Chapter 3: THE RAVEN-HAIRED BEAUTY
Jack Ryan watched patiently as the young woman took many moments to grieve over the fallen Papa, something that he, in all his infinite wisdom, was incapable of understanding. Indeed, my friend, sometimes men posit that gods, being so distant from humanity, are incapable of understanding the intricate but ultimately insignificant pain of the mortal man. And here, Jacky R., the strongest manifestation of divine power walking contemporary Earth, verifies such lofty speculation.
For what reason does she have to cry over such a fallen titan, contemplated Jack. Has she not obtained victory over her foe? Does she not wish to luxuriate in her bubbling Jacuzzi of power?
Jack cracked open another can of gas station ambrosia to clear his mind of distress.
Finally, the young woman raised her head. She was indeed quite a sight, Jack thought, being slight of build with rather greasy raven hair. Her incandescent eyes betrayed the influence of ADAM, a lot of it.
Beautiful. Powerful. And disgusting all at once.
Just like me, thought our Big Dog.
Jack ordered the boatman to bring them alongside the submarine, and he stepped confidently and regally onto the vessel to greet this curious creature. She regarded him carefully, the way one would regard a tiger running rampant in an airport.
He nodded, and tossed her a can of powerful brew. She accepted it gratefully, taking a hearty swallow, and the two achieved a silent understanding.
"My name is Eleanor Lamb," she told Jack telepathically.
Jack engaged his strong brain and thought with urgency, "Eleanor, these four disgusting fuckers are holding my children hostage to coerce me into killing the President."
Eleanor, having just undergone a traumatic experience involving family, was sympathetic. "How can I help?" she offered graciously.
First they told each other of the family pains that they had both endured, of the horrid treatment of their Father/Mother figures respectively. Jack told Eleanor that his dad was a stupid fucker, biting his lip to hold back the waterworks, and Eleanor, being younger and less capable of controlling her emotions, related to Jack her delusion that her mother is a very nice woman, and just misguided. Jack, as if guided by divine intervention, did not correct her bullshit.
He tried to casually mention that he was a genetic abomination artifically cultivated in a lab by a slightly autistic german scientist and a sociopathic chinese genius, but he could not keep the moist warble out of his voice.
Me too, cried Eleanor, me too. It was too much for Jack, seeing himself in the teenage girl before him, the other side of his cosmic coin, the only person who would ever understand him in the universe, and he created gigantic tears. They carried on for minutes, possibly years, their wails so loud and affecting that an African Shaman caught the aural assault upon the wind, which drove him to spearhead massive cultural reform within his tribe, declaring that the path to heavan lay in the open expression of emotions, resulting in the creation of the most progressive civilization in history, that would sadly never be acknowledged with a wikipedia page.
After the tears ceased flowing and the pain dulled to a pleasurable ache, the Big Dog proceeded to relate to her a series of well-defined checkpoints and goals that would lead to the freedom of his daughters and his subsequent freedom to retaliate against the mysterious organization oppressing him. She hmmed and hemmed and nodded at all the right times, and Jack, impressed by her attentiveness, found himself wishing that this wonderful girl was his daughter instead of the insipid fucks he was putting through college.
"Basically," he told her, "you're going to need to kill the teaching staff of those three universities in order to ensure their safety."
Graceful, gracious Eleanor nodded. She was totally game.
"Thank you," said Jack. It was the first time he had ever said those words as a package deal.
She thanked him likewise for the drink then engaged her teleportation power, disappearing with the submarine to parts unknown.
As the fearless foursome entered the lighthouse, the man turned upon our hero.
"Jack," he said with much trepidation. "What's wrong? You seem troubled."
The breadth of Jack's pain could not be fully understood by the insignificant man. Jack answered, "I am hungry," and the topic was swiftly dropped.
It was a dark storm swirling in Jack's soul. A dark chapter in his significant life. He resolved to begin attending group therapy upon returning topside. Surely, he would be the best at it. The champion. As he was in all activities he participated in.
The quivering mass of a lady mistook the gravitas Jack was radiating like an intense lantern for human pain and loneliness, and the lacking cognitive ability of her, frankly, retarded brain told her, "He needs you. He needs comfort. From you." There was drama brewing amongst our insular team of unlikely heroes.
As he gazed upon the giant golden statue of his Dad's face, Jack felt the worries and tensions and disorders of the surface world leave him like a scorned lover. Yes, he thought. This is where I belong. This is who I am.
The boatman, an insecure individual who did not have the stomach to appreciate a somber atmosphere, tried to draw his quietly maudlin companions into shallow, lively conversation. Jack, enraged by the man's casual presumptuousness, and looking for an excuse to hurt someone, engaged his powers of telekinesis and wordlessly fastballed the man's hoary head down the stairs. It was a tactile reminder to the boatman that Jack was in no mood to quibble.
Imagine a scene of ghostly underwater fog, a gentle hurricane of dust and suspended water particles suffusing a hollow phalanx lined with the expressions of a man's ego in the form of festive oversized arcade tokens. Imagine four heroes overtaking the stairs of this phallic space into the bowels of a chamber, where a motorized ball waits to be filled with their bodies. Imagine the unthinkable internal strife experienced by a warrior far superior to you, indulged by the Gods Above like a favorite son.
Dad, Jack thought. You were never there for any of my birthday parties, or football games, or trips to the mall or marriages. But I forgive you.
The existence of this majestic playground of great men was worth the sacrifice of Jack's happiness. He put one foot into the bathysphere, butterflies aflutter in his well-formed belly, and wondered quietly to himself if he'd ever leave again.