Chapter Text
The sub is a wreck. Jack can tell that much. It's held together by little more than his hard-earned skills and a hope and a prayer. He needs more time on it— they barely know if it'll survive more than a couple thousand feet down under that cursed ocean. But time is scarcer than the resources he'd pulled together to build the damn thing.
The SM-8 is gone, and the COI is rightfully hesitant to put any manpower into building or sending out a replacement vessel of the same calibre. They need answers from this blood ocean and they need them fast. So, Jack's pulled off the repair of the SM-13 far earlier than he'd like and left gritting his teeth as they run it through some basic tests, his fingers crossed so tight they burn. It survives the tests, just barely, and the next thing he knows Ava is demanding preparations be done for its next voyage down.
Just looking at the SM-13 in the hangar fills him with a dread that has his stomach churning in time with the roiling sea beneath them. The craftsmanship is crude at best and outright dangerous at worst. It's one hull breach away from being a complete write-off; the slap-dash plating running along the ceiling makes him want to hand back his degree, and then there's the radiation bomb attached to the front of it which has been ticking ever since they first installed the camera. Jack's never particularly cared or thought about the convicts they previously sent down in the thing— why should he? Not his area, not his problem. But he can't help but pity the poor schmuck that's due to pilot this soldered pile of scrap metal.
Then Ava pulls the Convict who destroyed Filament Station out of prison, and Jack reconsiders his pity. Maybe this was the only schmuck left who actually deserves this fate. Hell, maybe he'd do some good for the COI before the sub gave out entirely. Or maybe he’d die a horrific death submerged in blood and never darken the COI’s door again with his violent existence…
Jack hasn’t actually seen the Convict himself, but his imagination is plenty capable of running wild based on the stories he’s heard. And it’s got to have taken some sort of monster to be capable of causing so much carnage on Filament Station, and with so little empathy for the lives lost along the way. Any other Eden survivors were either still awaiting their integration, had died in prison, or had been sent down in one of the burner subs for their ‘Convict Realization’ and asphyxiated during the expedition. Jack had always thought the practice was a little barbaric, but he wasn’t about to kick up a fuss in defence of the convicts. They were dead bodies walking; he was just the guy paid to weld their coffins shut. At least this time there’d be some satisfaction in sending down a man who’d definitely earned his place in Hell.
There’s a tension in the air when Ava brings the Convict out of his cell and parades him through COI. Those who work in the prison sector spit at his feet as he’s dragged along, handcuff chains clanking with every heavy step. It’s unusual for anyone to take much notice of the convicts that pass through on the way to the burner subs, and something in Jack is unsettled by the blatant displays of vitriol. As much as he understands their hate, it’s disquieting to see his colleagues, his friends, with their faces twisted in such utter loathing. He doesn’t blame them though; plenty of good lives were lost along with Filament Station. People he knew. People he liked. Loss on that scale could never be atoned for.
He’s on top of the sub and doing some panicked last-minute tinkering when the clink of chains signals the Convict’s arrival. When Jack finally pulls the safety googles off and wipes dirt from his nose, he can see the vague shape of a man hemmed in by Ava and David. Huh. He’s shorter than Jack expected. Not short, just shorter. Jack’d been imagining some towering 6’5 killer bulging with muscles and picking blood out of his teeth. This guy is shorter than David and hiding in his hood, greasy strands of hair barely visible, hands bunching the fabric of his coat as he shifts from foot to foot. Huh.
“Jack!” Ava calls sharply, walking the Convict forward until they’re standing below the sub and looking up. Well. Ava’s looking up. The hood doesn’t even twitch. “Ready to go?”
Jack glances down at the metal sheeting he’s hastily reinforcing and pulls a face. “Ehhh, nearly. M’on final checks.”
“We don’t have time for that.”
He scowls. “You want any hope of finding something down there? Or d’ya want a breach in the first hour?”
Ava’s scowl rivals his own, and is only made more intimidating by the scar tissue snaking through her eye and into her cheek. But Jack isn’t about to budge on this.
“Five minutes.” He says. It’s not framed like a request – Ava would only barter him down to less time if it was. He’s already pushing his luck.
“Jack-”
“Five minutes. We’ll waste more time arguing about it then I’ll take checking it.”
Ava’s expression shutters and he fears he’s pushed too far. Then it clears and she exhales deeply.
“Fine. But we’re putting the Convict in there now, so you’ll have to work around him.”
Jack cracks a grin, “Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Get moving.”
Jack heeds the flickers of fire in her eyes and gets moving.
He instructs Saul, one of the junior engineers, to check the hull whilst Jack inspects the interior. Saul wouldn’t be Jack’s first choice, but his other underlings were called away to take care of the ever-mounting number of problems around the COI, so Saul’s the best option he’s got. He’s a little spacey but even he can manage the routine checks.
David’s settling the Convict into the singular threadbare chair when Jack clambers down the ladder into the sub. He flashes Jack a tight-lipped smile and his eyes dart around the enclosed space.
“Hey, uh, is it alright if I leave you alone with him?” He jabs a thumb in the Convict’s direction, already heading towards Jack and, more crucially, the exit hatch. “I’d stay but… well, no, I wouldn’t. Hate this fucking thing.”
“Yeah, yeah, I hear ye. Scaredy cat.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m not the one desperate to get out of here.” Jack retorts easily, dropping his toolbox on the floor and crouching down to grab a wrench out of it.
“Shut it. Don’t be long, I’ll see you out there.”
“Aye.”
David vanishes through the hatch and Jack finds himself alone with the hunched shadowy figure by the controls. He's so different to Jack's expectations that he finds himself having to bite back the urge to start up some small talk. This man was a killer first and foremost. He was responsible for the loss of Filament Station, and no doubt countless lives along the way. Jack's never really interacted with Eden folk before, only the ones who’ve already been integrated, but he's seen plenty of them being dragged kicking and screaming through the COI, and welded his own fair number into the burner subs. They always had that crazed looked in their eyes as they were tossed into their fate, babbling about that Last Tree of theirs and the end times.
Jack wouldn’t mind it so much if Eden didn't turn their people so damn hostile. Taking out Filament Station? That was deranged behaviour, and he'd think the same thing if the COI had been the ones to do it. Still, it's hard to match up his ideas of what the Convict should be like with the evidence sitting before him. He gets started on double checking the pipes and resolves to be quick. The Convict might be one of those silent, deadly assassin types, and if that's the case then Jack doesn't want to risk pissing him off. It'd be an immediate death sentence if the Convict tried anything, but being sent down in the SM-13 was already the most extreme death sentence the COI had, even if it wasn’t an official one. Attacking an employee and being shot for it was probably preferable. Jack shivers and tries to focus on the pipes. He's only succeeding in freaking himself out.
Despite Ava's insistence that they launch the sub as soon as possible, Jack can hear her in deep discussions with someone — David probably — by the monitors, so he figures he still has enough time. Unfortunately, that does mean checking the control panel at the front of the sub. Technically that falls under David's jurisdiction, but Jack was there for most of the assembly of that hunk of wires and navigational equipment, so he'll be able to tell if anything looks dangerously wrong.
He edges around the chair to get to the console, fiddling with the knobs and levers in an attempt to ignore the figure near his elbow. A quick glance through the porthole confirms his suspicions that Ava and David are deep in conversation, pointing at charts and clearly on the cusp of an argument. Same old shit, then. Jack can also see Saul moving around, and watches as he passes by the porthole towards the other side of the sub. Good, they'll finish up around the same time.
There's already some condensation streaking down the warped metal walls, but Jack pushes it to the back of his mind. It's essentially a metal box suspended above miles of churning hot blood. A little condensation is to be expected. He does his best not to think about the x-ray camera sitting out of sight just below the porthole. Instead, he focuses on the cool air currently entering the sub through the hatch. Focuses on the console. Categorically doesn't think about the Convict being so close to him.
Outside the sub, David's throwing his hands up in exasperation and marching out of Jack's immediate line of sight. This is how most of his and Ava's interactions end, and Jack's come to think of the display as more of a punctuation mark to finish a sentence, rather than the breakdown of a professional relationship he used to believe it was.
The console looks as good as it ever will though, so Jack figures he can let Ava get on with it. He turns around and realises with a stomach dropping churn that he'd left his toolbox open at the other end of the sub. A couple of wrenches are lying innocently next to it. He curses his short sightedness and casts a worried glance back at the Convict. The man's not moved in the entire time Jack's been faffing around, but that doesn't mean it was smart of him to leave his tools scattered around. It'd only take a second of distraction and he could've had his brains bashed out across the console. Convicts were unpredictable at the best of times, and these were definitely the worst of times.
He sidesteps the ladder to crouch down and scoop the wrenches back into the box, the repetitive clang of metal loud in the otherwise tense silence. His fingers skid over the dented metal as he rushes to lock the box, worst case scenarios over what could have happened rushing through his brain. God. He needs to calm down. The Convict hasn't moved and his toolbox is secured. It's fine.
Jack makes to stand up but before he can, there’s a splitting pain erupting across the back of his head, and he’s toppling forward as something heavy lands on top him.
The fuck?!
His vision swims, black spots bursting behind his eyelids as he squeezes them shut to steady himself. This is it. The Convict has finally snapped and attacked him, and now Jack is going to die down here at the violent hands of a killer. The weight doesn’t budge, its sharp edges digging into his back with every pathetic wriggle he makes, and there’s an odd buzzing noise droning somewhere above his head. Sharp edges? Jack takes a chance. He drags himself to the side and rolls out from underneath the pressure, panting, and the weighty object thuds onto the ground with a loud bang. When he catches his breath, he glances over and finally gets a look at the object.
It’s the ladder.
Head pounding, Jack looks up just in time to see Saul’s manic grin under his protective hood disappearing from view as the hatch is welded shut. The sub is immediately thrust into gloom; the sparse lighting does little to illuminate the space and the only other pinprick of light is that which makes it through the porthole.
Jack stares slack-jawed up at the area where the hatch used to be. Then his brain catches up and panic overtakes him. What the fuck!
With a desperate, verging on animalistic cry, he's on his feet and launching himself at the ceiling in a matter of seconds. His fist connects with solid hot metal and a scream tears from his throat as pain blisters down his arm at lightning speed. He lands in a painful heap on the floor, only just avoiding the ladder, hand throbbing and legs tingling from the impact. This can’t be fucking happening. No way is this happening right now.
There’s a shifting of fabric and Jack’s eyes dart over to the console. He’d almost forgotten about the damn Convict. The figure has spun around in the chair to face Jack, although his face is ironically still the one aspect obscured by heavy shadow. Jack swallows hard and shuffles back, body reacting instinctively despite the stinging pain still radiating through it. The welding hood and goggles took some of the ladder’s blow to his head, but he can still feel a headache building behind his eyes. He doesn’t understand what the hell is going on, but if the Convict and Saul had somehow arranged this beforehand then Jack is in much more danger than he’d realised.
His only hope of escape is the porthole. He won’t be able to break the glass — not with his tools locked away, and boy is he cursing himself for that now — but there’s a chance Ava or David or someone will see him trapped inside. Jack’s watched enough of these subs go down with convicts screaming inside them to know it’s difficult to hear anything going on without the radio. It never occurred to him that one day he would be stuck in a trap of his own design; he’s really regretting how much emphasis he put on reinforcing the walls.
The Convict shifts again, unfolding from his hunched over position and moving to stand. Jack seizes the opening.
He springs up from his half crouch on the floor and dashes forward as quickly as he can, hoping to catch the Convict off guard.
It’s not quick enough.
Jack’s no fighter, and his injuries along with the welding gear slows him down considerably. He manages to dodge the first fist the Convict throws up in defence, but the second catches him completely off guard, clocking him in the jaw and sending him sprawling across unforgiving metal. He feels bruised all over. Iron wells on his tongue and he spits blood onto the floor with a choked gasp.
“F- fuck you!”
There’s no response. And before Jack can make any further moves, the sub begins to shake. A dreadful, familiar, grinding crunch of metal fills the air as the hangar doors open and the chains suspending the SM-13 above that roiling bloody sea begin to lower.
They’re going down. Jack is going down.