No Gods or Kings

[Closed RP]

((This is part of the propaganda series I'll be doing for AspiR and the rest of the Think Tank here at Paradise Lost. No one will be able to post here, but I encourage you all to read it and, if you're not a Fontaine supporter/'Red' revolutionary, question those beliefs. After all, my goal is persuasion here.))

Jake Featherston easily buckled under pressure. It was true, the tiny Caucasian man now looking over the heads of well over two dozen people had never done well in front of crowds. He figured himself an alright speaker, nothing special, but it was hard when everyone's attention was focused on him; he nearly froze up now, but he reminded himself that it wasn't the time. 'This is the largest gathering I've got since...well, since forever. Now, don't scare them in any way with sorts of 'Red' politics; you're pretending at least to be on Fontaine's side. You really don't need him bumping on your door, do you? Just keep it cool and simple and it'll be smooth sailing.' He didn't look like much, he knew. A scrawny guy in grungy clothes with wild eyes and a gimp right foot. Not exactly the handsome, charismatic sort of person you'd ever imagine leading people to any heroic deeds. But his uncleanliness and scrawny stature gave him, at least he personally thought, an element of humanity that such contemporaries of his couldn't really compare to. They all seemed too...detached from the world around him. He liked to be a recognizable human being, not one any different from anyone else; any god-like aura you gave off could scare everyone off before you even had the chance to say, "Boo."

He bit his lip and looked out at his crowd. Most of them, he had known this would be the case, were of the poor. The men wore overalls and thinner shirts and the women wore aprons. They all had rough-looking hands and were covered in grime, but there was an eagerness in their eyes and expressions as they stood there, watching him. The men would occasionally stare at him, whisper to one another, likely discussing who this guy thought he was. The women shifted children and kept toddlers near them, as the latter tried to squirm away and play with their peers. He'd picked the center near the entrance, right off the Rapture Metro where he was sure to catch the attention of the working class folk coming back from their jobs. And here and there...he even caught one or two glimpses of non-white people, perhaps interested in wondering what he might do to improve their miserable conditions down here. He wondered to himself what such desperation you had to be in to come to an area you knew you'd never rise up in, over the surface. He found he couldn't, in the end. He'd been promising them something of a change, and wondered if they were so unsure of their own futures, they'd really listen to anybody who talked of things better. He was flattered there was that, at least he presumed, form of confidence but....

'But certain people can take those who are down and out so much and turn them into something else; and that 'something else' can be ugly.' He gave a small turn to Kingsley, one of his better friends in this dump and a believer in the Revolution, and gave a questioning look towards his friend. The sandy haired man smiled and gave a thumbs up. He gave his own thin smile, turning back, and nodded. Ananda was being babysit by Mrs. Malone again. He always hated doing that to the poor old woman, but no one else would take...

He shook his head. 'Maybe if you ever managed to get a real job again, she wouldn't have to.' But even then, he hardly knew the first thing about parenting, and if he was employed he'd spend even less time with her than he already did. But now that he could be sure she was in safe hands and that Kingsley had finally prepared everything just right (he always managed to, in the end). They still watched him, though now clearly some had lowered their opinions of him after sizing him up, he'd decided. Some gazes were uninterested and bored as they shifted and stirred, waiting for him to start. He'd need to reel them back in strongly if he was to get anywhere.

He raised his arms into the air, slowly limping up to the makeshift podium assembled out of boards and boxes, and picked up the microphone, briefly coughing into it. He took off his woolen cap and placed it on the podium, gently laying it down onto it, afraid the thing might give way any moment. He ran a hand through his dirty blond hair and went the only way that was possible now - forward.

He decided it best that perhaps he make a literary reference; some people were impressed by that sort of thing and you'd never know who you'd find in a crowd. "Friends, Rapturians, countrymen: lend me your ears. I come not to praise Ryan, but to bury him." This set the crowd into a frenzied whispering, with everyone turning to his or her neighbor, the only talk being of the words that had come out of the man's mouth. He waited for some semblance of calm to be restored and continued on, "Really, ladies and gentlemen, this whole rotten establishment of 'righteous selfishness' and 'Great Chain' is a load that's going to come down on everyone's head sooner or later." He was pacing now; he found it easier to make himself coherent that way, and it didn't help to stimulate his creativity either.

"He claims to have found the heart of the entire human race - despite the fact that, in the end, he still claims to be only acting in self interest. That 'righteous selfishness,' rational he calls it!, is the very thing that has made this city. But it is also the thing that will destroy it." He scanned the crowd, wondering if he was laying it on a bit too thickly, but he pressed on, licking his lips.

"The fact is, people, that Ryan's self interest impedes on everyone else's. Sure, you can agree with him on some stuff, but on everything? Who's selfishness is more important then? The man who's more intelligent? The one with more money and a bigger stick to throw around? If a man's self interest says that he can murder and ravish children, in Ryan's view, should he not be allowed to do so? If Ryan doesn't want to be a hypocrite, he'll admit that no, that man shouldn't be. But doesn't that violate his commandment of 'Thou shalt not care for others before thyself'? And," he was pushing on now, best to continue while you had a lead after all, "if this place, this paradise as he calls it, had everyone following this ideology to a T - why do we have a jail? What purpose does it serve? If we're all equally enlightened by the great Andrew Ryan why are some of us still lost in the mists?"

"He also claims that there are no 'gods or kings' in this little fish tank he's built. This is bullshit of the highest degree, and do you know why? The man himself is our king. Oh, he doesn't get a fancy robe or scepter, no medals or jewels, but he's our damned monarch in spirit. If one of you is willing to rat me out to him, and I know some of you will try, he'll get my goat good, sure, but what does he have to prove by locking away a measly political opponent, who can never hope to match his influence? Because it strikes his fancy as your all-powerful overlord, people. He gets a kick out of exercising all this authority over every one of us. And you know what? That's going to come back around someday and bite him in the ass - hard."

"The captains of industry in our quaint little city might tell ya, "You're nothin' without me! Now get back to cleaning the wipes. Or cook the meals, whatever it is you do." But this is a lie. Ryan did not make Atlas shrug when he stole away many of its brilliant minds, all he did was bring the biggest brats to a toy and set them loose without any supervision. It is in fact us, the poor and unwashed masses, that give them their real might. Without us, they might still be brilliant - but who would care? No one would cook for them, run their errands, or buy their inventions, artwork, music, and the like. Ryan likes to call the man who wishes for help a 'parasite,' but the tumor that he's created with these people...can't they even see how much they need us?"

"But wisdom doesn't necessarily equate with intelligence, after all. Some of the dumbest people I know would be considered brilliant, and some of the dumbest, or the ones that are supposed to be, are some of the smartest. Getting lots of learning done in a school won't make you smart for the world, you've got to earn it. They're patients on life support. And we, everyone, us! We are the thing that makes their gears turn!" He looked at them again, and smiled to himself; some of them seemed to be listening (he hated puns, but he had to admit this was somewhat amusing), though others still looked at him dubiously. They'd lived like this long enough - why should things change? He brushed his brow, the lights above him having started him to begin sweating a bit.

"Do you all remember the flu outbreak of '55? Hell, I'm sure you do. I'd wager many of you lost family to it. And I'm not a gambling man myself." This was a sensitive issue, he knew, as striking a wrong cord with a raw emotion like sadness could make things messy. "Hundreds of us dead; they couldn't even do many of those cremations down at Twilight Fields in a day. Corpses in bags stuffed in ice lockers down at Neptune's Bounty. Dozens of 'em. In any other nation in the world, be it the U.S., Soviet Union, Saudi Arabia, Israel, China - say what you will about them, but they would have done something for their people. And where was Ryan during all of this? Where was he when our friends and neighbors were perishing within days of each other? He was up in Rapture Central Control, sipping his martinis, smoking his Cuban cigars, banging whatever woman of the week he'd picked out. Keep in mind, people, we had people dying...and this man was supposed to represent us as the head of the government. This isn't even a respectable one...a technocracy or an autocracy, if you think about our damned 'Council of Rapture,' but I don't see either working out too well for us, do you? The Little Wonders' Educational Facility is underheated and our children get sick there too; couple that with the fact that this guy has all of the modern medical equipment necessary to issue vaccines, send out repairmen to fix buildings and the like, and feed the needy - but he doesn't. All in the name of his wormy little ideology that he's placed upon a pedestal and can't get the wool out of his eyes even if you used a sheep brush."

"Things like the freedom to choose your elected officials are no longer existent. I know many of you, wherever you're from way back when, had better governments than this. And this is done all in the name of 'protecting our ideals' by this man...this businessman. He's not even an actual politician! Just a guy in a suit who talks good once in a while." He turned to them now, pointing out into the crowd at some of the non-whites; he hoped that his crowd wouldn't turn on him at this point...

"And you, the people who don't even share my skin color - you get the worst end of the deal from any one of us here! He promises you a life of splendor, away from all of that nasty racism you were used to. No more discriminating labors, no more segregated areas, but...you're not free, are you?" His tone was now melancholic, as he stared at them all lightly. "You're not anymore free now than you were at the surface and Ryan knows it. The bosses, those captains of industry again, refuse to hire you except when you offer yourself at the lowest possible price. And why? Your skin color. Ryan makes a fuss about not wanting to hate people because of how they look, he got his fair share of remarks for being Russian, but where does he get on about helping you? 'People should work out their issues through the market; it will take care of all of man's problems,' he says. But you need something now, not some indefinite point in the future, don't you?" He turned away from them but he felt he'd sufficiently done his job there.

"And the faithful among us! The Christians, the Jews, the Muslims, Buddhists, whatever you are: does Ryan not oppress you? 'For the good of all of Rapture, I must purge the poison of Abraham and his yes men,' says Ryan. Religion has brought many tragedies upon the world, yes, but it has done much good as well. The Russians have their alphabet because of the Eastern Orthodox priests, we have algebra because of the Muslims, and the Jews have fastidiously been scribes throughout time...but Ryan doesn't care. But he isn't entirely at fault," and now Jake knew that he was getting into sacrilegious territory, especially if this wasn't what the people wanted to hear him say.

"Why do you follow a man who worships mammon? He claims he hasn't a god, but of course he does: money. He's vain, prideful, and all other shades of sinfulness but you continue to follow the man. Cease and desist this support for him if you want to continue the oppression upon your faiths. Raise up and take back that civil liberty he's stolen so you don't have to smuggle your Bible around with you."

"And speaking of that money, that mammon..." Jake now reached into his back pocket and plucked out a crisp, fresh Rapture dollar, borrowed from Kingsley before the rally had started. "This little thing, ladies and gentlemen, an object that has no more value than whatever we give it in our minds, is the thing that Ryan cares for most, even more than life itself - more than our children. Many of the ones to perish in that flu outbreak were our children, some of the ones many of the fathers here are holding hands with, the mothers with babies to their bosoms...but to Ryan, all that matters is that slip of paper. It isn't material in the sense and offers no sense of comfort other than the one that he gives it. What sort of sad sap forfeits a piece of, what really is, fine wood pulp over things like love? A fool. And there's no bigger one than our fearless leader, forging a new stupidly dangerous path for all of us." He finished then, leaving it all on a cliffhanger. And then the clapping started. It was tiny, faint, and it wasn't very widespread. But he could hear it. It was a slow start, but the ones that did clap were picking up speed until their palms repeatedly pounded together. Some cheered, whooped even, and he gave a wave to them. The only success he considered himself ever having was if he could just get some of them, even one, to listen to him. But others remained still, glaring at him even; but it didn't matter to Jake, not really. Either they would come around or get crushed by the sweeping tide of the change to come. He wasn't their keeper, just the messenger.

But his good spirits were to be short-lived, however, as one of the members of the rally clapping had turned and pointed to a mass in the distance that had pushed other bystanders out of the way, "Police!" What a word that he absolutely despised and hated.

And just as easily as a stone dropping in a pond made ripples, so did the police cause his congregants to scatter all over the place. Women and children fled, some of the younger ones crying in the confusion and panic. The men either went with some of the women, wives he presumed, or others just made to get away from anywhere but here. But Jake never moved. Even as Kingsley tried to urge him to get a move on, he refused. "Don't worry, everything'll be alright in the end," he said. He just wished that he could believe in himself. But Kingsley did. His friend looked at him worriedly, but said nothing as he too escaped off into the distance.

It didn't really take all that long for the police to get there. They all stood, clustered around the tiny platform Jake stood on, their badges gleaming in the dim, fluorescent lights of Rapture Metro. The leader of the group, he thought at least as the man approached him; his badge was larger than all of the others', stuck a pudgy finger out at him and said, "Name's Lieutenant Jones, sir. And I'm afraid that one of your little 'flock,'" he spat the word out cruelly as he grinned at Jake, showing stained yellow teeth, "had enough of you. You're under arrest, pal. Now come along quiet now and my guys won't beat you with their nightsticks."

Jake looked blandly at them as the men stormed up the steps and pushed him down them, putting his hands behind his back, handcuffing him. He really could figure no other, in the end, other than: "Lead the way, lieutenant. After all, every captain must go down with his ship, right?"

It was overused, he knew, but he hoped that a sinking ship might instill some sort of worry in the man, especially considering they all lived in what amounted to a model ship in a bottle.

((To be continued in the near future...))

((A continuation from the earlier part of the RP; this will conclude this particular piece of propaganda/the RP itself.))

Jake set in an uncomfortably small chair in the dingy room that the police officers had shoved him into. They'd dragged him down all the way back to the entrance way of the city, where the police station had been located. He sighed as he drummed the fingers of his shackled arm (having been put in cuffs that were now attached to the table's main beam, which was bolted to the floor) against the grimy table, picking at parts of the paint that covered it as he scanned the room. There wasn't much to it other than some of the extremely poor lighting, a consistent quality he'd come to expect since he'd arrived here. GALT-ROARKE Electric Co. had an extremely poor record amongst nearly everyone in the entire city, rumors even being Ryan himself disliked them, but no one did anything; after all, you didn't bite the hand of the only company in Rapture did you? No, of course not.

Jake often didn't consider himself a pensive man, but now, looking back, he wondered if he shouldn't have been as hasty as he had been with his little speech...earlier. He wasn't even sure what time it was, considering that no clock was within his view, but he almost sure it had been at least an hour or two. Despite how much of a small government Ryan seemed to take pride in, Jake found himself a bit amazed at how slowly things were taking down at the station; he figured they'd have come in question him by now, getting whatever gruesome things done to him, and, if he weren't dead, would have sent him on his way with an alibi and an order to keep his head down from now on. But that never came. He grimaced, realizing his bad leg had fallen asleep and he rose briefly, adjusting himself and letting the painful sensation of 'pins and needles' pass. He wondered if a pal of his, Lt. Auguste Baudin, was working a shift today; it was an abstract, completely useless thought, but if he got in a jam here, he was sure the Frenchman would back him up. They'd met and struck up a conversation on literature after a police round down in the poorhouses over Dante Alighieri's, "Inferno," and they'd even gone drinking once or twice.

He picked up the small cup on the table and put it up to his lips, gulping down the liquid within. He gagged and sputtered, looking warily down at the offending item and its contents, before throwing it behind his shoulder. 'Coffee,' if it could even be called that, was one of the worst tasting things in Rapture. He didn't mind the cigarettes so much, he was an avid smoker, and he was well aware of what they were made of - seashells and fish eggs - but he'd never had anything quite as bad as the coffee they had down here. Even back during the war, this by comparison made the rations look good. 'At least,' he thought to himself, 'it's hard to ruin alcohol. But that cheap bastard down at the winery in the Farmers' Market skimps out and puts water in, or so I hear...'

Jake was jolted out of his reverie by the door in front of him finally opening with a 'whoosh' common in Rapture's halls, with the Securis brand door lifting itself to reveal a man somewhat older than Jake himself, a pudgy, fleshy guy with beady eyes and a receding hairline. His lip curled in disdain as he recognized the guy who normally made rounds down at the poorhouses for contraband, not that he was ever really successsful - Commissioner Sullivan. Considering how much still went on in the poorhouses, he honestly wondered to himself if Sullivan thought he was doing a good job, or if he did it just to make his superiors happy. You didn't screw around with orders from Andrew Ryan, especially not if you'd been put in a place out of his pocket. Jake's gaze with the man was level as his peer waddled over and sat down in the chair across from him, running a hand through his thinning hair and glancing over at Jake.

"Hear yer a bit of a troublemaker, are ya?" 'He's a poet, this one,' Jake thought mildly to himself at the other man's awkward start to break the ice that felt nearly palpable. The other man scrutinized him, making his eyes even smaller than they normally were, a feat Jake hadn't even thought possible. "Says that you're runnin' with Fontaine's boys, and I figger that if you're really with 'em, you know what we do to their kind 'round here." Jake himself, if he were brutally honest, wasn't. He had no personal allegiance to Fontaine and even if he...hadn't had a personal vendetta against the man, he still would have considered him a damn Pink. 'What a sad state of affairs when some of us have to hide away our real ideals to favor those who're too sensitive to actually listen...' He looked away from Sullivan, rolling his eyes; but he had to tell the guy here what he wanted to hear, even if it was entirely false. And it was also a great way to yank the guy's chain.

"Yeah, so what if I am? How d'ya know I'm not some kind of big shot in Fontaine's inner circle? You should know from all the bodies you clean out of Fontaine Fisheries, pal, just what happens when you screw with Fontaine - he does it a million times worse." That was the card he was trying to hold pretty close to his vest, to make the man afraid and think twice about what he might possibly due to him. But Sullivan surprised him for a moment when he was smiled, though Jake was a bit of a master by now at keeping his real emotions hidden; politicians never lasted long if they couldn't. "You'd be surprised, buddy, just how many times we manage to get some to talk. Sure, not enough stuff to really pin on the guy, but mark my words: someday he's gonna get his, so why not just give in now?" He had once heard somewhere, and he couldn't for the life of him remember who, about a man who'd said: 'Never give up your ideals - even in the face of death.' Jake hadn't found a better quote yet throughout his life, though admittedly not all that long, to stand by through thick and thin, but he decided to play it casually. "Oh? What if I did...say, flip you somebody who might know somethin'? What might that do?" Perhaps Sullivan wasn't as clever as Jake had first judged him, as he watched the man's piggy eyes show some surprise for a moment; maybe the other man hadn't really believed he was in Fontaine's pocket, but if Jake somehow were...

"Anythin' you want. Finest type of wine Rapture's got to offer, maybe we'd...'slide' you some of the latest and best stock, or any one of the pretty actresses you might've seen in one of the 'Stag Party' films," the man's smile was broad and terribly earnest, "Whatta ya say, Mr. Featherston? Surely a guy like yourself has gone to a blue picture now 'n then, am I right? Bit o' fun to have one of them come and...keep ya company for a night." Jake looked warily back at the man; he'd not done any sort of thing like...well, that since Vidya had...but he wasn't going to be starting up again anytime soon.

"'S a bit low to offer stuff like that, isn't it? Especially considering how eager you jumped in there, and I was lyin'!" He smiled at the officer, whose expression was now that of a rather formidable scowl; Jake was almost sure it'd made other men buckle, he himself was scared by it a bit, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. 'Never comprise,' he thought mentally to himself.

"Oh, so that's how it is, eh? You're a fine piece o' work, know that?" The man's voice had dropped all of its camaraderie, however false, from earlier. It had an acidic harshness to it as he clenched his fists and ground his teeth; Jake simply smiled back. "So I've been told, officer. But really, what's a guy like you, Rapture's chief of police no less, want with a guy like lil' ol' me? Surely I'm not a big threat to the great Andrew Ryan?" Sullivan rolled his eyes at him, but Jake wondered how slightly the man's teeth had ground down even harder. "What Mr. Ryan does is none of yer business, you know that? But, unfortunately, it is mine. I don't have to play the 'nice cop,' we can switch straight to the 'bad cop' part of it all."

Jake knew, however much he didn't care to, that the threat held some considerable weight. He'd begun to hear rumors down at the poorhouses of possible smugglers being carried off and tortured; he hadn't thought that true, and they might not let him off any easier than those guys. He'd committed a pretty heinous sin, a code which no one had broke until very recently, that Ryan had tried his best to purge - an opinion that didn't align with Ryan's view of the world.

"But surely, a tiny political opposition would be no problem, if Ryan's as great as he makes himself out to be! I mean, after all, why should I pose a threat? I've no money to throw around! I've got no influence other than those who barely even care to tell me the time of day! Why should I be locked up like this? Like some sort of...criminal? What've I done, sir?"

"Trouble, and loads of it! You start bringing in dangerous ideas, they're not gonna stop for us! Those things will create nothin' but troub-"

"You didn't answer my question. Even if they do, surely the great Objectivism should have no dissidents! The great among us should be all that needs to remind us of how we could be like them. What purpose does all of this serve? You could be catching real criminals! Rapists, murderers, thieves! Or is this just a power trip of some sort? You've got most of the real bad guys, and just sit around all day 'till some sort of 'regular' case can be made into something you can tell tall tales about?" He watched the man's lip curl even more in distaste; he'd never been all that swell at making friends...

"There's a quote, if ya don't know, from Juvenal's "Satires," he was an old Roman comedian, if you don't know. That's his magnum opus, there, and there's this quote from it, I think it applies pretty good to all this stuff: "Who will watch the watchmen?" If you're so busy chasin' down us small," and now he laced the word with sarcasm, "criminals, who's going to look at your own abuses of power?" Sullivan looked at him, and Jake knew he'd been an idiot and crossed the line. The man's face was livid, even more pale and odd looking than even from before. And yet...Jake felt empty, hollow. There wasn't any fear in him, at least not anymore.

"I could arrest you right now, kid, and I could get you thrown into the prison they're building. Or I could even make this visit a permanent one, you get my drift?" And Jake did. So the rumors had been true - Ryan didn't like you, or you pissed off one of his cronies of his and they offed you. But Jake merely sighed and rubbed his temples as he looked at the man across from him. "You know, Commissioner, I've got a little girl back at the poorhouses," the man looked at him blankly, some of that anger from a minute ago evaporating out of...sympathy? No, Jake thought, the man was too dumb for such a complex emotion. This was confusion, as Jake had completely changed tactics on him.

"A little girl, she's not much more than six-years-old, you know that? If you were to get me...where'd she go? Fontaine's Little Sisters' Orphanage?" He added that in to give it a little bite, but the man didn't flinch. But Jake studied the man, who still glowered, but showed...might that be genuine sympathy? He was surprised, his assumptions about others were ever rarely wrong.

"That's right, Sullivan, I'm a dad. But you know what else? How do you think with you threatening me and all, she'd feel? She'd cry, I know, for a while, and especially more if you just killed me." He watched the officer wince, the man himself had been avoiding the word but Jake knew that it sometimes helped to do things if you didn't mention what it actually was; after all, his speeches to the masses had proved that to him. "But sadness leads to anger, mostly. When the Germans lost the first war, they were sad, of course, but you know what happens when sadness turns to anger...Hitler knew that too. You take away a loved one, you make the person mad, and anger has no logic to it. You kill me - what do you think that'll do for her? I'd be a martyr in her mind...you think I talk dangerous? Why don't you try a little girl all grown up whose daddy was killed by the establishment! I would be a pretty bad speaker compared to her, cause you know why? She'd give everything I do with one key thing: emotion." He stopped and let that hang there in the air, his gaze level at Sullivan, who was chewing his lip. "Well, guess that's something we'll just have to deal with when we come to it. C'mon, sir," Sullivan reached down but just as he did, a harried looking man in his mid-20s came flying into the room, wild-eyed.

Jake wasn't sure if he believed in a Providence or not, but he was damn sure that Auguste had decided to show up this moment. His friend winced and tried to push down a sympathetic look as he walked over to Sullivan and gestured at Jake, "Commissioner," Baudin had always managed to mask his accent rather well, "the current...captive there is being released for false charges." Sullivan gave an odd noise that was somewhere between a tongue choke, a squawk and an incredulous gasp. Jake looked funnily at the man, assuming that he'd never hear such a sound ever again, deciding to soak that moment in. "What the hell do you mean by that? He just-" Lt. Baudin looked at him, loosening his police uniform's hat as he spoke, "Word came from Lt. Johnson, his arrestor...the man 'oo 'ad been our witness was found intoxicated. Zee charge is being...dropped. The man had claimed 'e was also some sort of Red revolutionary; a man from the poorhouses. Even if he is a man of Fontaine's," the dark-haired man gestured at Jake across the table, "no man in Rapture would be crazy enough to bring such dangerous ideas down 'ere! Considering that, you know Rapture's policy towards drunken witness testimonies..." Baudin's sigh was long and he raised his hands heavenwards. Sullivan looked like he'd swallowed a toad, and he turned back toward Jake. "Lucky that I'm a man of principle, Featherston, or I'd have you thrown in the brig...worse than that," he sneered and leaned forward. "You just got saved but...keep down and be out of sight, otherwise, I might have to get you for some future offense." Jake nodded, and without a word, gestured at the handcuff on his hand; grumbling, Sullivan picked the jail keys out of his back pocket and fit the key into the lock. The cuffs clattering to the metal floor were one of the best sounds Jake had ever heard, as he walked, face neutral, over to Baudin, nodding. Auguste's nod to Sullivan was curt and formal, as he pushed Jake lightly forward out into the cramped and stuffy officespace of the police station's front. As the two passed outside, Baudin turned toward Jake, smiling.

"Luckily he knows nothing about our friendship, no?" Jake nodded heavily in agreement, clutching the man's hand and pumping it up and down. "I dunno how you got all that, Baudin, but I swear, I'll repay you someday!" The other man shook his head and waved his arms. "No need, after all, I'm standing in front of one of zee faces of Rapture's revolution, yeah?" Jake sighed, knowing the man probably couldn't be argued with, and said his goodbyes and began the march back towards the poorhouses, hoping that, whatever time it was - damnit, he'd forgotten to ask! He turned around, hoping to catch Baudin, but his friend had already gone back inside. He hoped the Rapture Metro was still operating, he had a token for it that was good for the month...

He whistled along the darkened hallways, the lights having been dimmed somewhat to conserve energy; as you'd imagine, the poor lighting was now even worse, making it hard to see where he was going. Jake nearly passed the wall that had the graffiti on it, but he paused, and turned back. On the wall in red paint, in the dim of the night lights, Jake could make out a crude message, scrawled from supplies likely stolen from a store somewhere down in Fort Frolic. Even now, part of the message had just begun to be washed away by one of the window cleaners but Jake could still make it out: "And this, too, shall come to pass." Jake looked around him, taking in the fish flitting across the glass, the seaweed flowing gently in the ocean's current, and nodded to himself. It would come to pass, whether he and the others had anything to say about it. That, coupled with his escape from Sullivan's (and hence, to an extent, Ryan's) clutches, gave him an odd sense of high spirits.

He continued on, whistling "Beyond the Sea" by Bobby Darin, as he briefly wondered what the future might hold for him, not even the thought of Davenport running an exposé on the case bringing down his euphoric mood.

((End of the RP))