Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This was it- the moment of truth. The minute the Bathysphere door opened, Jack knew he’d be swarmed by splicers. He was good on EVE and health kits, all weapons chock full of ammo. The Bathy settled into the station, bobbing as it rose to the surface. Jack tensed, slow steadying breaths keeping his head on his shoulders. Losing his cool now meant game over- even with the Vita- Chambers. He had to do this. For Atlas, for the girls, and everyone else Ryan fucked over. Jack squeezed the handle of his pistol, aiming at the door. Lighting danced over his fingertips as the vessel stopped swaying, opening with a reedy hiss.

Jack stepped out into a small room, clenching his fist. He took a deep breath, shoulders straight, and began to walk forward. The room that opened up to him was in shambles. A pile of rubble from the ceiling lay ahead to his right, electricity sparking from the loose wires hanging above. Crates and other garbage scattered about the room made it no less empty or eerie. There were a few machines around, including two slot machines to his left. Wait, slot machines? God dammit, did he somehow get lost? 

“Atlas?” Jack asked. “Where am I? It doesn’t look like Hephaestus…”

Atlas hummed. “Now now, hold your horses boyo. Don’t be getting into a tizzy on me.”

Jack swallowed as the radio went silent. An odd, unnerving, echo followed Atlas’ voice. It sounded almost like singing. Jack looked at the slot machines to distract himself. Ten bucks a roll? Holy shit- what schmuck bait.

“Alright, I can’t see you boyo- the cameras aren’t working for me wherever you are… I’ve got a hunch but would you kindly go check the ‘sphere to see where it sent you? I think someone might’ve hacked it.”

Jack returned to the Bathysphere, reading the location out loud. “Says… Fort Frolic.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake…” Atlas groaned.

“What?”

“It’s… Ah, don’t worry about it, boyo. You're almost there. The ‘sphere to Ryan is on up ahead. Just get on over there and we’ll be on our merry-murdering way.”

Jack’s mouth twisted, but he complied nonetheless. “Okay… but now I’m curious. ”

Jack could almost hear Atlas running a hand over his face. “No- don’t start that nonsense up again, boyo. We’re too close to the finish line to be fooling around. It’ll have to wait ‘til after we deal with Ryan.”

“ Please…? ”

“No.”

“ Pretty please? ”

“Boyo…”

Jack brought the radio to his face. “ Pretty, pretty, pretty please? ”

“You are testing my patience, young man.”

“ Pretty, pretty, pretty please with a cherry on top and a banana sundae? ”

“You’re batting your eyelashes at the nearest camera again, aren’t you?”

Jack grinned at the obvious smile in Atlas’ voice. “ Yes~ ”

With a great heave, Atlas gave in. “Oh fine, you seven-foot toddler.” Jack bounced as he heard him sit up. “Ryan's handed the keys to Fort Frolic over to a guy named Sander Cohen. Cohen's an artist, says some. He's a Section Eight, says I. I've seen all kinds of cutthroats, freaks, and hard cases in my life, but Cohen, he's a real lunatic, a dyed-in-the-wool psychopath…”

Jack frowned, pausing just behind the timetable for the metro, Atlas’ last sentence having come out muddled by the singing again. It was some woman belting “Rise, Rapture, Rise” to a corny tune- no substance, no flavor. He opened his mouth, intending to ask Atlas if he heard it too. A shadow scampering above cut Jack off. He scanned the area. Nothing but mosaic and metal lay in sight. Jack shook his head, scurrying to the Bathy. As he got to the stairs, it sank.

“Atlas!?” Jack shouted, rushing to the gate. “This isn’t funny!”

The lights turned purple and a large white bunny mask rose from the wall. A red curtain surrounded the flooded area, a spotlight hitting the mask. Hanging from the ceiling were more masks, akin to those the splicers wore and white humanoid… statues? The statues were attached to poles, bobbing up and down. The soft trill of a piano and violin duet filled Jack’s ears as he backed away up the steps.

“I’m sorry about bugging you earlier,” Jack whimpered, feeling his stomach turn when seeing more statues in the water. “Just- come on Atlas- just let me go.” 

But this wasn’t like Atlas. This wasn’t his doing. It couldn’t be.

“Ah, that's better.” A cool, clear voice purred. “Atlas, Ryan, Atlas, Ryan, duh duh duh, duh duh duh. Time was you could get something decent on the radio. The artist has a duty to seduce the ear and delight the spirit, so say goodbye to those two blowhards, and hello to an evening with Sander Cohen!”

Jack’s stomach plummeted, hands shaking and cradling his radio. This Cohen guy- he was now at his mercy, wasn’t he? Fucking hell. If Atlas was right, and he normally was, then he was screwed. Jack took a deep breath. No, no. He wasn’t screwed… at least not yet. He had to be the optimist here, it’s what kept him alive alongside Atlas and Tenenbaum. Another deep breath- he imagined Atlas guiding him through the motion. It made him feel better, if only a little. Jack looked at his radio, holding his jaw firm. Ryan was going to have to wait. He had an evening with Sander Cohen to attend.

Jack spun, clipping his radio to his hip. He traversed back through the station to find the area he was in moments before transformed. Electrified wires blocked the path to the other Bathy, the room otherwise pitch black. Jack tensed, hearing the quiet, tell-tale click-scrape of a spider splicer’s hooks on the ceiling.

“Now, I haven't seen a sign of real life down here in months,” Cohen said casually. “Let's see if you're just another Johnny-come-lately, or maybe something more delicious...”

Jack shuddered, raising his wrench and firing up electroblot. The word ‘delicious’ made him feel like a piece of food to be consumed. He held his breath and tried not to think about being cannibalized. A female and male pair of spiders dropped and Jack took them down with ease.

Cohen hummed. “Nicely done. Where did you study?”

‘Study’: that was one way to put it. Jack frowned, even a compliment from this guy felt icky. He killed two, four more splicers before Cohen returned. This man was easy to please, so it seemed. Jack wondered if this was a good or bad thing.

“Ohhhh, I can smell the malt vinegar in this one. I've waited so long for something tasty to come to this little burg, but all that pass are yokels and rubes.”

Jack rocked on his heels, shaking off the ‘tasty’ comment and looking back at the other Bathy station, wondering if he could short-circuit the door and get the hell out of here. He pressed his lips firm against his teeth, tossing the idea’s pros and cons around in his head.

“Where are my manners? Come in, come in! Sander Cohen awaits you, at the Fleet Hall!”

He sighed, watching the doors open to a dark room. Onwards and upwards… against his will as per usual. Jack paused, covering his eyes as a spotlight fell upon him. He blinked, watching in awe as the room lit up with neon signs and violet light. Advertisements fluttered for his attention at every corner, all coy words and salacious design. The air stank of salt, perfume, and faint rotten eggs. A stage was illuminated to his left, a dull glow emanated from the pillars and glass cases to his right, and dust sparkled like diamonds in the stale air ahead.

“WELCOME -- to -- Fort Frolic!”

Okay, he had to admit, that was a pretty cool entrance- for a guy without all the lights on upstairs. Jack wondered what this place looked like when it was in its prime. He moved into the Atrium, stepping in a pool of water. Even the leaking here looked almost nice, the waterfall rolling down the stairs like it was designed to be there. It must have been even more beautiful once. Jack felt sad for the place. It was common for him to pity Rapture- once a palace of ideals and now a bloody wreckage of mistakes. No matter now. He had to focus on what had survived the years of disaster and get it out of here before the glass caved in.

“No need to thank me for jamming the transmission of those boors Atlas and Ryan. Let them have their squabble. The artist, yes, the artist, knows there is richer earth to till.” Cohen said, filling the emptiness of the Atrium.

Jack idled, torn between exploring or not. He had the time to, but Atlas was probably worried sick. He was worried too! Jack strained his ears. No big daddies- yet. He’d have to find them later. There was the muffled cry of a ‘Circus of Values’ machine and distant smell of smoke coming from a designated restroom area. He wasn't inclined to go looking into that mess based on the city’s… less than hygienic or practical approach towards the places he’d dared to enter.

“For example, I test you, little moth, but for a reason. I test all my disciples. Some shine like galaxies, and some ... some burn like a moth at the flame! Come now, into my home.” Cohen crooned.

Damn, this guy really lived here, didn’t he? Kinda sad, kinda funny, all weird as fuck. Jack surveyed the Atrium once more, trying not to think about the implications of the nickname ‘Little moth’ after Cohen’s explanation and ignoring the two creepy statues near the stage that looked like splicers covered in plaster. He gave himself a moment to slip through the icy waterfall, allowing most of the fresh blood to be washed off his sweater. Jack found himself quite used to the bone-deep cold Rapture so lovingly provided by now. He’d rather go around wet with seawater than caked in dried blood and viscera.

Cohen did not speak as Jack entered Fleet Hall. He didn’t dare go up the stairs and the other door in the room was locked, though he could look through to see another one of those dumb ‘Circus of Values’ machines smiling back at him. Looking around didn’t produce much other than pistol rounds and money. After Jack finished up hacking the camera, he steeled his nerves and called the elevator. Doing so summoned a trio of splicers- taken down without so much as a flinch just as his ride greeted him with open arms. Jack squeezed in and sent himself up.

The clang of piano music rattled his ears as the elevator rose, Cohen’s voice, sharp and scathing, breaking the tempo. The music got louder as he approached the end of a short hall, sobs joining the music. Jack entered, finding the room dark, smelling of rot and death, save for the illuminated stage. A man in a red vest, white pants, and a bird mask sat playing piano, backlit by human silhouettes wielding massive scissors, surrounded by sticks of dynamite. Jack’s breath caught in his throat, making him freeze. 

“Please mister Cohen…” the man sobbed, shaking Jack from his trance, “I’m trying!”

“Once again, young Fitzpatrick,” Cohen snarled. 

Jack stepped forward, fear forcing his feet to move. His stomach sank as he realized the man- Fitzpatrick- wasn’t wearing white pants, but conjoined to the seat by plaster. Jack’s gaze swung to each side, falling upon pairs of those plastered over splicers he’d seen earlier gathered in the rows of seats before the stage. Jack returned his focus to Fitzpatrick, watching with dread as the man shook, exhausted, but continued to play with livid desperation. He had to do something. He couldn’t just let an innocent man die.

Cohen began to rant again, mocking Fitzpatrick’s playing. Jack tracked back, getting up on one of the auditorium seats not too far from the start of the stage. He surveyed his surroundings. No other movement than him and Fitzpatrick. It was hard to think with all the noise filling his head. Frantic piano, wild jeering, and sobs blending together in a cacophony of sound- it was all so much. Jack tensed, ready for anything as Cohen’s ridicule and shouting continued.

Fitzpatrick snapped. “Oh Cohen, you sick fuck, let me out of this!"

Jack’s body launched forward before he could even process the light or sound of the dynamite going off. Fitzpatrick grew closer, closer, closer still, until they were nose to nose, his arms guarding either side of the smaller man. Jack didn’t have any time to think. Instead, he filled the blankness of his mind and adrenaline in his veins with the order to protect Fitzpatrick. Jack wrapped around the other, spinning to face his back towards the piano, cradling Fitzpatrick's head to his chest as he was ripped free of the plaster with a resounding crack .

Jack pulled Fitzpatrick closer, both shouting, curling tighter as the blast and shrapnel struck him. The duo crashed into the backstage- the thick curtains doing little to muffle their landing. They were beyond the spotlight’s rays, bathed in darkness. Either that or Jack had gone blind from the brand new head injury painting a coat of blood all over his skull. He winced, feeling it throb hard as his ears began to ring. He wouldn’t last long like this.

Jack’s mind returned to the man he was curled around. He placed his palm across Fitzpatrick’s back, the cool silk of his vest a soothing sensation. Jack waited one beat, two, before relaxing as Fitzpatrick took a slow, shaky breath. The man began to tremble and Jack took that as a good sign, feeling his ribcage push in, out, in, out, for a few more moments. Jack’s mind began to fuzz, as it got harder to breathe- suddenly very, very exhausted. Warmth fluttered through his side, trickling down under his sweater, lathering his grimy skin, and he figured he was either dying from this wound or the one on his head. Jack, with the last of his strength, squeezed Fitzpatrick's shoulder in an attempt at comfort. Fitzpatrick stopped trembling, head jerking up as he placed a hand against Jack's weakening heartbeat. 

Jack forced his eyes open as much as he could, blinking away rivers of blood. He felt Fitzpatrick's hand come up to rest on his cheek, stiff and shaking, before it wiped some blood from his eyes. Jack couldn’t take in much despite the nonexistent distance between them, whether it be from the poor lighting or gory head wound fucking with his vision he couldn’t tell. A small glimmer caught his attention. Fitzpatrick’s eyes- well, one of them- caught the light, showing off a section of pupil and iris as green as an old absinthe bottle.

Jack’s eyes were drawn down, seeing Fitzpatrick’s mouth move but hearing nothing but a tinny reverb. Fitzpatrick wiped at his brow again, clutching his sweater where his other hand still sat over his heart. The mouth movements continued and Jack shook his head. He wondered what Fitzpatrick was saying as his vision went black around the edges, the last of his control over his body failing. Maybe the other was thanking him, asking who he was, or maybe he was chewing him out. Jack made a mental note to ask once he found him again.

~

Kyle gripped the thick wool of the stranger’s cable knit sweater harder as he watched on. His hands shook, wiping another drool of blood from the stranger’s brow as life faded from his eyes. Kyle hiccuped, scratching his throat raw with a dry sob. He had no more tears left to give for the John Doe who saved him, who sacrificed his life for Kyle’s failed one. Kyle cursed himself for wasting all his sorrow for himself, the other disciples, over Cohen. Speaking of…

The man was, to put it as gently as possible- going complete apeshit. Kyle covered his ears, fearing Cohen's frantic screams would deafen him. The once renowned artist, ruler of this level of hell, was destroying his office by the sound of it- spewing a litany of expletives that would shame a sailor. Kyle pressed his eyes shut and opted to wait out the tantrum. It wasn't like he could leave, after all, he needed functioning legs for that. Kyle swallowed, pressing closer to John Doe and prayed he wasn't paralyzed by Cohen's ‘artistic vision’. 

He waited one thousand, two, after Cohen’s viscous echoes ceased before opening his eyes again. Kyle sat up, looking around, remaining eye straining for anything suspicious. Fleet Hall was as he last saw- the stage and a few plaster audience members illuminated by spotlight, piano blown to smithereens, and everything else covered in either blood, dust, or mold. He paused for another few moments thinking on what to do with this second chance as he waited for Cohen to return over the intercom.

Kyle attempted to wiggle his toes in his plaster-coated shoes, relief flooding him as they responded with soreness and prickling. He urged the muscles in his legs to jump and twitch, sending blood back into them as best he could. It wasn’t much, and Kyle knew he wouldn’t be walking on his own for a while, but it was a start nonetheless. As the seconds ticked on he realized that Cohen was gone. Really gone. And when Cohen was really gone- he wouldn’t be back for maybe days at a time. Kyle bit his lip, urging his mind not to get his hopes up too fast. Cohen was erratic and dangerous at best- a hair away from violence at any second. If Cohen knew he was still alive before having ample time to cool off, then he wouldn’t hesitate to punish him for the ‘betrayal’.

Kyle scrubbed a hand across his face, cringing at the lingering muscle tremors wracking his hands and arms. He could still feel the Scherzo’s beat pounding through his knuckles and wrists, shoulders and elbows crackling like drywall whenever they flexed. His chest was caught in the illogical tempo, heart fluttering like the unhinged fluxuations of key signatures and notes of the piece. Kyle scratched at his cheek, feeling the root of a stress tumor cropping up under his bad eye. At this rate, he’d be covered in them before he could stand again.

He jumped as something shifted near his waist. Kyle’s head flung from one side to the other- eye landing on the corpse he’d huddled against as memory caught up to him. Doe’s body was just settling. Christ almighty, he was almost as scattered as the rest of the splicers down here. Kyle’s heart sank for Doe’s life. His stomach churned as he looked over the massive body- clad in dark jeans and a thick beige sweater, both soiled to hell and back with grime and mottled with tears-  a hunk of black piano shrapnel jutting from beneath his ribs. 

Kyle touched Doe’s forehead, the blood there cool and sticky, wishing he could do more to thank him for his sacrifice. He flexed his fingers before skirting over the man’s face and closing his eyes. Kyle lingered there for a moment, the touch of someone unburdened by the curse of splicing a rare luxury for him to enjoy. He felt guilty for feeling that way, being jealous of the unfettered dead. Down here though, after you splice, you can’t go back and there’s precious little to live for. Maybe he should pray the splicing takes his mind sooner than later.

Kyle moved his hand away, still lacking the strength, or bravery, to move away from their hiding spot. He looked over Doe once more, caressing one of his buff arms. Idly, Kyle knew it was at the very least rude to play with a corpse, but he had neither the sanity nor anything better to do. Doe reminded him of Martin in terms of physique, thick as a bull, fatty as a bear, and tougher than stone. Kyle’s mind lingered on Martin as he rolled Doe's arm over, exposing the soft inner flesh of his wrist and a black chain tattoo. He traced the simple, almost delicate, design, remembering when Hector once mentioned they- the disciples- ought to get tattoos together. 

Kyle pressed his palm against Doe’s, splaying his fingers out despite the lingering ache, marveling at the size disparity between them. The man was large in every conceivable way, but his hands reminded him of the massive paws of a leopard rug he encountered once as a child. Doe’s palms were so big they could swallow all ten of his own long, dainty fingers in one meaty fist. Kyle turned, scooping up the other hand from where it lay behind him.

On the opposite wrist was another little chain, a matching set that reminded Kyle of shackles. He caressed the skin, nudging the tattered sleeve up just enough to expose a bulging, glowing vein. Kyle’s heart sank. Even his savior had been tainted by plasmids. He traced along the veins, pausing on each needle puncture in the still supple flesh, sorrow in his chest. Kyle wondered if it was too late to say a prayer for him- for the others as well. Was this man in heaven? Hell? Could he still be saved with just a few words postmortem? Could the other disciples? Kyle’s sob was cut short before it could spill into the air. A crash, clatter, bang, outside the auditorium sent him rigid. Someone was trying to get in. By the sound of it, they were succeeding.

Kyle scooted back, ignoring his protesting muscles to further hide among the curtains and wreckage, praying the intruder wouldn’t explore the dark expanse of the back stage. Heavy, slow footsteps filled Kyle’s ears, his breath tightening as they approached. The upper entrance to Fleet Hall creaked open. Kyle took one of Doe’s hands and squeezed it. Thudding footsteps swallowed the silence of the room as the new intruder explored. Kyle stilled as he drew closer, just shy of the other spotlights in the audience. The intruder stopped before the stage. Kyle squeezed his eyes shut and tried to muffle his trembling.

A voice broke the tension. “Hello? Mister Fitzpatrick?

Kyle’s eyes burst open. He didn’t know what was more shocking, the fact that this guy knew his name or the fact that he called him ‘mister’. It was almost flattering. The intruder called for him again. Kyle hid further, wondering how he’d even gotten this information. His ears perked up as the intruder breathed a string of swears, footsteps resuming. A few moments passed of nothing but his rhythmic pacing in front of the stage. The intruder stopped without warning and sighed, the sound echoing through Kyle’s bones.

“Okay… Mister Fitzpatrick, if you’re awake… or even alive, I’m coming up there to find you!”

The intruder’s voice was booming, its echo against the empty auditorium and distance adding a layer of eeriness to it. Kyle was screwed. He knew scrambling away would only garner attention and staying put could mean death. Meanwhile, his body still refused to cooperate, adrenaline pounding through his ears harder and harder as the intruder's footsteps scurried around to find an entrance to the stage. Maybe he had a little time, there were no ways onto the stage from Fleet Hall itself. All entrances were connected to dressing or supply rooms only accessible from the other side of the Fort. Kyle’s musing was cut short by grunts as the intruder climbed onto the stage and strode into the light. 

It was his John Doe. 

Kyle shook his head, blinking. No, it couldn’t be. He looked to the body at his side, and back to the clone. They were identical save for the shrapnel in the corpse Doe. But it made no sense- dead next to him and alive a few feet away. Kyle scrambled for an answer in the fog of his mind. A clone was impossible, probably, so that idea was out. Coincidence in appearance was also off the table. Perhaps a twin brother? That idea made the matching blood and dirt stains on his and the body’s clothes at best an extremely troubling detail. Kyle froze, head hurting as he tried to find even a sliver of logic amongst the chaos. Things hadn’t been clear in his head for a long, long time. He craved the feeling of normalcy now more than ever.

“Mister Fitzpatrick?” The Doe clone asked, approaching the edge of the spotlight’s rays.

Kyle didn’t move- he didn’t think he could if he wanted to. Doe stepped into the darkness, snapping his fingers alight. Kyle glanced at the body, still trying to make sense of it all. Doe’s footsteps faded into white noise as his mind grew louder and louder, scratching at the inside of his skull. What if it was really the Doe? What was he doing back here? How was he alive? By plasmid? What had he done in the ensuing time? Would he hurt him? Find some way to use him? Would he think it was weird that Kyle was playing with his body? Actually, now that he thought about it, it was pretty weird. He’d certainly be freaked out if-

“There you are.” Doe sighed, the floorboards creaking as he kneeled.

The sudden interruption made Kyle jump out for his skin and let out an embarrassing squeak of fear. He scrambled back until he hit the wall behind him. Kyle’s body decided it was the perfect time to give up on him then, curling down into dead weight, pulsing with painful spasms. He whimpered. Doe held his hand out- not the one that was on fire, of course, and made a soft, rapid shushing sound.

“Hey, hey, I’m not gonna hurt you…” Doe crooned.

Kyle relaxed despite himself. Now that he was close, away from the echo of the auditorium, Doe's voice was pleasant. His vocal timbre was warm and bright, underlined with a gravelly, companionable, purr. It was deep, unsurprising given his size, and weighty. It was clear Doe had no trouble projecting himself either. For some reason though, Kyle found the sound familiar- the bass and power of his voice in particular struck him with deja vu.

“Uh, look… I’m sorry for making you hang out with my corpse for however long-” Doe said, moving over Kyle and plucking things from said corpse. “Cohen sent a goddam swarm of splicers after me and then I bumped into two Daddies right after another-” 

Kyle’s face screwed up. Daddies? As in Big Daddies? He understood tangling with a handful of splicers but surely this guy wasn’t dumb enough to fight a Big Daddy. Then again, he did jump into an explosion to save a stranger. So either he was very brave or very stupid. Or both.

“I know this is weird as fuck-” Doe continued, attaching a radio to his hip and digging into his arsenal. “I barely understand how, or even why, it works myself- but you’ve gotta trust me okay? I’m just trying to get out of here and I can bring you with me.” Doe turned to face him again. “I know there aren’t many survivors down here, but I want to help everyone I can, you know?”

Kyle pulled back. It was touching how this guy was just trying to help. Even if his idea was stupid and doomed to fail, it was still sweet. Kyle frowned, wondering what his parents or friends back topside would think of such a jaded view. But that was what Rapture, and Cohen, had done to people- wrung all the hope and life out of them and left them sad, selfish husks scrabbling away from the flooding and towards the nearest source of ADAM.

“Thank you…” Kyle began, voice weak and scratchy. 

For what he was thanking Doe he wasn’t sure. For seeing the value in his life? Wanting to rescue people? Having hope in this hellhole? He didn’t know how to finish- even his own thoughts were muddled and incomplete. Kyle just felt that, whatever the reason, Doe deserved some sort of acknowledgement.

“Don’t mention it,” Doe finished for him. “I understand if you don’t want to come with a complete stranger Mr. Fitzpatrick, so feel free to decline, but I can get you somewhere safe and we can all get out of here together. It’s up to you.”

Doe stood, wiping off his pants before holding a hand out. Kyle looked at it, then to where he guessed the man’s face was. Even before the civil war, he assumed his life was over. He believed Cohen had taken away what little of him mattered and was sucking him and the other disciples dry of what creative juice they could muster. After everything fell to shit- and he became the spliced up, dysfunctional, pile of garbage he was now- he’d given up. But with the explosion of that piano, his life continued. Forced forward by a good man who believed in him just because he was alive. And that same samaritan was offering him one more go- away from splicing, away from Cohen and Rapture, away from everything that took his life in the first place. 

Kyle thought he was going to cry. He took a breath, swallowing down a scratchy sob. There were no more tears he could shed, even if he wanted to. Not for Cohen, not for this city, and certainly not for himself. He wondered what Silas would think, or Hector and Martin for that matter. At this point, he wasn’t sure- it had been months since they’d seen each other. If they were still alive, though, Kyle figured they’d want him to take the chance. And for them, he would. Even if he didn’t deserve it, he loved them enough to try and carry on. Kyle took the man’s hand.

Doe yanked him up, his grip steady and confident unlike Kyle’s knees which knocked together like a newborn foal’s. God, this was worse than when he was recovering from polio. He whimpered, the muscles in his legs, and arm, protesting the forced movement. Kyle’s legs gave way beneath him with little warning. Doe snapped his hands to his armpits, pulling him up again without putting his weight down. Great, now he was being held like a wet cat. This was going to be a fun adventure, wasn’t it?

“Crap. Maybe I shouldn’t have made you stand… Are you okay?”

Kyle sighed. “Playing piano for 8 straight hours does a number on your body but I’ll be fine.”

“Well, If you’re sure Mr. Fitzpatrick…”

“Kyle.”

“What?”

Kyle chuckled. “My name is Kyle, no need to be formal. It feels kind of weird being called Mr. Fitzpatrick anyways.”

“Ah! Okay then Kyle.”

“What’s your name? I didn’t exactly get any quality time from hanging out with your corpse.”

The comment made Doe laugh. “Uh, yeah, sorry again about that. My name’s Jack Wynand.”

Kyle hummed. The surname sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place whom he recognized it from. It didn't matter though- he and Jack had to find a way out. The fastest ways out of Fort Frolic were either the Atlantic express station or a Bathysphere. Bathy was out on account that only Ryan could use them so the express was their best option. If they could get there at all. 

Jack whistled, hoisting him up into the crook of his arm before moving back to the front of the stage. Kyle cringed, shielding his eyes from the hot lights and face from any scrutiny. Just because he wasn’t all there in the head didn’t mean he let his deformities go uncovered. He remembered being covered up earlier. Where did that bird mask go anyways?

“So, um, I figure you know more about this place than I do… you have any idea how to get out of here?” Jack asked, turning to look at him.

Kyle felt him cringe. He feared for a moment that Jack would drop him once he realized he was a monster. Instead, the arm around Kyle gave him a squeeze and Jack relaxed, waiting for an answer. Kyle let out a breath, willing himself to calm down. He and Jack were in this together now- he wasn’t as hair-triggered as Cohen. They were gonna make it through this, they were both splicers after all so it didn’t matter how fucked up he was. Kyle rubbed at his face, feeling that stress tumor again. His head ached being under these lights, after images lingering behind his closed lids. Kyle pressed the heel of his hand to his eye, forcing himself to breathe.

“Kyle?”

Kyle heaved through his nose, ignoring the growing pangs in his stomach from a lack of EVE. “Stage lights are giving me a headache… gimme a sec.”

“Oh, of course!”

Kyle felt Jack jump off the stage and dip into the audience. He was set in one of the still plush red seats, Jack settling next to him. Kyle rubbed his eye and opened it. His vision was covered in static around the edges but the darkness did help to quell the pain. The fact that Cohen drained all his EVE just added to the chaos wracking his brain. He was hungry and thirsty too, worsening his exhaustion. Christ, was there anything not wrong with his body right now? Again, Kyle forced himself to breathe, regaining his focus on the task ahead.

“Okay, so did you get here by train or walking?”

“Bathysphere- wait, Rapture has a train?”

“B-” Kyle turned him, wide eyed. “You got here by Bathy ?”

“... Yes?”

“How- those are only accessible by Andrew Ryan!”

“Really? Huh, that explains all those signs then…” Jack furrowed his brows. “I don’t know how they work for me- I was just assuming they worked for everyone or the ‘genetic code’ nonsense was hacked.”

“What do you mean ‘hacked’?”

Jack pulled the radio off his hip, digging into a cloth bag and snagging out a magnetic tape- the blue-black kind that was made for audio diaries. He opened up the side of the radio and slipped the tape in with a quiet click . The radio-tape player began to recite a clam, clear New York accent. The man on the tape had a bit of a chuckle to his voice as he spoke of how weak the Bathy keys were. The radio opened up after the tape finished, Jack fishing it out and showing Kyle the name and owner.

“I don’t know much about this Sullivan fellow,” Jack said, “but I just assumed that since the Bathyspheres will take anyone related to Ryan, that they could be hacked really easily.”

Kyle licked his lips. He opened his mouth but quickly shut it. No, there was no way some rando like Jack could even be distantly related to Andrew Ryan himself. Even he wasn’t crazy enough to think that. Yeah, Jack was probably right- someone must have gotten into the system and hacked the Bathyspheres or the genetic code was falling apart and just accepted any random person as Ryan and the rest of the council. 

“Okay, so the Bathyspheres work for you- that's good. Better than good actually!” Kyle tapped his elbow. “That means we won’t have to face the train and whatever chaos that may bring and you don’t have to carry me as much.”

“Great! So you know how to get the Bathy here back up, right?”

“What?”

“Well, I tried going to it earlier, but Cohen gated it off and sent it down before telling me to come up here. I don’t have a clue why though.”

Kyle gripped the armrests. “Fuck.”

“Oh no. What’s wrong now?”

“There are only two ways to get the Bathy back up: re-routing the entire electrical grid in Hephaestus-”

“-I mean I was going there anyways before the Bathy took me here-” Jack interrupted.

Kyle frowned at him and Jack had the grace to look ashamed. “ Or …” Kyle sighed. “We confront Cohen and he either hands the controls over- which is as likely as this place going back to normal- or we kill him.”

Jack clicked his tongue. “I’m guessing you’re leaning towards killing Cohen as our best option?”

“... Yup…” At Jack’s silence Kyle shrugged and threw his hands up. “Or hey, we can give up and starve to death staring at the piano smithereens 5000 miles below sea level.”

Jack frowned. “No, I’m not letting that happen. I just… need a minute to think.”

Kyle folded his arms, stewing in the silence. After a few moments he opened his mouth to re-open the train possibility. Jack beat him to speaking.

“So, you know this place well, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve worked here for the last 9 years or so.”

“Okay, then where do you figure Cohen is hiding out? I mean, if he’s controlling this place, he can't be that far, right?”

Kyle chewed his lip. “Well, last I remember- before he plastered me to that damn piano-, we’d meet up in Cohen’s Collection, stopping around in the mall or here… I think the one place that was open, but could be locked up is his office in the projection booth. Doubt he’s there though.”

Jack shrugged, standing with a grunt. “No harm in checking, I suppose.”

Kyle jerked his thumb behind him. “It’s back there, up the stairs, can’t miss it. Bring back anything edible if you don’t mind.”

Kyle sighed, a small smile coming to his face as Jack’s footsteps raced up the hall. He looked around, allowing his mind to wander as he waited. If Cohen wasn’t in here, then they’d have to check if the metro Bathy was gone. If so, that meant Cohen had gone back to his apartment. Which means there was a good chance they had hours of time to themselves! Kyle drummed his fingers against his elbow. He could feel his strength returning. With Cohen gone, and some time exploring, they might not even have to fight him at all. In fact, now that Kyle thought about it, a bit of elbow grease at the train station could get them out of here in no time.

The sound of Jack scooting back into the aisle cut Kyle’s train of thought short. “I didn’t find anything but a couple of audio diaries,” he hummed, holding the aforementioned tapes up.

“Cohen’s?” Kyle hummed, scratching at a small splicing scar on his wrist.

“Yup. ‘Requiem for Andrew Ryan’ and ‘Musical insult’...  listened to them on the way back.”

“Full of spite and malice I presume?”

“As much as humanly possible.”

Kyle sighed, closing his eye and letting his head fall back against the seat. “That’s the Sander I know and loathe…”

Jack nudged him in the side. “Well hey, if it makes you feel better, we’re gonna kill him one way or another.”

Kyle fought a smile and lost, turning to look at Jack. “You’re fucked up, you know that?”

“Aren’t we all down here?”

Kyle laughed- his spirit rising for the first time in years. “Okay, you’ve got me there.” He sat up and sighed. “We should get going- I’m feeling my arms again and we’re both gonna need some food and water before long.”

Kyle held his arms out and Jack scooped him up by the armpits once more. He shuddered as he was cradled to Jack’s side and held by a single arm, the other’s warmth radiating through him down to the bone. Kyle felt safe like this- cocooned between a strong arm and plush side. After all he’d been through, Kyle felt like he deserved to be carried around by a nice beefcake.

“Where to now, O’ wise one?” Jack asked.

“First of all: That title is only appropriate for Sheti, not me in any way shape or form. Second: Get to the metro station. Let’s see if Cohen clocked in early.”

Jack nodded, pulling out a pistol and shifting Kyle’s weight in his grip as they headed towards Fleet Hall’s upper entrance. Kyle picked at the plaster stuck to his nails, pressing the button to call the elevator when they approached. The duo entered, Jack checking his pistol. Kyle pressed the button again, not wanting to feel so useless, flinching as it sparked. Jack flicked his pistol shut as the elevator doors stuttered before closing.

Jack blinked as they cruised down. “Hey, wait…” He jerked his head towards Kyle. “Who the hell is Sheti?”

Chapter Text

Jack shifted Kyle in his arm, sticking his head as far out of the door as he could without falling forward. The room between the Atrium and metro station was free of splicers- unlike the Atrium itself which forced him to drop his companion many more times than he’d liked. Cohen didn’t seem to have as tight a grip on the splicers as Ryan. Jack took a deep breath and set a foot into the room. One step, two, three, and he let the breath out, pistol lax in his hand. To the left, the emergency Bathy was still blocked by a spider web of electric wire, to the right the metro was open and, with any luck, empty.

Empty it was. Of splicers, fucked up statues- except the ones on the ceiling- and the Bathysphere, though the gate was open. Jack groaned, the urge to tear his hair out and expel his frustration on the walls becoming worse. Instead, he took a deep breath and sat on the steps, mind buzzing in the silence. Kyle settled on one of the benches, running through their next best course of action. 

Jack let himself wander in the blackness behind his eyelids, tallying his inventory and the number of little sisters he’d yet to save. The train of thought led him to Tenenbaum- did Cohen cut her signal off too? His hands jumped to his radio, flicking through the waves to hunt for any static. Hope bubbled in his chest, if he could get to Tenenbaum, then perhaps she could connect him to Atlas. He knew they weren’t exactly buddy-buddy, but maybe he could convince her-

Tenenbaum’s line was dead. 

Jack’s heart dropped into his stomach. He set the device down, its silence becoming more nauseating with each passing second. Pressure surged against his closed eyes as he held his face in his hands, unable to think of anything to relieve the salty burn of disappointment. Stewing in his anger led Jack’s mind to wander to his other shortwave companion.

 Atlas, Atlas, Atlas. 

What was he doing? What was he thinking in the yawning silence? Was he trying to contact Tenenbaum as well? Or was he egging Ryan on to distract himself? Was Atlas out looking for him? The idea warmed Jack as much as it worried him. A part of him still clung to the closest semblance of normalcy he could get down here, waiting for that silvery brogue to ring out and ease him with a word. But of course, nothing would come until he fixed the radio signal himself. 

This fucking city and all its magnificent bastards- a never ending cakewalk, Rapture was. If nothing else, Jack found some consolation in the fact that he and Atlas would have a field day of bitching once they got back in touch.

“I think I've got an idea!” Kyle hollered.

And there was his cue. Jack stood, thankful that it was just his radio that was lonely, and returned to Kyle’s side. He tucked the other into the crook of his arm as their new plan- or at least their next few steps- were laid out.

“Okay, so, first, before we do anything else, let’s get some food. I haven’t eaten in well over a day and you probably should too-” Kyle’s stomach interrupted him, letting out a low, hollow groan that made Jack cringe. “There’s a cocktail lounge in the Southern Mall and the Marquis D’ Epoque- a few other shops are still accessible last I remember so no harm in checking them as well. We should stop by the Collection as well, see if he hid the station key there.”

“And after that?” Jack asked, plucking a few orange-copper wires of hair from Kyle’s shoulders.

“Well, you see…” Kyle entwined his fingers, pressing his lips into a firm line for a few seconds, “The other disciples… they’re still trapped here and… I was thinking we could perhaps go out and look for them.” Jack caught Kyle drumming his fingers together, his gaze darting between him and the floor, voice growing unsteady. “They’ve got skills that would be pretty useful to accessing the other half of the Fort and the express station and-” 

“I don’t mind going and getting your buddies, you know. The more of us the merrier,” Jack said gently, feeling Kyle relax in his grip. 

“Really? You sure?”

“Of course, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Besides, we’ve got to go there anyways, right? No harm in checking.”

“... Thank you.”

Jack shrugged, stepping back into the Atrium. “It’s no problem- well, so long as they aren’t hostile. I went through Port Neptune thinking this guy called Peach was at least half sane, turns out he was convinced I was working for a dead man and tried to kill me.”

“Yeah, that’s a common occurrence here. I haven’t seen the others in months, so I can’t say for sure if they’re still all there or…”

Jack’s heart tugged at Kyle’s voice as it tapered out at the implied ending. Kyle’s face tensed, whole body drawing in on itself. He understood the fear of jinxing his luck. It was just like when aunt Gertrude got sick with TB. His whole family prayed and- 

Jack froze, blanking. He found himself unable to place his memory, the edges too crisp like comparing a photograph to a painting. It wasn’t unusual for him to be forgetful, much of his youth was a strange blur of white tile and the smell of chemicals, but something as serious as a close family member dying shouldn’t have left his memory. Right? She’d lived with them in the family house- wait, did she? Why was this memory so empty? 

Why was there a white spot on the browned pages of his mind’s scrapbook where a photograph should’ve been?

And then the friction passed, the memory of what happened to aunt Gertrude unfolding before him like nothing was amiss. Aunt Gertrude had lived for eight years after getting TB and died of lung cancer. It didn’t make sense, of course. The memory was too crisp, too neat to be real. His aunt should’ve died. If she existed at all. 

Jack’s mind whispered: roses bloom at sunset . He listened, and forgot the lapse in his memory.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said to fill the quiet of the Atrium as he headed towards the smell of fire and what was without a doubt an awful set of bathrooms leading to the Southern Mall.

“What for?” Kyle asked. “There's a camera up ahead, watch out.”

“Thanks,” Jack replied, zapping it and prying it open to hack as Kyle worked the Circus of Values machine beneath. “I’m sorry you and the others had to go through all of this, I mean.”

“Well, it isn’t your fault, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. You’re just some poor guy trapped here in the deep end with the rest of us.”

“I think I’d go off the deep end in this mess too, you know? A whole city collapsing is a scary thing. No wonder the people here scrambled like rats with no way out.”

“Then why haven’t you? You’ve been shooting up like the rest of us- so why isn’t your mind all mush yet? You don’t even look like you’ve got any of the physical symptoms either.”

Jack felt a smile come to his face as he finished the hack, slipping the panel back into place and wiping the grease off his hands. “I don’t know, maybe I just got lucky like with the Bathyspheres.”

“I’m starting to think you’ve got something other than lady luck watching your back.”

“With everything I’ve been through, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Got you some more bullets and a medkit too, you look like you need em.”

“Save the med for later,” Jack hummed, picking Kyle up again. “But go ahead and refill my pistol if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing. Keep an eye ahead, there's a sharp corner where we could get ambushed and it leads to the lounge- with another camera.”

“Of course- you people and your voyeurism.”

Jack stopped before a small scene, a poster of something called ‘ Why even ask?’ burning across from a chair, a can of napalm, and bottles of alcohol strewn about. Further away was another flaming object, but what caught Jack’s eye was Kyle’s pale, freckled hands snatching up a tape from the footstool. Kyle slipped it into his vest, but said nothing and they moved on. Five splicers, three useful pictures, courtesy of Kyle’s quick thinking, and one security camera later the lounge- or rather, the small bar- was clear. 

There was little of interest aside from the tape on the bar counter. Another one of Sullivan’s diaries, set next to a near empty bottle of vodka. Jack grabbed it, noting the name- ‘Artist’s feud’. He looked to Kyle sitting on the floor and contemplating the tape he’d picked up earlier, a note of sadness dimming his eyes. 

Well that wouldn’t do at all.

A crystalline whirlpool twirled within the bottle as Jack held it up. “Want any?”

“No, booze is only gonna make me feel worse.”

“Suit yourself.” He shrugged and downed the vodka.

Kyle’s ivory face grew whiter. “Christ, don’t hold back for my sake… Seriously, aren’t you at least a little hesitant to be swapping spit with a stranger?”

“Not particularly.” Jack tossed the bottle, watching it bounce off a corpse’s skull before shattering to the floor. “I’ve done worse in this place and up top alike. I used to lick metal poles in the winter when I was a kid to see if my tongue would stick.”

Kyle scoffed. “Disgusting.”

“You won’t believe how many times I got stuck.”

“How many?”

“Every time.”

“Why’d you keep doing it?”

“I’m both stupid, brave, and lack impulse control.”

“That’s three things.”

“I said I was stupid, didn’t I?”

Kyle’s head fell back against the wall, and by the way his lips pressed into a suppressed smile, Jack knew he’d won out. He popped Sullivan’s tape into the radio, listening to it as he fetched an EVE hypo hiding behind a body and a horrifically soiled couch. 

Jack felt pretty bad for Sullivan, he was just a guy trying to do his job getting tugged six ways to Sunday by everyone around him. With nothing else to do, he set himself beside Kyle, tearing into the small collection of snacks they’d gathered and appreciating the respite. 

The silence was companionable, nothing to fill their ears but the hum of the nearby U-Invent and frazzled whirr of the hacked camera. Jack could still smell the fire down the hall and curiosity itched the back of his neck. He nudged Kyle’s side, interrupting him halfway through his third bag of chips. At his incredulous, almost offended look, Jack lifted his radio, waving it. 

Kyle choked for a minute, eyes going wide. Panicking, Jack punched his back, succeeding in stopping him from choking but forcing a pained wheeze from his throat. He shuffled for a moment as Kyle coughed up his lungs, unsure whether to offer up another one of the opened bottles of booze or not. His dilemma didn’t last- Kyle’s breathing returned to normal but now the silence was awkward and deafening.

“You hit me really hard,” Kyle said at last.

“You were choking!”

“You didn’t need to sucker punch me, though!”

“Oh, come on!I didn’t hit you that hard!”

“I’m brittle, Jack! Have you not looked at me?”

Jack snorted, unable to hold his laughter back. Kyle followed suit and the two bubbled into a fit of giggling. When the laughter faded, Jack nudged Kyle again, palm open and waiting. After a few seconds’ hesitation Kyle dipped into his vest, tugging out the blue tape, turning it in his grip but not giving it over. Jack dropped his hand, resting his forearms on his knees and his head on top. He pursed his lips, eyeing Kyle’s thumbs as they ran over the weathered label.

“I didn’t know you saw me take this,” Kyle hummed.

“Of course I did, I was holding you, wasn’t I?”

A smile cracked Kyle’s lips. “Fair…”

“You gonna keep it to yourself?”

“I… I want to listen to it but… I’m nervous.”

“Why so?”

“It’s from Silas, one of the other Disciples. I haven’t heard from him in a while and…”

“You were close, weren’t you?”

“We were all close, but yeah, Silas and I stuck together often. He… he was awfully sweet to me, right up to the day we got separated and- to be honest, I don’t want to burst into tears in front of you over an angry tape.”

“Well, it’s okay if you do- I’m not one to give judgment.”

Kyle twisted his lips, that small smile curling up again. “You’re too nice for your own good. How’d you ever survive in a place like this?”

“Hell if I know, but whatever it was that made me come here, I think, made a good call.”

Jack held his hand out again, a bubble of happiness rising in his chest when Kyle placed the tape in it without hesitation. He flipped it over, reading the label: Silas Cobb- ‘Come to the record store’. Popping it in and setting it off revealed a southern drawl, tight and red-hot with anger. 

Despite his simple, boorish phrasing, the threat was clear- a call to brawl or admit defeat. Whether the brush would’ve been one of tunes or of blood as well, Jack was unsure. He handed the tape back to Kyle, who held on to a small, sad smile as he tucked it away.

“Does he normally give threats like that?” Jack asked.

Kyle’s smile grew. “Well, he was usually a little more… poetic, and subtle. But yeah, he’s got a temper. I’m pretty sure it’s in his nature to fight someone at least once a week.”

“Well, let’s hope he won’t get too huffy with me.”

“Don’t worry, I can talk him out of throwing punches… most of the time.”

Jack wanted to give him some sarcasm, but decided against it, instead choosing to abate his curiosity. “So, there’s a record store in here?”

“Yeah, in Poseidon Plaza. Silas got ownership of it a few years ago and it’s his pride and joy.” Kyle chuckled. “I remember, he even called it his baby once.”

Jack shrugged. “I think just about everyone with a small business is like that. Got every right to be proud as far as I see.”

“That’s a nice way of looking at it. But I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Jack felt his face heat and he socked Kyle’s arm. “Quit flattering me.”

“Quit hitting me! Ow!” Kyle laughed, rubbing the spot.

Jack laughed along, his head falling back to hit the counter with a soft thunk . Their laughter faded and a comfortable silence filled it. Jack felt a nudge against his arm, looking over to see Kyle offering up his half-bag of chips. He traded it with his quarter-eaten chocolate bar and they went on eating. Weight fell on to his shoulder and when he looked over, he found it to be Kyle’s. Jack leaned his head on top of him and the other sighed. 

They left the bar dirtier than when they entered it, which wasn’t saying much. The two stores they could get into were, unsurprisingly, cluttered and ruined. 

The back room of Sophia Salon High Fashion was unnerving in every way possible- coated wall to wall in chunky, half dried plaster, a freakish corpse-statue, and the most upsetting audio diary Jack had heard yet. He couldn’t finish it after Sander started screaming. 

Le Marquis D' Epoque was in a similar state, only differentiated by the fact there was a turret firing as soon as they entered. After it was destroyed, the numerous bottles of not-so-safe smelling alcohol avoided, and the basement full of equally suspect smelling cigars explored, Jack went to leave. 

Bad move.

The air trembled, a slick crunch warbling through the basement followed by a trill of laughter. Jack’s nerves set alight. He dumped Kyle at the far end of the L-shaped cigar room, standing between him and the exit next to the corpse. Incinerate! burned in one hand, his pistol in the other. Behind him, he heard Kyle fumble to stand, his joints and the camera clanking against the wood as he worked his way up. The camera whirred and tittered as another splicer upstairs screeched- bottles shattering beneath her frantic footsteps.

One, two, three beats and her shouting was a foot away. The snap from the camera rang out and Jack fired into her head. Another squelch above took Jack’s attention. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as the air behind him warped and went hot- the juicy, disgusting, sound of a body re-assembling its atoms deafening. 

Jack turned in time for the camera’s flash to blind both him and the houdini for a moment. That was all he needed to one-two punch the son of a bitch into vanishing again. He spun, backing up to close the distance between him and Kyle. Nothing else was getting to him if he could help it.

The fucker reappeared and Jack whacked the grin off his twisted face, launching the splicer back, shattering a wooden shelf in the way. He coughed as the dust of rotted not-nicotine burst from the cigars. The air clouded with whatever the hell it was; Jack and Kyle bit back gags at the stench of rancid fish, smoke, and some other tangy, sour, note, leaving them more vulnerable than ever. Five minutes passed and there were no sounds above or indications of further threat. Whatever caused it, be it the stench or the splicers getting bored, Jack was thankful.

With Kyle in tow, he all but ran out of the Mall, affirming that they checked everywhere they could. He slowed before the bathroom, his brain itching him to just suck up his fear and look. 

Deep breaths. Just like Kyle encouraged. Deep, deep breaths. 

Jack chose the women’s restroom first. He figured maybe it wouldn’t be as violent as the rest of the Mall. The click of metal against metal and pop of the light was all the warning they got as the turret sitting at the back of the bathroom started up. A hailstorm of bullets plunged through their shadows, eating through to the concrete wall less than a foot away where Jack had dodged. 

Kyle, quick as ever, peeked back around the corner and took a picture, Jack filling in with his shotgun to kill the bastard machine a beat later. After clearing what little they could find, they paused before the men's room, an awful, stale, odor akin to rotten wood and drywall emanating from the open doors. Jack decided to go in, despite his better judgment, knowing all too well the sacrifice of a stone unturned in this city. Walking, or rather wading into the shin-deep seawater sent Jack’s nerves frying. The odd shadows on the wall didn’t help. 

An ambient neon blue dot lit up a sink, a specular star against white and gaping malachite. Leaving Kyle at the door, he trudged toward the EVE hypo, the back of the room unfurling itself with each cautious step.

Fucking statues. Of course. 

Tall, leering, bowed and stretched in a mock ballet, pressing a light between themselves and the far wall. The stench of sulfur and rot leaked from them, some of the worst he’d experienced since he got here. Jack breathed through his mouth, keeping his eyes away from the things. He didn’t want to think of their faces under the plaster.

Cohen’s Collection was its own flavor of horrible. Kyle offered to fiddle with the safes on his behalf. Jack, too confident for his own good, opted to do it himself and received a chestful of bullets for his trouble. He was quick enough to shock the turret and fall fresh on his ass.

Kyle was left at the bottom of the stairs helpless against another one of those dumb houdini splicers. Jack heard the camera’s shutter click and whirr among the screams of the houdini. Crashes, more screaming from Kyle and the houdini, and the sound of shattering glass preceded a heavy waft of wine and burning flesh.

It took Jack a whole minute to collect himself, a minute far, far, too long.

He shot up, skin and muscle screaming out in protest as he crawled down the stairs, eyes meeting a wall of chaos. Fire was eating away at the garbage and a pool of wine, freed from their bottles. Glass littered the floor and corpses, plastered and charred alike, were scattered about. The white table was tipped over, blocking some of the fire. Kyle was hiding behind it, bruised but otherwise unharmed.

Discomfort washed over Jack in waves as he half-tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs, having gone limp with relief. He closed his eyes, mind crowded with the sound of fire and scraping a few feet away. A moment later, something delicate and smooth cradled his head, lifting it up and turning it to each side. Breath dusted his brows and lashes, the presence of another surrounding him. 

Jack opened his eyes.

Kyle’s head hung upside down, backlit by blue, his right engulfed in the bronzed glow of flame, leaving a harsh cast of black everywhere else. He was close enough for Jack to feel another breath- shaky and soft, but warm- gazing down, his eye so wide it blew out the rest of his face. His hands, dainty as they were, held solid confidence. One cradling the back of Jack’s head as the other curved over his cheek and chin. All the while, Kyle’s lock with his eyes never faltered.

The mouth above pressed into a thin, hard line. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Kyle hissed, his grip growing hard for a moment.

Jack winced. “Turret took me by surprise.”

“Well why the fuck didn’t you heal?”

“Uh…” He blinked, scattered brain clawing for the words against a mush of discomfort and fuzziness. “Got worried about you.”

Kyle’s body went lax with a sigh. “I- ugh… Jack…”

“You can’t walk! Of course I was worried!”

“That doesn’t mean you come barreling at me! You’re hurt!”

“So? I can handle it,” Jack scoffed.

“Clearly not!” Kyle spat back, tapping one of his wounds.

Jack shuddered, biting back a noise of pain, the once dull ache growing white-hot. “You could’ve been hurt worse!”

“I got the situation under control!” Kyle sighed, “Look, you can’t come running to me when you’re down. You can only help me if you’re working, got it?”

Jack broke their eye contact, shame curling in his chest. “Well, I know, but-”

“No buts. I know I have to take care of myself-” Kyle’s thumb rubbed a circle against his cheek. “- and you know you need to do that for yourself, yeah?” 

“Yeah… I just don’t wanna leave you out to dry-!”

A hand fell on Jack’s chest. “I know don’t look it, but I can squeeze myself out of a tight spot when push comes to shove. I’ve done it more times than I can count, to be honest.” Kyle gave his face a gentle pat. “Now, let’s get you patched up, that turret did a number on you.”

With Kyle’s help, Jack sat up, weak and shaky. Before he could even think, Kyle was pulling out a medkit and rolling his sweater and undershirt up. The cold made him go rigid, but soft skin made him gasp and flinch away.

“Did I hurt you?” Kyle asked, his voice soft like summer rain.

Jack bounced his leg, trying to soothe his nerves. “No, no, you just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Alright, go ahead and tell me if I do, okay?”

“Okay.”

Jack forced himself to breathe. Though his nerves faded, his mind clung to the sensation. Why did it feel so strange to be touched? It wasn’t like Kyle had poked something sensitive, he’d only bumped his ribs. Yet, the sensation of Kyle’s skin against his own... it had been almost electric. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been hurt before or felt more thrilling things, but that initial touch stuck with him, dancing over his muscles over and over again. 

Jack chose to focus on the cold instead, hoping to ignore the faint aftershocks of… whatever it was and the undercurrent of delicate, feather-light prods and grazes as Kyle felt up his chest. The fire had died out by now, leaving the room hollow and smoky. They’d have to raid the bodies after this. If they hadn’t been too eviscerated, that is. 

The ocean’s grip wound its way into his flesh, beneath the healthy and ample layer of fat that should’ve kept him warm, and burrowed into the deepest part of his skeleton. He felt the urge to curl in on himself and fall asleep but brushed it aside. The cold was familiar, nostalgic even, and if anything, Jack needed a bit of comfort right now.

"Gah!" he barked, sparking with pain.

Kyle pulled his hand away from the bullet scar. "Tender?"

Jack swallowed. "Yeah, tender."

Kyle's hand fell against his chest once more, warming the spot for a moment. He pressed it gently and Jack flinched, but no pain followed. He felt the pressure move away, returning with something cold to another, more fragile wound. Jack leaned forward at Kyle’s guidance, steadying himself to let the other work in peace. A hand crawled up his back, never staying anywhere long. He closed his eyes, biting down a laugh as Kyle grazed a ticklish area. The sensation was almost pleasant, nudging away the last of the tension hiding under his skin.

With nothing better to do, Jack let his mind wander. The other disciples struck his curiosity. He’d seen neither hide nor hair of them among the ruins of the Mall or Fleet Hall. What existed of them seemed to only be Kyle’s word- and Silas’ threat. How many more were there? Jack bit down a grin at the thought that jumped to his mind- a hundred odd men of Cohen’s making, more than happy to be his enemy. Ridiculous, but funny nonetheless.

“Alright,” Kyle said, tugging Jack’s shirt and sweater down, “you’re all patched up.”

“Wait really? That’s it?” Jack chuckled. “I barely felt anything.”

Kyle smiled at him. “I’m no healer, but I try to be gentle.”

Jack returned the smile. “Thanks for the help, I appreciate it.”

“You’d better, because if you come back down here riddled with bullet holes again, you’re dealing with your injuries alone.”

Jack raised his hands in surrender, the humor not leaving his face. “I’ll be sure to be extra careful, mister Fitzpatrick.”

Kyle rolled his eye, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Oh, just get up there and break that thing already, my ass is starting to hurt on these stupid stairs.”

Jack’s laughter was punctuated by the thudding of his feet as he ascended, slowing as he reached the top. The turret had no time to notice him before it was blown to bits with two blasts from his shotgun. He yanked out a crate from the trash pile, setting it underneath the middle safe. Kyle knew the code to the one closest to the stairs, letting Jack raid it as he fiddled with an Auto-hack tool at his own. By the time they reached the final one, they hadn’t found much.

An un-eloquent string of curses followed them down the stairs at their wasted time and energy. Kyle perched on the dark table next to the stairs, tipped over in the chaos, cracked, and charred. Jack, meanwhile, looted the corpses. He hesitated before the bodies once sitting at the table, wondering if he should even bother with the gruesome ‘art’. The adults he was numb to, but the girl… he couldn’t even look at her without tearing up.

“If it makes you feel better, the little one isn’t real,” Kyle piped up.

Jack paused. “What?”

Kyle stopped playing with the audio diary he was holding. “Cohen made me help him with… this. The little one isn’t real, it’s a mannequin.”

Jack took a step back from the bodies, eyeing the girl again. Most of the plastered splicers were too coated to recognize as individuals, but still looked human. A small part of him suspected Kyle was lying to make him feel better. Nevertheless, he moved Kyle over to her small body. Jack looked around, questioning the decision, when a dry crack made him jump back. Kyle was tugging at the body’s shoulder, her head pressed up against the side of the dining table with one leg holding the body down. He was prying her apart. Jack had half the mind to stop him when the plaster cracked again, sending a cloud of dust into the air, followed by a hollow pop.

Kyle held up the girl’s arm, the metal of the socket and glittery dark blue base paint catching on the low light coming from outside. “See? Just a hunk of plastic.”

Jack felt the teeth of fear let go of the back of his neck and licked his lips. “Huh.”

Kyle tossed it to the other side of the room. “Cohen’s nuts, but he isn’t stupid- he wouldn’t go hunting for-” Kyle’s face twisted with disgust. “- one of those ‘Little Sisters’ just for an art project.”

“I wouldn’t have put it past him.”

Kyle snorted. “Well, you’ve known him for what? All of 5 minutes? Like I said: Nuts, not stupid.”

Jack smiled. “Okay, fair- Now, let’s get the hell out of here, I want to meet your other friends.”

Standing before the entrance to Poseidon Plaza had ghosts lingering at their lips. The door was frozen over, unmoving, the wall on either side sporting its own layer of frost. Jack and Kyle looked at each other. A brief argument of scowls and darting eyes occurred between them, tossing the solidity of the plan around for another round of scrutiny.

Though there was another way to get to the express station without risking death by the other disciples, the humming, hopeful part of Jack’s mind spoke. It told him to give the others a chance, like he had with Tenenbaum and Atlas and Kyle, because it could be all the difference in the world. It could also be like Peach or Steinman, where the others would try to kill them on the spot or pin them like bugs in a glass case a la Cohen. 

Jack nipped at his own cynicism. It wouldn’t do him any good down here. He reminded himself that it was hope and trust that had gotten him this far ahead, not curling up in the nearest Bathysphere or putting a bullet through his temple. Atlas said it himself: the lord hates a quitter.

“Look, Jack, if you don’t feel safe going in-” Kyle began.

“Hey now, hold your horses. I’m not gonna get cold feet over some snow.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I’m not giving up on them before we’ve had a chance to meet.”

~

After a minute of fiddling with Jack’s wrench and a blast of Incinerate! , the door lifted, sizzling. A wall of frigid air came up to greet them, forcing coughs from their lungs. Kyle had never lived in a hot environment, not in Rapture and certainly not topside growing up a town away from the Massachusetts coast. Still, this was a new flavor of cold he’d never thought possible. 

They went inside, the cold enveloping them and burying its claws in deep. The whole tunnel was frozen over, a far cry from the simple metal storage area he remembered. A few feet ahead was a trash can, past that, something stuck to the wall in an ice block, and a corpse hanging from the ceiling. Kyle shivered, from the cold and the sight of the body. As much as he hoped Martin wouldn’t stoop to Cohen’s level, it could only take him so far. There were no guarantees in Rapture and especially not in Fort Frolic.

Jack set him down beside the trash, approaching the body. He poked it a few times, and it fell to the floor in a heap, one arm detaching from it. Kyle cringed, busying himself with digging through the trash can as a distraction as Jack ransacked the corpse. He found a chocolate bar- Martin’s no doubt, considering it had cashews was from his favorite brand. Kyle ate it, too hungry to care that it was from the trash or already half eaten. A loud crack startled him. 

Jack turned around, holding the thing- an audio diary- from the ice block. He frowned at it, squinting and scratching at the label. Kyle watched his lips move, miming out bits and pieces of a word but never sounding it out. The radio stuttered and clicked for a moment as it tried to work through the frost-coated tape, only a scratchy reverb sounding out. A concerning pop and series of crackles filled the air and Jack’s hands jumped to get the diary out-

But Martin’s voice cut him off.

His voice echoed with dry, exhausted, anger- wrung thin as dealing with Cohen so often did to him. There was also a distance to it, like Martin was speaking from miles away or that his soul had left his body and whatever remained floated in the hell of his own making. Kyle bit his tongue, fear creeping into his throat at the thought of Martin deteriorating like that- waiting like a vulture to go plucking at the ADAM from corpses for his own sustenance. He understood rummaging around for food or money or ammo, but a ‘splicer cocktail?’, dear god.

It was the last few lines that hurt the most to hear. Martin had given up. He and the other disciples, and hell, even Cohen- before he’d been lost to splicing- had done so much to care for him. But Martin had given up. He’d let his anger and bitterness eat him alive. And now…

Was he even alive? Was he still worth saving? Would he even recognize anyone he once knew?

Jack stood him up, holding him by the waist but not picking him up. His head spun, hands shaking. All he could do was lean against Jack and try to keep himself from toppling over. Kyle took the tape from the radio, eye scanning the illegible label over and over until his vision blurred.

A hand came up to his face, warming his cheek and empty eye socket. A rough thumb wiped at his lower lid, clearing away a freezing trail of wetness. Kyle glanced up at Jack, whose brows furrowed with worry.

“You're crying, Kyle,” he said, softly.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, only to feel it bob right back up to choke him again. Jack squeezed his shoulder, holding him in a tight half-hug for a few moments. Kyle scrubbed at his face, fighting to breathe, wanting to scream and kick and rip Cohen’s fucking head off for locking Martin in here in the first place. Jack ran his hand up and down his arm- the rhythmic motion stripping away layers of his emotions until he just felt tired.

“Let’s just leave…” Kyle forced out at last, too preoccupied by the feeling that his chest was about to explode to care that his words came out as a hoarse, whispery, sob.

Jack nodded. Picking him up and continuing down the tunnel.

"I can see your breath!"

Kyle went rigid at the teasing snarl surrounding them, yet coming from nowhere. The sound was hoarse and grating, like the man behind it had swallowed nothing but sand and glass shards for months on end. Jack squeezed him tighter, slowing as they approached the door leading to the Plaza proper. The exit was frozen over, with a good chance of being broken as well. 

Their hackles still raised, Jack stepped past a massive ice block, easing him down while still holding the majority of his weight. Jack pressed a finger to his lips at the first sign of protest, pointing to the ground, miming to stay by the door. Kyle squeezed his arm, attempting to dissuade him from running off alone.

"Guess the old grape finally sent someone!"

A fleshy crunch, like a slab meat being beaten out or a bone being broken, filled the air, making Kyle’s stomach churn. A slam against the floor followed, the ice cracking beneath the force. Heavy, ragged breaths filled the short pause, a distinct tremble warping them further. Frigid acupuncture prickled his skin. Kyle looked down to his hands as blue began to encase him and Jack, fear rising in his throat. A floral damask bloomed across his pale flesh, thickening into a woolen crust. The ice rose over his face before he could scream.

"Son of a bitch left me to freeze…"

Slow, steady footsteps fell against the frozen floor, ringing out like bell chimes. Kyle could feel himself getting colder. He wished he had some EVE in him- a jolt or two of electricity would free him and Jack no problem. The steps stopped, a large, bulky figure standing before them. Kyle strained his eye, the ice encasing his body hindering his vision further. 

It was without a doubt Martin, still alive and on the farther side of rational.

"I've got a pose all picked out for you…"

Martin was covered in a thick layer of frost, his movements hard and jerky. Despite that, he looked well for having been locked in what was pretty much a freezer for about half a year. 

He scanned Jack with a cold cynicism, as if appraising an art piece he didn’t like. Anger wafted off of him like sleet, any mercy had long worn thin. Kyle felt his heart in his throat, wondering how far off the deep end Martin had fallen. When their eyes met, Martin’s looming, glacial fury shattered into minute fractals of snow. Kyle had never seen the divide within him so clear before.

Martin was a man with few sides. The first: a tundra of a person- callous, strong, and with a frigid wall of armor over and semblance of vulnerability- was the side he showed to most, including Kyle when he first entered Cohen’s inner ring. The others were more welcoming, in their own odd ways, Hector assuring that Martin’s chafing edges would smooth down in good time. 

Kyle didn’t believe him at all. 

Those first few months getting to know the other disciples was hard, to say the least. He felt hated, ostracized for being there, the others eccentricities and attitudes grating on him in every way possible. But Hector was right in the end. Weeks bled into months, months bled into years, and years weathered away what fear and distrust barring them from each other, tangling the four together like vines of ivy.

Sleeping beneath the tundra was Martin’s second side: a man made of fine frost and fresh snow- sensitive, caring, and devoted, pulling someone in and surrounding them with unambiguous love- only exposed to Cohen and the disciples. 

Of course, Kyle melted in without hesitation. 

Even now, he found himself love-drunk on Martin. He yearned for long conversations tangled in soft sheets or hiding in the corner of a crowded party. Martin was delicate in his purest state, too fragile for such a cruel life the indifferent hand of fate ordained him. 

That was the dichotomy of the sculptor, Kyle supposed. One must be strong enough to shatter stone, beating their materials into submission to even be workable. At the same time, one must be delicate- as all artists are- gentle in their creation, working with love and care for their art to be whole. It was something that suited Martin's temperament well. 

Kyle missed him. He missed seeing that protective wall come down when they spoke, the soft cradle of his curls and mustache when they kissed, the light laughter they shared in moments of darkness. Most of all, he missed when that wall would come back up to protect him, to protect the others, before coming right back down, leaving Martin as he was just for them.

Martin took a step back, pausing for a beat before reaching forward and touching him. The ice on Kyle’s body broke away, leaving a layer of frost on his skin and clothes. Jack remained encased, his eyes darting between them, wide with surprise. Kyle’s vision began to swim, fuzzing at the edges as harsh shivering took over his body. He teetered over, hands too stiff to cling to Jack. Martin jumped to catch him, one hand on his hip and the other at the nape of his neck. His skin felt like a block of ice.

Kyle flinched from the sensation, breathing deep and hard to try and get warm and feeling back in his hands. Martin eased him to the ground, searching his face as he kneeled at his side. He let go of Kyle’s neck, but left the hand on his hip. Kyle pulled his knees to his chest, squeezing in on himself. It felt like he’d been taken to the ninth circle of hell.

“Kyle?” Martin asked, his voice grating and stripped. “Are you okay?”

Kyle turned to him, taking a moment to meet his eye, finding the other nothing but a patch of pale flesh. “What happened here?”

“Are you okay?” he repeated.

Kyle pursed his lips. “Martin, why is the tunnel like this? What happened?”

Martin’s eye grew tight, darting away before bouncing back. “Are. You. Okay?” he repeated again, firmer as he enunciated each syllable.

Kyle opted to drop his questions for now, he’d try again later with backup. “I’m in one piece.”

Martin’s shoulders stayed stiff. “What did Cohen do to you?”

Kyle swallowed, wishing he could hug him. “Knocked me out, drained me of my EVE and plastered me to the piano in Fleet Hall, making me play some stupid song over and over until I got it right. And then he tried to blow me up.”

Martin ghosted his fingers over Kyle’s face, never staying long enough to spread any more of his cold. He nudged Kyle up by the chin, grazing his jaw and easing his head side to side. If he didn’t feel like he was made of ice, Kyle would’ve leaned into the touch.

“The bruising his work or-” Martin jerked his head towards Jack, “this guy’s?”

“Neither. A splicer got to me, but I got a hold of the situation.”

Martin nodded, eyes darting to Jack. “Who the hell is he anyways?”

Kyle shrugged. “No clue. He just appeared in the audience and jumped into the explosion to save me without any hesitation… We’ve been helping each other out since.”

Martin glared at Jack. “You think he’s got anything ulterior?”

“Hell no! He just wants to get out of here, and frankly, so do I. He said he’s willing to take me topside alongside a few others.”

Martin’s gaze returned to him. “Then why the hell are you coming through here?”

“I asked him to come look for you.” Kyle, ignoring the pain in his hands, reached out and took one of Martin’s, holding it over his heart. “Please, if nothing else, at least consider coming with us.”

Martin’s face softened, the hand on Kyle’s hip squeezing it. “Okay. I’ll go with you,” he sighed after a bit of consideration. “Besides, I can’t exactly say no to that face, doll.”

Kyle smiled, squeezing his hand before letting it go. “Thank you.”

“Don’t expect me to trust this guy to keep his word though,” Martin added as he stood. “If I smell fish, I’m bailing with you in tow.”

Kyle sighed, but wasn’t surprised. Martin would soften up with enough sweetness in due time. He looked up, greeted with the sight of Martin’s outstretched hand. He took it, and was lifted to his feet, Martin catching and holding his weight before he could tip again.

“Alright, so long as you aren’t an asshole- now can you please unfreeze him? I don’t want the poor guy losing any fingers, he’s been through enough.”

Martin touched Jack, the ice around him falling away. Jack gasped, stumbling back and shaking his head. Martin moved away as well, his stance defensive as he put his own body between Kyle and Jack. As soon as Jack collected himself, he snatched his machine gun, raising it up. Martin sneered, his fist curling with icicles.

“Wait! Wait! Both of you- stop!” Kyle shouted pushing himself in front of Martin.

They both froze, maintaining their positions, still ready to attack.

Kyle sighed. “Put the weapons down.”

They remained in place.

“Put. The. Weapons. Down. Now. I’m talking to both of you.”

After a few beats, Martin retracted the ice from his hand, shaking it out. In turn, Jack tucked his gun away, folding his arms over his chest. Kyle let out a breath.

“Okay, good,” he sighed. “Martin this is Jack, Jack this is Martin.”

“Oh, that’s your name…” Jack hummed. “Here I was thinking it was Marlon or something.”

Martin grunted, glancing at Kyle. Kyle squeezed his forearm, more than a little concerned that the flesh did not give as it should have. He opted to ignore it for now.

“Alright, look,” Martin began. “I don’t know who the hell you are or why the hell you’re here, nor do I trust you. But I do trust Kyle’s word about you promising to get us out of here.” Jack twisted his lips into a frown. Martin frowned back. “There are a bunch of sons-of-bitches in here, so if you deal with them, I’ll open up the door and help you to the express station. Deal?”

“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” Jack replied, “are you?”

“Deal?” Martin repeated.

Jack sighed. “Deal.”

“Super!” Kyle butted in. “Now please get the door open, Martin. I am losing feeling in my feet.”

Martin hoisted him up without another word, putting him into a corner right next to the door. Kyle looked up, seeing Jack had stalled, and motioned for him to go on. Jack hesitated for a moment longer before yanking his wrench from his belt and tossing it to Martin. Jack whipped out his pistol, lit his hand up, and went off deeper into the tunnel, muttering something to himself.

Martin looked to Kyle. “... A wrench?”

“We needed it to pry the other door open, guess he figured you’d need it too.”

“Fair enough.”

Kyle could smell the waft of burning flesh a few feet away, Jack’s head darting in and out of his line of sight for seconds at a time.

“Do you know how the others are doing?”

“No clue to be honest.” Martin tugged at the wheel of the door, finding it spun only half way and continuing his work of un-thawing it. “I’ve heard them off and on but nothing concrete.”

“When did you last hear them?”

Martin paused, tossing the wrench in his hand as he thought. “Hector… about two weeks ago. Haven’t heard Silas in over a month.”

“I see…”

Martin met his eyes. “Look, Kyle, don’t worry too much- I know I can be harsh and a stick in the mud sometimes, but I don’t think he’s dead. He’s probably just hiding in the damn record store.” He snorted. “I mean, if Hector’s still kicking, fire crotch is too.”

Kyle laughed. “I thought I was ‘fire crotch’.”

“You were… once upon a time. Unfortunately, our sweet Silas has filled that niche since.”

“Well who am I now?”

“Copper crotch.”

Kyle laughed again, his stomach hurting from the cold. “That’s terrible, even for you!”

Martin smiled. “If you want poetry, babe, ask Hector when we get him.”

Kyle couldn’t stop how hard he was shaking, even as his laughter died down. “You’re the worst.”

“Nothing less for you.”

Martin stood, popping his neck, the sound like crackling ice. He fiddled with the door some more, using the wrench once or twice, before a loud hiss of relatively warm air came from the bottom edge. Jack came over, taking his wrench back from Martin, looking between them. He and Martin pried the door open enough to shove Kyle underneath and into the Plaza.

Kyle breathed a sigh of relief, warmth filling his face as his eye danced around to survey his surroundings. The splicer he saw on the other side of the room either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care and no one seemed to be flocking towards the harsh scraping of the doorway behind him. 

There was a metallic thud of something breaking followed by a deep groan. Kyle spun around, watching in awe as Jack scrambled under the door, using his body to force it upwards. Martin did the same, breaking off ice and metal where he could until the door lifted past his shoulders. Jack continued on forcing it up almost all the way before ducking his head past the last chunk. He and Martin took a few steps each before flopping against separate walls like ragdolls.

Kyle rolled over to his back. His eye followed the geometric pattern of the ceiling tiles as his body began to grow feeling again. Pain prodded from inside his stomach and behind his eyelids- he needed EVE and he needed some water. And maybe a nap too, if they could squeeze it in.

This floor was too comfortable for its own good.