, but he could find no way to protest.
"And..." Ryan reached into another drawer, this time to pull out a handgun of a heavier caliber than the one Jack had entered with. "I imagine this will be of greater use to you in the hours to come."
"No..."
"Take it, Jack."
His movements were still hesitant, tentative as he tucked away the flask into the pocket of his coat and took the gun from Ryan's hand. Ryan had never seen his son more filled with doubt than as he stood before him in that moment. But he could not back down from his decision.
"Through the vent is a passage to the emergency access tunnels. Use them to avoid Atlas and his men as best you can."
"Father— Batya, please..."
Above all else, he could not allow his own doubts to come creeping back in.
"Leave me, sin moj. Leave this place, and do not return until you know with absolute certainty that this is the life you want."
Jack didn't want to leave. It was plain in his face, in his carriage, in the way he looked as though he'd rather die fixed to that spot than do anything else. But ultimately, as always, he was powerless to defy his father's command.
He turned, steps heavy with reluctance, and made for the vent.
Ryan took one final sigh as he stared down at the desk, at the gun that still lay before him—the gun that Atlas had given his son, undoubtedly.
Perhaps he was fated to die by that gun. Perhaps he was fated to die in this very room.
But if he did die in this very room, regardless of whomever provided the weapon of choice, he was determined that his life would come to an end in one way and one way alone—by his own will, and no one else's.
He traced his fingers over the gun as he contemplated it, from the barrel to the grip.
Only time would tell...
JUNE 9, 1959 — 11:06 PM
When Jack emerged from the tunnels and into the sewers of Olympus Heights once more, he felt as though he'd been cast adrift into the ocean itself.
He made for the gate with stumbling steps, remembering with numbed thoughts how to turn the crank and let himself through. He remembered his only exit from here would have to be through Apollo Square. Somewhere in the back of his mind echoed a sense of danger, but it wasn't enough to still him now.
Perhaps he could have taken the tunnels further, navigated them to a place less fraught with peril. But he didn't know the paths nearly as well as Tenenbaum had; he didn't know them nearly as well as Atlas's forces surely did. He would have to take his chances in the open streets.
The gate opened, and he ducked underneath to make his way up the winding tramway path. By now, the air was thick with the stench of human remains. The city's security had no hope of mounting any serious recovery efforts with Atlas still at large.
Atlas. Atlas.
He could stop him—couldn't he? If only he could stop Atlas through one way or another, whether he talked or gunned him down, then Jack wouldn't be forced to leave Rapture—wouldn't he? He could save this city, he was certain of it. Rapture was his home, the only home he had ever known—and what kind of son of Rapture would he be if he left it in such a sorry state of affairs?
No, it didn't matter what his father said. Jack was certain of it: he was beholden to protect the city in which he was born. It might not have been the purpose for which he had been created, but he would make it his own. There was no question of it in his mind.
But how could he confront Atlas all on his own?
Despite his thoughts, despite his doubts, despite his determination to enact his own will rather than bow beneath his father's orders yet again, his feet still carried him forward, past the still-smoldering wreckage, past the bloated bodies in the street, past all remnants of Atlas's plot.
It wasn't until after he'd already passed through the bulkhead and up the street to Apollo Square that he came to a stop, when he heard a crackle of static from somewhere on his person.
". . . Jack? Jack, come in! . . ."
The radio—somehow, in the midst of all he'd been through, he'd managed not to lose the radio Tenenbaum had given him.
He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and flipped the switch to talk.
"Dr. Tenenbaum— Dr. Tenenbaum, is that really you?"
"Who else would it be?" She sounded irritated; Jack could only wonder why. "Have you found the sub?"
The sub. How could he have forgotten?
"No— No, I..." How could he explain? "Not yet, I—I got held up."
"Hurry up, Jack! I've found the little ones; we're ready to begin heading there now."
The sub, the sub—Neptune's Bounty. He would have to keep heading for the Metro station, after all.
Jack took a deep breath as he clutched the radio tightly in his hand, attempting to will away his nerves.
"Dr. Tenenbaum?"
"What?"
He gripped the radio a bit tighter.
"Do you... Would you mind if I left this side of the radio on? Just for now."
There was a palpable pause from her end of the connection.
"Do what you like. It makes no difference to me."
The coldness was something Jack had come to expect from Tenenbaum, so it came as something of a comfort to him. Leaving the radio on was a small comfort in and of itself, though not one he gave himself much time to consider. He took the radio's worn leather strap and slung it over his shoulder instead of sticking it back in his pocket, and he headed for the bright lights of the bathysphere station with quicker steps than before.
It was when he reached the emptied square that he found himself given pause once again. The unmistakable bellow and heavy, thudding steps of a Big Daddy were some ways ahead of him.
But as long as it wasn't headed in the same direction as him—as long as it wasn't headed for Hestia, he would be fine, wouldn't he? As long as nothing happened on the way there... As long as nothing happened to disturb the creature's rounds...
"Is that you, boyo?"
Jack froze. In the moments he had spared to concern himself with the presence of the metal daddy, Atlas had entered the square himself.
He carried a limp body over his shoulder as he approached, though the expression on his face was considerably more easygoing than Jack could last recall.
"Why, I'll be damned." Atlas grinned, then came to a stop some several feet away from Jack. "Had it out with your father, then? Or did you just fancy a stroll?"
Jack took a cautious step back, before realizing that perhaps it wouldn't be the wisest thing he ever did to betray just how apprehensive Atlas made him. He could not let himself be swayed.
"What are you doing here?"
"I ought to be asking the same of you," said Atlas, expression falling somewhat. It seemed he didn't appreciate Jack's newfound wariness. "I might have thought you'd come straight back to me after doing what I'd asked of you. Silly me, aye?"
Slowly, carefully, Jack began to reach for the gun in his belt. He couldn't afford to let his fear show through, but he couldn't let his guard down either.
"Ah, but I suppose you deserve a bit of honesty..." Atlas clucked his tongue. "I'm here because I had to deal with a bit of disloyalty in our ranks. And that makes today your lucky day."
Jack gripped his gun, but didn't yet draw it out. He was too confused yet for that.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I'm no fool, Jack." The look on Atlas's face could no longer be called easygoing, not in the slightest. "If you'd pulled the trigger on your father, you wouldn't be standing here like this. But I know it must've been no easy decision for you to make, and I'd hate to see you die for it...so I'm going to give you one last chance."
Before Jack could question him, Atlas took the limp body he'd been carrying and dropped it to the ground. The barely-conscious form of Diane McClintock now lay between them.
"I need you to dispatch this traitor for me."