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BLACK BOX - JACK BENJAMIN | NHD-C12-BNJ-131 | DAY 72 | WARNING FOR DEATH/GORE AND SUICIDAL IDEATION
❚❚❚❚❚ TARGET INDEX POINT: INABILITY TO RATIONALLY ACT WHILE PROCESSING TRAUMA
SESSION #1
■ TIME: 37 SECONDS | FAILURE
[ jack had thought he was ready for the black box. he'd heard how horrible it was supposed to be from the officers discussing it, and the file itself on the black box was more than a little intimidating. either way, though, he has to do it. it's assigned to him, he has to finish it and do well with it. he can't afford to fail this and lose points with dagger, if he wants to stay on top of this crew, and in a good position with the cdc to protect michelle and david, if need be.
he'd been very, very wrong.
the second the simulation starts up, jack knows what it's targeted immediately. it's starkly clear when the environment loads up as it's a nearly flawless copy of an ambush that seems eons away. it's dark on the front of the gath war, and his squad was behind enemy lines. they'd needed support, and jack made the call for it, but the jets never came. reinforcements never arrived, and when the shooting started, they were alone.
the 127th division. out of a squad of fourteen, twelve dead. one after another, they'd fallen. men jack had spent two years and more next to, fighting in trenches and ruins of battlefields, for the bickering of old ministers, bitter and jaded and stubborn. men jack wasn't prince to, just leader, commander. friends, if he thought he could call them that. almost, perhaps. bound together in the shit that was the truth of unending war, sleeping in tents or mats rolled out in the dirt. it was a place jack had felt more welcome in than with his own family, even if they hadn't truly known everything about him. all of that unit, pained screams and the wailing cries of the dying, shot or caught by a grenade or mortor, all in voices jack had memorized over the years. cared for. mixed in with the cacophany of gunfire and explosions, coming from everywhere in the night - only flashes of muzzles and blurred shadows, unfamiliar men shouting. jack's ears ringing and mind seeming frozen as he held a hand over his lieutenant's gaping chest wound, as if it would possibly still the blood gushing out on either side of his palms, staining his skin and the edges of his sleeves.
now, in the simulation, he's not on the ground next to his men. he's standing still, in between the fray, watching the entire memory in an exact replay, vivid detail, and jack completely forgets it's a simulation for the moment. he should be getting out of here, taking cover, and remember that he needs to survive this. needs to pass this training to earn his place in the team, and prove his value to dagger. it all leaves his mind in an instant, utterly overwhelmed with what they'd put directly in front of him. he's gone catatonic. this is what they targeted. his guilt, his fear, his inability to face the things that plague his nightmares and keep moving. jack's mouth hangs open, head turning to sweep across the chaos as bullets whiz past him, explosions still rattling his bones and causing his ears to ring, muting out all other sound in a way that only seems to make it more surreal. that's the first failed session. while he stands there, frozen as he relives the complete loss of the things he cared most for, finding himself so completely alone, blood on his hands and the weight of those deaths on his shoulders, knowing he'd been their commanding officers. he'd been the one responsible for their lives. supposed to protect them. all in the expanse of not even half an hour - all of them, nothing more than damaged tissue and lifeless bodies.
two hostages. over the border, and gilboa doesn't negotiate with the enemy. he would have died there, or suffered whatever gath does to pows, if david hadn't made his heroic rescue. some days, jack still thinks he should have. david should have slept in, he should have been left there. maybe it would have been easier. he thinks he should have died in the ambush alongside the men he led into it. he remembers plenty of nights in the months after getting home, that he'd thought of it. all of it coming back so fiercely on the covert ops mission Silas sent David and him on later, behind Gath lines once again. gunfire in the woods at night, the sounds of comms shorting out as their team fell. how he'd completely lost it on belial, going past unhinged and into psychotic as he'd nearly beat the man to death with fists alone.
that's what's being targeted. the weakness in him that cannot swallow down this pain and continue on. any of his pain. like his dad had always felt about him - he doesn't have the heart in him to be what he needs to be. not enough for king, not enough for his men, not enough to save himself either. paralyzed by the crushing despair of it, a bullet finds the space right between his eyes, a sharp agony before the simulation ends in an abrupt black out. Session failure.
that moment of darkness is suffocating, jack near hyperventilating, feeling like his throat has swollen closed, heart beating wildly and lungs struggling to breathe. that's wetness on his cheeks, and jack can't bring himself to scrub it harshly away, as he typically does. he knows dagger's seen plenty of jack's vulnerabilities, either through the network conversations he stalks, or through whatever means allows the officers to know everything that's happening in the crew. but even then, even with that, the thought of anyone witnessing him at that point of despair and choking on personal trauma wholly twists the knife in him, panicking him. but after that shock, he doesn't have the wits about him to think of trying to pull himself back together. get that cold, steely kind of control over himself. not for a while, at least. ]
SESSION #2
■ TIME: 27 MINUTES | FAILURE
[ it's a few minutes worth of jack sitting on the black box training room floor, simulation off, as he tries to get his breathing under control, waits for his chest to feel like it isn't being constricted by razor wire, heart beating like it's on the verge of exploding. on ajna, he'd had mild moments of remembering that scene in the Gath forest - in the Shai nest, when the dead were dropped onto the camp in pieces. nothing that's as much of a shock to his system as this. he squeezes his eyes shut, and the last thing jack wants to do is head back into that simulation, but it's only two more sessions. it's temporary, something that won't leave him lasting damage (he tells himself), and nothing that's actually real, despite how much it feels that way.
he goes directly back in. as horrible as it was, jack wants it over and done with. he's more ready this time, and the second it loads up, jack's ducking down behind a tree close to a thick huddle of bushes, trying to block out the men dying around him and focus on the enemies. he doesn't look at them as they fall, doesn't try to cover up their wounds or call for the field medic that's likely already down. it's just a simulation, it's not real, he chants the mantra in his head as he reloads his rifle, breathing heavy and chest starting to feel too tight again. ignore it, just get through it, finish the simulation. he focuses on the Gath troops, or, at least, their indistinctive uniforms and silhouettes. at least, until he gets close enough to one to see their face. dirk. he just put a bullet through dirk's throat, and he watches the teenager's bright eyes wide and glassy, trembling, as gurgling sounds signal his body trying to breathe and gasp despite the bubbling hole in his neck, crimson fluid dripping from his mouth over his chin. dirk shouldn't be dying from a bullet. he has too many formidable powers for that. but there he is, collapsing onto the ground, and jack's completely arrested in horror. a pillar of fire strikes down like lighting to his right, enough to snap his attention from it, and jack rolls to the side before looking up to see Hanna in a Gath uniform, looking at him like he personally put her through the horrors of her world.
it's just a simulation, it's not real. he doesn't look at their faces - Hanna, d'Artagnan, Tony, Topher, Baku, all the others - more at the center of their sternum. just bodies, just soldiers. put a bullet in, move to the next. don't stop to think, don't let your mind catch up. it's a task, and jack's grinding his teeth, choked noises coming from his aching throat as he takes down one after another. once they're down, jack makes the mistake of looking down at hanna as he moves to make his way past. she lies with lifeless eyes glazed over, lids still open, and blood dripping from the wide bullet wound that had ripped up most of her forehead, leaving her decorated in carnage. he'd promised her they'd make it out of their contracts together. they'd find somewhere new, and live the lives they'd always wanted. never go back to what they came from. start over. jack's knees go out under him and it's when he's reaching a hand out to touch her face, that he hears the gun cock nearby, snapping his head up to see his sister, dressed in CDC gear, pointing a pistol at his head, ready for execution. ]
You weren't enough. [ Michelle says coldly, wearing the look of disgust he'd seen on her in the council room, when she'd stood. When he'd threatened to kill her too. ] You never were.
[ his lips hang parted, at a loss for what to say to her, and she continues while he's frozen, hanna's lifeless corpse still only a few inches from his knees in the moist dirt of the now silent forest. ]
You're worse than he ever was, Jack. [ word for word, the exact same inflection, the same abhorrent disgust with him. ] Your own father. My father.
[ mouth still gaping, dirt and blood and sweat coating his face and hands, jack's utterly frozen, a deep kind of despair creeping into his chest and curling around his heart like solidifying smoke, wrapping tighter and tighter and squeezing too hard. he doesn't have time to response. two gunshots, and jack's down for a second time. one in the chest, one in the head, and everything blacks out. ]
SESSION #3
■ TIME: 1 HOUR 49 MINUTES | FAILURE
[ he wants to throw up, and for a while, jack's doubled over on the floor, heaving like he's about to. it all stays down, and he has to take longer this time to come back to himself. his eyes are squeezed shut like there's something that'll melt them out of his head if he opens them again. it's just a simulation, none of it is real. maybe the words are muttered aloud, he isn't entirely sure. just one more session. one more and he's done and he can leave. jack can hardly focus on needing to make a good score on this thing anymore. he just wants to get through it and leave. go find hanna and dirk and make sure they're still alive and well. michelle and david and try to convince himself that the words that came from their mouths (not theirs, a simulation) aren't what's actually in their minds. just in his.
jack starts it again, knowing what to expect, and at the same time, entirely unsure. he goes through the ambush, goes through the gath soldiers wearing the faces of his friends, and doesn't make the mistake of looking down at hanna. instead, his rifle is leveled on michelle when she appears, cocking it and ready to fire before she can get two words out. it isn't her that speaks, however. instead, a low, rough voice soaked in spite, coming from his left. ]
You deserved what you got. You know that, we all know that. [ david now, emerging from behind another tree with a rifle in hand, centered on jack's chest. he looks like he did in the council room, eyes hard when he stood by silently, as silas assigned jack 'a fate worse than death', his mother, who'd loved him most in the world, nodding her assent to it. alone, completely alone, and not even david or michelle would step in for him. only watch. ] You shouldn't have come here, Jack. You were meant to die in Shiloh. You still are.
[ jack's hands shake on the rifle he holds aimed at david, breathing rattling, and he wants to speak, wants to ask him why, wants to scream at him, or beg, maybe, but he grits his teeth and fires, forcing his body to move. double tap on david, swings the barrel to Michelle, looking even more horrified at him than before, tears slipping down her cheeks, and it's the pause that has him catching a bullet in the meat of his right bicep. letting out a strangled cry, he jerks the gun back up and after a shot, michelle goes down. don't look at them. don't look, it's not real. he feels like he has to throw up.
the simulation doesn't stop - it wasn't a victory. so that isn't all to it, and a sinking dread fills him, making his stomach turn. keep going. it's all he can do, as he runs through the forest, mind racing. there's a bunker ahead, and jack sprints, eager to get inside and have a moment to collect himself. he shoves a shoulder into it... and jack stumbles out into the capital building at Shiloh. his grime covered boots pound on the perfectly shined marble floor beneath him. the halls are empty, and for a moment, he's whipping his head from one direction to the other, uncertain. he needs to move, and he does, feet carrying him after he leaves his rifle behind, out of ammunition. he still has his sidearm. what jack expects is guards, more of his own men. perhaps david or michelle again, maybe his friends from the crew. he doesn't expect silas.
emerging, somehow, into the council room, there's his father. his dad, the man who'd given him piggy back rides when he was little, took him fishing and read him bed time stories. who would kiss his forehead any time he came home on furlough, and make him eggs in the morning no matter how old he'd gotten. the same dad that sentenced his only son to a living death. who'll make him another trophy on display, to warn off dissenters. if he allows him to live much longer after he'd given his father an heir to replace jack in his line of succession. ]
Hello, Jack. [ he speaks with the casual, yet sharp drawl jack's heard so many times. feared, so many times. he stands from the council chair, and jack snaps his arm up, pistol pointed at his father, though his hand shakes and jack's expression is a twisted mix of fear, hysteria, hurt, denial and despair, eyes rimmed red, skin splotched and red around his nose and lips. it isn't real. he isn't here. silas doesn't stop in his approach to his son, and jack's finger settles over the trigger. a few more steps, and jack's thumb cocks the handgun. his father makes it all the way to his son, close enough that he stands directly in front of the barrell pointed at him, leaning forward against it hard enough to have jack's shoulder (still injured from michelle) aching against the force. his mother is there too, standing to the side, perfectly poised, and regarding him with the cold detachment she watches servants with. shoot. just shoot. jack's mind screams at him, and his finger twitches, but he can't make it squeeze. silas's smile is wide, wicked and victorious. cruel, in the way someone truly hateful can be. he leans forward, speaking low and quiet, eyes dark and piercing. ]
You won't do it. You don't have the spine for it, Jack, and you never did. Even when you'd purged the disgraceful habits you'd clung to, let ties die off, you still couldn't stomach it. Your uncle handled all the dirty work for you, and in turn, you played the part of his obedient puppet perfectly. To the very end. [ it's true. he'd let it happen and william hadn't taken a second look back as jack returned to the council hall to face whatever punishmet his father would give him. to bring himself empty of anything left to exist for, and tell the parent that once loved him to put him out of his misery, like a dog taken out back and shot. like he nearly was, once. the small, desperate boy still living in his chest, however, had been clinging to the hope that his dad may not be able to truly stomach ending the son he loved once. that boy was so, so foolish. jack's trying to block out the words, trying to focus on just telling his finger on the trigger to squeeze. one tiny, miniscule movement and this is over. jack remembers being on the stage at the peace signing. remembers watching cross at the balcony, urging jack to trigger the assassination that would end his father, and grant jack a clear path to the throne. he remembers the panic in him, the fear, and the deep, aching sorrow, that his dad would never look at him the same way he once had. he wouldn't have the chance to earn that adoration and pride back from him. he remembers seeing the gun and throwing the plan all to hell, shoving his dad out of the way and taking the bullet himself.
pathetic. so fucking pathetic. just like this is. all it takes is a small, insignificant motion, and he's spent the last six months telling anyone who asks that he'd shoot silas in the head if he ever showed up in the cdc. just big words he doesn't have the spine to fulfill. his father is still smiling at him, like a lion staring down a sickly gazelle, voice coming in a seething whisper as he pushes closer. jack won't fire. he was right. ] No matter how far you run and how deep you bury it, you'll still cower at the thought of me, like the helpless, pathetic little boy you are.
[ jack's lips tremble, teeth grinding, and tears well in his eyes, not quite making it past his eyelids. his father brings up a knife that slides fast across the muscle of jack's forearm, quick, like a viper, as if cutting through butter. something in silas's face looks like glee, and as the surprised cry leaves him, jack's hand loosens and the pistol clatters to the floor. ] I should've bashed your head in the moment you slid from your mother.
[ jack jerks back, retreating, with a hand pressed over the gushing wound on his arm, and silas follows in slow, measured steps. he's breathing in huge gasps, hysterical and completely shaken. he starts to yell, knowing dagger or someone has to be watching, assessing. ] Shut it off! [ his voice is unhinged and rasped, pain that had turned him catatonic seconds ago morphing into a hysterical fury. ] Shut it the fuck off, Dagger!
[ there's no answer, of course, and his dad doesn't seem like he'd even heard jack screaming, outside of a wry snort and a shake of his head. just the same voice, low, gravely and spiteful. ] You sapped the health from your sister in the womb, but even still, God gave me two diseased children. There is no fixing what's in your blood, son.
[ the gun has skidded across the floor, too far away to reach - if he's going to kill his father, he'll have to do it with his hands. panic screams through him as silas chuckles, jack's eyes darting left and right for any kind of weapon. or any kind of escape. there's no time for him to move regardless, because silas lunges forward, wrapping his hands around jack's throat, crushingly tight as he shoves him up against a wall. more strength than his father should have left in him, jack thinks, and he wheezes something high pitched and terrified, fingers prying uselessly at the hands on his neck, vision starting to get fuzzy. his lips peel back, teeth clenched tight as he squirms, trying anything to get free. his eyes dart to rose, his mom, the woman who'd always loved him most, still standing emotionlessly, as if watching a particularly boring speech. ]
You should have stayed on your kneels, Jack.
[ she says, and turns, heels clicking as she walks away, not even caring enough to watch her child die. his chest feels like it's caving in, and he knows he's already failed this run. he won't get out of this, and he's feeling light-headed and dizzy, limbs going numb as he suffocates, and he can taste the salt of the tears that had been welling, now streaking down his cheeks, and slipping onto his lips and into his mouth. he chokes out one last thing, barely above a whispered rasp. ]
Please, Dad, please.
[ there's no mercy in silas's eyes. nothing that sees the boy he'd raised and cherished - only a plague on his house. it all goes black. Session failure.
the lights in the training arena flick back to life, signalling the sessions to be over, and there's not a word left that jack says before he storms from the room.
fuck this. fuck everything about this. never again. ]
SESSION #1
■ TIME: 37 SECONDS | FAILURE
[ jack had thought he was ready for the black box. he'd heard how horrible it was supposed to be from the officers discussing it, and the file itself on the black box was more than a little intimidating. either way, though, he has to do it. it's assigned to him, he has to finish it and do well with it. he can't afford to fail this and lose points with dagger, if he wants to stay on top of this crew, and in a good position with the cdc to protect michelle and david, if need be.
he'd been very, very wrong.
the second the simulation starts up, jack knows what it's targeted immediately. it's starkly clear when the environment loads up as it's a nearly flawless copy of an ambush that seems eons away. it's dark on the front of the gath war, and his squad was behind enemy lines. they'd needed support, and jack made the call for it, but the jets never came. reinforcements never arrived, and when the shooting started, they were alone.
the 127th division. out of a squad of fourteen, twelve dead. one after another, they'd fallen. men jack had spent two years and more next to, fighting in trenches and ruins of battlefields, for the bickering of old ministers, bitter and jaded and stubborn. men jack wasn't prince to, just leader, commander. friends, if he thought he could call them that. almost, perhaps. bound together in the shit that was the truth of unending war, sleeping in tents or mats rolled out in the dirt. it was a place jack had felt more welcome in than with his own family, even if they hadn't truly known everything about him. all of that unit, pained screams and the wailing cries of the dying, shot or caught by a grenade or mortor, all in voices jack had memorized over the years. cared for. mixed in with the cacophany of gunfire and explosions, coming from everywhere in the night - only flashes of muzzles and blurred shadows, unfamiliar men shouting. jack's ears ringing and mind seeming frozen as he held a hand over his lieutenant's gaping chest wound, as if it would possibly still the blood gushing out on either side of his palms, staining his skin and the edges of his sleeves.
now, in the simulation, he's not on the ground next to his men. he's standing still, in between the fray, watching the entire memory in an exact replay, vivid detail, and jack completely forgets it's a simulation for the moment. he should be getting out of here, taking cover, and remember that he needs to survive this. needs to pass this training to earn his place in the team, and prove his value to dagger. it all leaves his mind in an instant, utterly overwhelmed with what they'd put directly in front of him. he's gone catatonic. this is what they targeted. his guilt, his fear, his inability to face the things that plague his nightmares and keep moving. jack's mouth hangs open, head turning to sweep across the chaos as bullets whiz past him, explosions still rattling his bones and causing his ears to ring, muting out all other sound in a way that only seems to make it more surreal. that's the first failed session. while he stands there, frozen as he relives the complete loss of the things he cared most for, finding himself so completely alone, blood on his hands and the weight of those deaths on his shoulders, knowing he'd been their commanding officers. he'd been the one responsible for their lives. supposed to protect them. all in the expanse of not even half an hour - all of them, nothing more than damaged tissue and lifeless bodies.
two hostages. over the border, and gilboa doesn't negotiate with the enemy. he would have died there, or suffered whatever gath does to pows, if david hadn't made his heroic rescue. some days, jack still thinks he should have. david should have slept in, he should have been left there. maybe it would have been easier. he thinks he should have died in the ambush alongside the men he led into it. he remembers plenty of nights in the months after getting home, that he'd thought of it. all of it coming back so fiercely on the covert ops mission Silas sent David and him on later, behind Gath lines once again. gunfire in the woods at night, the sounds of comms shorting out as their team fell. how he'd completely lost it on belial, going past unhinged and into psychotic as he'd nearly beat the man to death with fists alone.
that's what's being targeted. the weakness in him that cannot swallow down this pain and continue on. any of his pain. like his dad had always felt about him - he doesn't have the heart in him to be what he needs to be. not enough for king, not enough for his men, not enough to save himself either. paralyzed by the crushing despair of it, a bullet finds the space right between his eyes, a sharp agony before the simulation ends in an abrupt black out. Session failure.
that moment of darkness is suffocating, jack near hyperventilating, feeling like his throat has swollen closed, heart beating wildly and lungs struggling to breathe. that's wetness on his cheeks, and jack can't bring himself to scrub it harshly away, as he typically does. he knows dagger's seen plenty of jack's vulnerabilities, either through the network conversations he stalks, or through whatever means allows the officers to know everything that's happening in the crew. but even then, even with that, the thought of anyone witnessing him at that point of despair and choking on personal trauma wholly twists the knife in him, panicking him. but after that shock, he doesn't have the wits about him to think of trying to pull himself back together. get that cold, steely kind of control over himself. not for a while, at least. ]
SESSION #2
■ TIME: 27 MINUTES | FAILURE
[ it's a few minutes worth of jack sitting on the black box training room floor, simulation off, as he tries to get his breathing under control, waits for his chest to feel like it isn't being constricted by razor wire, heart beating like it's on the verge of exploding. on ajna, he'd had mild moments of remembering that scene in the Gath forest - in the Shai nest, when the dead were dropped onto the camp in pieces. nothing that's as much of a shock to his system as this. he squeezes his eyes shut, and the last thing jack wants to do is head back into that simulation, but it's only two more sessions. it's temporary, something that won't leave him lasting damage (he tells himself), and nothing that's actually real, despite how much it feels that way.
he goes directly back in. as horrible as it was, jack wants it over and done with. he's more ready this time, and the second it loads up, jack's ducking down behind a tree close to a thick huddle of bushes, trying to block out the men dying around him and focus on the enemies. he doesn't look at them as they fall, doesn't try to cover up their wounds or call for the field medic that's likely already down. it's just a simulation, it's not real, he chants the mantra in his head as he reloads his rifle, breathing heavy and chest starting to feel too tight again. ignore it, just get through it, finish the simulation. he focuses on the Gath troops, or, at least, their indistinctive uniforms and silhouettes. at least, until he gets close enough to one to see their face. dirk. he just put a bullet through dirk's throat, and he watches the teenager's bright eyes wide and glassy, trembling, as gurgling sounds signal his body trying to breathe and gasp despite the bubbling hole in his neck, crimson fluid dripping from his mouth over his chin. dirk shouldn't be dying from a bullet. he has too many formidable powers for that. but there he is, collapsing onto the ground, and jack's completely arrested in horror. a pillar of fire strikes down like lighting to his right, enough to snap his attention from it, and jack rolls to the side before looking up to see Hanna in a Gath uniform, looking at him like he personally put her through the horrors of her world.
it's just a simulation, it's not real. he doesn't look at their faces - Hanna, d'Artagnan, Tony, Topher, Baku, all the others - more at the center of their sternum. just bodies, just soldiers. put a bullet in, move to the next. don't stop to think, don't let your mind catch up. it's a task, and jack's grinding his teeth, choked noises coming from his aching throat as he takes down one after another. once they're down, jack makes the mistake of looking down at hanna as he moves to make his way past. she lies with lifeless eyes glazed over, lids still open, and blood dripping from the wide bullet wound that had ripped up most of her forehead, leaving her decorated in carnage. he'd promised her they'd make it out of their contracts together. they'd find somewhere new, and live the lives they'd always wanted. never go back to what they came from. start over. jack's knees go out under him and it's when he's reaching a hand out to touch her face, that he hears the gun cock nearby, snapping his head up to see his sister, dressed in CDC gear, pointing a pistol at his head, ready for execution. ]
You weren't enough. [ Michelle says coldly, wearing the look of disgust he'd seen on her in the council room, when she'd stood. When he'd threatened to kill her too. ] You never were.
[ his lips hang parted, at a loss for what to say to her, and she continues while he's frozen, hanna's lifeless corpse still only a few inches from his knees in the moist dirt of the now silent forest. ]
You're worse than he ever was, Jack. [ word for word, the exact same inflection, the same abhorrent disgust with him. ] Your own father. My father.
[ mouth still gaping, dirt and blood and sweat coating his face and hands, jack's utterly frozen, a deep kind of despair creeping into his chest and curling around his heart like solidifying smoke, wrapping tighter and tighter and squeezing too hard. he doesn't have time to response. two gunshots, and jack's down for a second time. one in the chest, one in the head, and everything blacks out. ]
SESSION #3
■ TIME: 1 HOUR 49 MINUTES | FAILURE
[ he wants to throw up, and for a while, jack's doubled over on the floor, heaving like he's about to. it all stays down, and he has to take longer this time to come back to himself. his eyes are squeezed shut like there's something that'll melt them out of his head if he opens them again. it's just a simulation, none of it is real. maybe the words are muttered aloud, he isn't entirely sure. just one more session. one more and he's done and he can leave. jack can hardly focus on needing to make a good score on this thing anymore. he just wants to get through it and leave. go find hanna and dirk and make sure they're still alive and well. michelle and david and try to convince himself that the words that came from their mouths (not theirs, a simulation) aren't what's actually in their minds. just in his.
jack starts it again, knowing what to expect, and at the same time, entirely unsure. he goes through the ambush, goes through the gath soldiers wearing the faces of his friends, and doesn't make the mistake of looking down at hanna. instead, his rifle is leveled on michelle when she appears, cocking it and ready to fire before she can get two words out. it isn't her that speaks, however. instead, a low, rough voice soaked in spite, coming from his left. ]
You deserved what you got. You know that, we all know that. [ david now, emerging from behind another tree with a rifle in hand, centered on jack's chest. he looks like he did in the council room, eyes hard when he stood by silently, as silas assigned jack 'a fate worse than death', his mother, who'd loved him most in the world, nodding her assent to it. alone, completely alone, and not even david or michelle would step in for him. only watch. ] You shouldn't have come here, Jack. You were meant to die in Shiloh. You still are.
[ jack's hands shake on the rifle he holds aimed at david, breathing rattling, and he wants to speak, wants to ask him why, wants to scream at him, or beg, maybe, but he grits his teeth and fires, forcing his body to move. double tap on david, swings the barrel to Michelle, looking even more horrified at him than before, tears slipping down her cheeks, and it's the pause that has him catching a bullet in the meat of his right bicep. letting out a strangled cry, he jerks the gun back up and after a shot, michelle goes down. don't look at them. don't look, it's not real. he feels like he has to throw up.
the simulation doesn't stop - it wasn't a victory. so that isn't all to it, and a sinking dread fills him, making his stomach turn. keep going. it's all he can do, as he runs through the forest, mind racing. there's a bunker ahead, and jack sprints, eager to get inside and have a moment to collect himself. he shoves a shoulder into it... and jack stumbles out into the capital building at Shiloh. his grime covered boots pound on the perfectly shined marble floor beneath him. the halls are empty, and for a moment, he's whipping his head from one direction to the other, uncertain. he needs to move, and he does, feet carrying him after he leaves his rifle behind, out of ammunition. he still has his sidearm. what jack expects is guards, more of his own men. perhaps david or michelle again, maybe his friends from the crew. he doesn't expect silas.
emerging, somehow, into the council room, there's his father. his dad, the man who'd given him piggy back rides when he was little, took him fishing and read him bed time stories. who would kiss his forehead any time he came home on furlough, and make him eggs in the morning no matter how old he'd gotten. the same dad that sentenced his only son to a living death. who'll make him another trophy on display, to warn off dissenters. if he allows him to live much longer after he'd given his father an heir to replace jack in his line of succession. ]
Hello, Jack. [ he speaks with the casual, yet sharp drawl jack's heard so many times. feared, so many times. he stands from the council chair, and jack snaps his arm up, pistol pointed at his father, though his hand shakes and jack's expression is a twisted mix of fear, hysteria, hurt, denial and despair, eyes rimmed red, skin splotched and red around his nose and lips. it isn't real. he isn't here. silas doesn't stop in his approach to his son, and jack's finger settles over the trigger. a few more steps, and jack's thumb cocks the handgun. his father makes it all the way to his son, close enough that he stands directly in front of the barrell pointed at him, leaning forward against it hard enough to have jack's shoulder (still injured from michelle) aching against the force. his mother is there too, standing to the side, perfectly poised, and regarding him with the cold detachment she watches servants with. shoot. just shoot. jack's mind screams at him, and his finger twitches, but he can't make it squeeze. silas's smile is wide, wicked and victorious. cruel, in the way someone truly hateful can be. he leans forward, speaking low and quiet, eyes dark and piercing. ]
You won't do it. You don't have the spine for it, Jack, and you never did. Even when you'd purged the disgraceful habits you'd clung to, let ties die off, you still couldn't stomach it. Your uncle handled all the dirty work for you, and in turn, you played the part of his obedient puppet perfectly. To the very end. [ it's true. he'd let it happen and william hadn't taken a second look back as jack returned to the council hall to face whatever punishmet his father would give him. to bring himself empty of anything left to exist for, and tell the parent that once loved him to put him out of his misery, like a dog taken out back and shot. like he nearly was, once. the small, desperate boy still living in his chest, however, had been clinging to the hope that his dad may not be able to truly stomach ending the son he loved once. that boy was so, so foolish. jack's trying to block out the words, trying to focus on just telling his finger on the trigger to squeeze. one tiny, miniscule movement and this is over. jack remembers being on the stage at the peace signing. remembers watching cross at the balcony, urging jack to trigger the assassination that would end his father, and grant jack a clear path to the throne. he remembers the panic in him, the fear, and the deep, aching sorrow, that his dad would never look at him the same way he once had. he wouldn't have the chance to earn that adoration and pride back from him. he remembers seeing the gun and throwing the plan all to hell, shoving his dad out of the way and taking the bullet himself.
pathetic. so fucking pathetic. just like this is. all it takes is a small, insignificant motion, and he's spent the last six months telling anyone who asks that he'd shoot silas in the head if he ever showed up in the cdc. just big words he doesn't have the spine to fulfill. his father is still smiling at him, like a lion staring down a sickly gazelle, voice coming in a seething whisper as he pushes closer. jack won't fire. he was right. ] No matter how far you run and how deep you bury it, you'll still cower at the thought of me, like the helpless, pathetic little boy you are.
[ jack's lips tremble, teeth grinding, and tears well in his eyes, not quite making it past his eyelids. his father brings up a knife that slides fast across the muscle of jack's forearm, quick, like a viper, as if cutting through butter. something in silas's face looks like glee, and as the surprised cry leaves him, jack's hand loosens and the pistol clatters to the floor. ] I should've bashed your head in the moment you slid from your mother.
[ jack jerks back, retreating, with a hand pressed over the gushing wound on his arm, and silas follows in slow, measured steps. he's breathing in huge gasps, hysterical and completely shaken. he starts to yell, knowing dagger or someone has to be watching, assessing. ] Shut it off! [ his voice is unhinged and rasped, pain that had turned him catatonic seconds ago morphing into a hysterical fury. ] Shut it the fuck off, Dagger!
[ there's no answer, of course, and his dad doesn't seem like he'd even heard jack screaming, outside of a wry snort and a shake of his head. just the same voice, low, gravely and spiteful. ] You sapped the health from your sister in the womb, but even still, God gave me two diseased children. There is no fixing what's in your blood, son.
[ the gun has skidded across the floor, too far away to reach - if he's going to kill his father, he'll have to do it with his hands. panic screams through him as silas chuckles, jack's eyes darting left and right for any kind of weapon. or any kind of escape. there's no time for him to move regardless, because silas lunges forward, wrapping his hands around jack's throat, crushingly tight as he shoves him up against a wall. more strength than his father should have left in him, jack thinks, and he wheezes something high pitched and terrified, fingers prying uselessly at the hands on his neck, vision starting to get fuzzy. his lips peel back, teeth clenched tight as he squirms, trying anything to get free. his eyes dart to rose, his mom, the woman who'd always loved him most, still standing emotionlessly, as if watching a particularly boring speech. ]
You should have stayed on your kneels, Jack.
[ she says, and turns, heels clicking as she walks away, not even caring enough to watch her child die. his chest feels like it's caving in, and he knows he's already failed this run. he won't get out of this, and he's feeling light-headed and dizzy, limbs going numb as he suffocates, and he can taste the salt of the tears that had been welling, now streaking down his cheeks, and slipping onto his lips and into his mouth. he chokes out one last thing, barely above a whispered rasp. ]
Please, Dad, please.
[ there's no mercy in silas's eyes. nothing that sees the boy he'd raised and cherished - only a plague on his house. it all goes black. Session failure.
the lights in the training arena flick back to life, signalling the sessions to be over, and there's not a word left that jack says before he storms from the room.
fuck this. fuck everything about this. never again. ]