Zomg. Fic.
Godd.
I haven't written anything for ages.
Title: Rapture.
Fandom: Bioshock.
Rating: PG-15.
Summary: He can't sleep. He won't ever sleep.
He can’t sleep. He knows he’ll probably never sleep again, so he lies there in the dark of the old hospital, eyes glued to the opening that used to be a door, shotgun clenched so tightly that his knuckles are aching.
But he can’t let go. He can’t sleep.
Nevergonnasleep.Notafterwhatyou’vedone.Notafterwhatyou’veseen.Nosleepforyou.
There’s a clanking, and for a brief second, the huge diving suit of one of the Big Daddies comes into view, a stark silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. It pauses, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and clenches his teeth together, grip tightening on the trigger of the gun.
Its head swings round, and he sees the eerie pools of light in its helmet that fix directly on him.
Theend.ohshitit’stheend.I’mgonnadie.Shit.Toosoon…Toosoon…
But then the slow clangs resume, and the Big Daddy lumbers off, crashing down the flooded corridor, its heavy footsteps fading into blackness, leaving him shaking and sick on the old hospital bed.
He feels dirty, and is repulsed by his actions, by everything he has to do to survive, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
The pull of life is too strong.
Slowly, shakily he sits up, his skin cold and clammy, he himself feeling alien inside it, like he’s too small to belong to this body. With trembling fingers he pulls out a cigarette.
Deadman’scigarette.Beeninadeadman’spocket.Thief.You’reathief.
It tastes bitter and crumbly in his mouth, which makes him feel sick to his stomach, and yet his singing nerves are slightly silenced by it.
The bed is pushed up against the wall, it’s been ripped of its sheets long ago, and the mattress is damp and squashy from the leaks and floods that have long become the norm in Rapture.
Splash.Splash.Splash.You’regoingtodiehearingsplashes.Whatabeautifulnoise,whataperfectnoise.
He wonders if anyone’s died in this bed.
The thought scares him less than it should.
He can’t bring himself to fear death when it’s all around him, lurking, waiting.
"Don't worry, Mr. Bubbles. I'm sure he'll be an angel soon."
A child’s voice. He hears it in the back of his mind, hauntingly familiar, and horribly relevant.
The cigarette has burnt out, the few strings of tobacco left in it have melted away into nothingness.
He leaves it in his mouth, forgotten.
In the flickering darkness, with the shotgun pressed hard to his side, and the unnoticed tears rolling down his face, Jack waits for a sign.
Toolate.Toolatetosaveyourself.Toolate.
I haven't written anything for ages.
Title: Rapture.
Fandom: Bioshock.
Rating: PG-15.
Summary: He can't sleep. He won't ever sleep.
He can’t sleep. He knows he’ll probably never sleep again, so he lies there in the dark of the old hospital, eyes glued to the opening that used to be a door, shotgun clenched so tightly that his knuckles are aching.
But he can’t let go. He can’t sleep.
Nevergonnasleep.Notafterwhatyou’vedone.Notafterwhatyou’veseen.Nosleepforyou.
There’s a clanking, and for a brief second, the huge diving suit of one of the Big Daddies comes into view, a stark silhouette against the dim light of the corridor. It pauses, and he squeezes his eyes shut, and clenches his teeth together, grip tightening on the trigger of the gun.
Its head swings round, and he sees the eerie pools of light in its helmet that fix directly on him.
Theend.ohshitit’stheend.I’mgonnadie.Shit.Toosoon…Toosoon…
But then the slow clangs resume, and the Big Daddy lumbers off, crashing down the flooded corridor, its heavy footsteps fading into blackness, leaving him shaking and sick on the old hospital bed.
He feels dirty, and is repulsed by his actions, by everything he has to do to survive, but he can’t bring himself to stop.
The pull of life is too strong.
Slowly, shakily he sits up, his skin cold and clammy, he himself feeling alien inside it, like he’s too small to belong to this body. With trembling fingers he pulls out a cigarette.
Deadman’scigarette.Beeninadeadman’spocket.Thief.You’reathief.
It tastes bitter and crumbly in his mouth, which makes him feel sick to his stomach, and yet his singing nerves are slightly silenced by it.
The bed is pushed up against the wall, it’s been ripped of its sheets long ago, and the mattress is damp and squashy from the leaks and floods that have long become the norm in Rapture.
Splash.Splash.Splash.You’regoingtodiehearingsplashes.Whatabeautifulnoise,whataperfectnoise.
He wonders if anyone’s died in this bed.
The thought scares him less than it should.
He can’t bring himself to fear death when it’s all around him, lurking, waiting.
"Don't worry, Mr. Bubbles. I'm sure he'll be an angel soon."
A child’s voice. He hears it in the back of his mind, hauntingly familiar, and horribly relevant.
The cigarette has burnt out, the few strings of tobacco left in it have melted away into nothingness.
He leaves it in his mouth, forgotten.
In the flickering darkness, with the shotgun pressed hard to his side, and the unnoticed tears rolling down his face, Jack waits for a sign.
Toolate.Toolatetosaveyourself.Toolate.