third splice // accidental video/teneka (night)
[Although the years had been kind to Jack in that illusion, having it taken away from him has apparently left him in very bad sorts. He's sitting on the edge of the bed in the carefully positioned PORTAL's view, head buried in his hands and unaware that he's being recorded. He remains perfectly still, but his thoughts, chaotic and constant, can be heard and felt loud and clear over the TENEKA.
Those memories of his family, his home, himself and everything else were all he had when he descended into Rapture. In the depths of the ocean, surrounded by madness and impossibility on all sides, they were all he had to keep him anchored in sanity, the only thing left to remind him why he kept going on, why he kept plunging deeper, why he kept doing those horrible things-to keep himself alive, and to see his family once more. But just as easily, this place... Promenade had taken them away so easily, plucked them right out of his head and heart and replaced them with mirror images of a life just as peaceful and parents just as loving, and reduced all he had seen and felt in Rapture to half-forgotten nightmares, mere shadows on the wall of his mind.
Why?
He's been struggling to recall his real memories, but for some reason it's been just as difficult as recalling those memories this place had given him. Why? Jack Wynand of Overlook, Kansas, son of a proud farmer and his wife, twenty-four years of age-Jack Wynand of Promenade, son of two dutiful citizens, and what did age matter in a city of dreams... Neither feels like much more than a collection of flat images, 2D projections moving about on a silk screen.
What feels real? Only his memories of those dreamt-up ten years, though they're already fading: a lover's touch, the sound of his mangled voice, a sense of yearning for-no, belonging to the sea... And then there's that nightmare, memories of a city just as impossible as Promenade, everything he's heard and seen and felt: a ghost begging for her life, women crawling four-legged on the ceiling, a little grime-covered girl screaming at him-an inhuman roar, and then a massive drill bursting through his chest-
That settles it, no matter how much Jack would rather it doesn't. The only thing he can know to be real is Rapture.
Is there nothing else? Is there not a single memory from either life he can call up, just one thing to prove which is real? Even the tiniest thing...
After a few long moments-the PORTAL continues to record his still form, continues to broadcast his churning thoughts as he carefully turns over each memory in his head-a puppy. Petting her, playing with her, hearing her small yaps and barks: small, simple things, but tangible, real. He'd had her as a child, didn't he? That could have easily been in either life, the farm or the city, but maybe if he feels further, tries to remember more...
He puts his hands around the puppy's neck. She yelps as he breaks it.
Jack abruptly stands and begins to pace, though he remains within the camera's view, and panic starts to bleed into his thoughts. Why did he do that? Why would he do that? He couldn't, he would never, that can't be real, that has to be another nightmare-but it felt just as real as his other nightmare, as real as Rapture, and he knows, he knows that has to be real...
He stops pacing at once, though that panic keeps his movements frantic as he approaches the PORTAL. He still doesn't notice it recording, instead reaching for something set on the table nearby: a wallet, his passport, photographs of his parents and himself, things to prove his identity one way or the other, but... The man in the photo doesn't look much like him, does it? Brother, cousin, family friend; he can think of many explanations, but not a one that could prove these people-strange people, he realizes, people whose names he can't remember, not now, if he could ever-are his parents. The passport proclaims his point of origin as Overlook KS, sure, but what good is that piece of paper in a city of dreams?
What good are these pieces of paper if they can't tell him what's real?
In a fit of frustration, silent only because of the nighttime magic, he throws the wallet, passport, photos and all back onto the table, nearly knocking the PORTAL over. What follows happens in an instant: his hand is wreathed in fire, its flesh turning charred, and with a single gesture, the table bursts into flame.
The smoke and shimmering heat from the fire obscures Jack from the PORTAL's view, but his thoughts are still being broadcast as clearly as ever-still confused, still panicked, still wondering why? When he finally notices the PORTAL, however, his panic spikes, and is soon accompanied by a litany of swears and other sounds that are actually audible: a loud hiss, and the sudden crackle of forming ice rather than flame. A thick layer of frost suddenly covers the PORTAL's camera just as the feed cuts out entirely.]
(TL;DR Jack is having one hell of a hard time distinguishing Prom!reality from actual reality, and he can set things on fire or ice them over with a flick of his wrist. Also he may have killed a puppy. Residents of house 11 (or anyone, for that matter], feel free to respond in person, but know that he is still in panic mode and may likely try to attack if he feels threatened.)
Those memories of his family, his home, himself and everything else were all he had when he descended into Rapture. In the depths of the ocean, surrounded by madness and impossibility on all sides, they were all he had to keep him anchored in sanity, the only thing left to remind him why he kept going on, why he kept plunging deeper, why he kept doing those horrible things-to keep himself alive, and to see his family once more. But just as easily, this place... Promenade had taken them away so easily, plucked them right out of his head and heart and replaced them with mirror images of a life just as peaceful and parents just as loving, and reduced all he had seen and felt in Rapture to half-forgotten nightmares, mere shadows on the wall of his mind.
Why?
He's been struggling to recall his real memories, but for some reason it's been just as difficult as recalling those memories this place had given him. Why? Jack Wynand of Overlook, Kansas, son of a proud farmer and his wife, twenty-four years of age-Jack Wynand of Promenade, son of two dutiful citizens, and what did age matter in a city of dreams... Neither feels like much more than a collection of flat images, 2D projections moving about on a silk screen.
What feels real? Only his memories of those dreamt-up ten years, though they're already fading: a lover's touch, the sound of his mangled voice, a sense of yearning for-no, belonging to the sea... And then there's that nightmare, memories of a city just as impossible as Promenade, everything he's heard and seen and felt: a ghost begging for her life, women crawling four-legged on the ceiling, a little grime-covered girl screaming at him-an inhuman roar, and then a massive drill bursting through his chest-
That settles it, no matter how much Jack would rather it doesn't. The only thing he can know to be real is Rapture.
Is there nothing else? Is there not a single memory from either life he can call up, just one thing to prove which is real? Even the tiniest thing...
After a few long moments-the PORTAL continues to record his still form, continues to broadcast his churning thoughts as he carefully turns over each memory in his head-a puppy. Petting her, playing with her, hearing her small yaps and barks: small, simple things, but tangible, real. He'd had her as a child, didn't he? That could have easily been in either life, the farm or the city, but maybe if he feels further, tries to remember more...
He puts his hands around the puppy's neck. She yelps as he breaks it.
Jack abruptly stands and begins to pace, though he remains within the camera's view, and panic starts to bleed into his thoughts. Why did he do that? Why would he do that? He couldn't, he would never, that can't be real, that has to be another nightmare-but it felt just as real as his other nightmare, as real as Rapture, and he knows, he knows that has to be real...
He stops pacing at once, though that panic keeps his movements frantic as he approaches the PORTAL. He still doesn't notice it recording, instead reaching for something set on the table nearby: a wallet, his passport, photographs of his parents and himself, things to prove his identity one way or the other, but... The man in the photo doesn't look much like him, does it? Brother, cousin, family friend; he can think of many explanations, but not a one that could prove these people-strange people, he realizes, people whose names he can't remember, not now, if he could ever-are his parents. The passport proclaims his point of origin as Overlook KS, sure, but what good is that piece of paper in a city of dreams?
What good are these pieces of paper if they can't tell him what's real?
In a fit of frustration, silent only because of the nighttime magic, he throws the wallet, passport, photos and all back onto the table, nearly knocking the PORTAL over. What follows happens in an instant: his hand is wreathed in fire, its flesh turning charred, and with a single gesture, the table bursts into flame.
The smoke and shimmering heat from the fire obscures Jack from the PORTAL's view, but his thoughts are still being broadcast as clearly as ever-still confused, still panicked, still wondering why? When he finally notices the PORTAL, however, his panic spikes, and is soon accompanied by a litany of swears and other sounds that are actually audible: a loud hiss, and the sudden crackle of forming ice rather than flame. A thick layer of frost suddenly covers the PORTAL's camera just as the feed cuts out entirely.]
(TL;DR Jack is having one hell of a hard time distinguishing Prom!reality from actual reality, and he can set things on fire or ice them over with a flick of his wrist. Also he may have killed a puppy. Residents of house 11 (or anyone, for that matter], feel free to respond in person, but know that he is still in panic mode and may likely try to attack if he feels threatened.)