#I was inspired by that BS2 ad where Delta stalks through a bunch of dancing ADAM ghosts

[vvatchword]

BS2 Fanfiction, Chapter 16: Gimmicks

The next morning, Naomi insisted that John dress to the nines and dragged him to a breakfast at a bistro in Olympus Heights, where the high-class apartments congregated. The reporters mobbed the bistro until the proprietor threatened to call Sinclair Security.

Passersby crowded in from the streets to snap photos and ask for his autograph. John’s scrambled eggs were rubbery by the time he got to them, and his coffee was knocked into his lap by the overzealous crowd.

Then she took him shopping at Fort Frolic. She bought him clothes—ties, suits, jackets, hats, a monogrammed bathrobe. She fussed over the length of the arms in his shirts, leaned uncomfortably close to him to cluck about the cut, and ordered a pair of exorbitantly-priced cuff links. Reporters stood a few yards away, taking notes and peering over racks, as though they were sociologists penning the habits of a far-flung civilization.

John finally put a finger on his irritation while Naomi was buying him another set of shoes.

I feel like a doll, he thought, lifting the bags off of the counter. I feel like I’m watching myself from far away.

As soon as he noticed it, he tried to shake it. First he rifled through a selection of pleasant memories: that familiar mattress in the workshop basement, the pillows heaped up just the way he liked them; sitting with a good traveling group on the rails, howling a tuneless rendition of “Do Your Balls Hang Low?” with more and more inventive lyrics until everyone started laughing too hard to continue; a sweet soft girl blushing in his arms.

When that didn’t work, he tried to think when he’d felt that detached before, and he couldn’t. He’d always felt firmly grounded in his own body. Even when his stepfather whipped out the belt, even when his mother threw him out for the umpteenth time, even when he’d been hungry enough to eat old leather, he’d never once felt like he didn’t belong to himself.

Is this why people believe in souls? he thought. No wonder they start praying.

In his detached state, he watched the goings-on of his body. Everything was unnecessary—that was the problem. The clothing was pretension; the smiles were superficial, by people who didn’t know him, and didn’t care; the five-star restaurants plated a single shrimp with a leaf on it for some fucking reason, and then did that seven more times in a row when they could’ve just brought him the whole meal right at the beginning; the grandiose statues, the gilding, the marble, the towers—all that money spent on stone and metal when you couldn’t so much as find a coat closet that wasn’t cold as fuck.

And the clothes, the shopping, the eating, the entertainment—a nonstop flood of social excess. Beneath his ribs, a knot of misgiving: it was all too easy; you couldn’t trust it if it were easy. “There’s either someone paying somewhere, or you pay in the end,” as his stepfather used to say, and fuck, if the old asshole wasn’t right. And besides, John knew what he was. He’d known since he was a child. Put him in a flour sack for all he cared. He could get by with a dollar. Who the hell needed to shine like Fred Astaire on parade? Fuck Fred, and fuck Ginger, too.

There was a brief period of about 15 minutes where he wondered if he had actually died out on that abyssal plain. Perhaps he was in the final throes of nitrogen narcosis. Perhaps he was the last man on Earth, surrounded by devils who, for lack of prey in other places, each vied for a bite of his soul.

He came to his senses when he was standing in front of a mirror, staring into his own face, studying his scars and the movement of his eyes as he listened to the pulse of his blood.

You feel this way because you’re putting your life in this woman’s hands, he thought. And you won’t feel right until you’re free. Because buddy, you and I both know: you may not be in a cell, but you sure as hell ain’t going anywhere.

*******

They stopped for lunch in a glitzy restaurant in Fort Frolic. John stared out at the city skyline as Naomi chattered at him. She was fucking adorable: coy smiles, meaningless little wrist flicks, tossing her head when she laughed.

Jesus, why couldn’t everyone see what a fake she was?

The waiter set an order down in front of him. It was a steak and a fluted glass of red wine. He didn’t remember ordering any of it.

“You’re still moping,” Naomi said.

He glowered at her. “Yeah. Let me have this.”

A switch flipped. Somehow, although her expression never changed, it instantly lost its meaning: it was the shape of a smile, but carried nothing. Gone were the head bobs and the flutter of her lashes. Suddenly he felt like he was staring at an alien.

“These first few days are critical.” She cocked her head. Her curls bounced. She never blinked. “Do this for me: push those sad thoughts into a box. Can you do that? It’s not like you can’t think about it. Of course you can. It would be unreasonable not to. But there are places and there are times. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to bring that box out, and then both of us will get along so much better. Besides, this should be the time of your life. So many people to meet, and so many things to see, and so much of life to enjoy, all in the best city on Earth.”

The switch flipped back on, and her eyes crinkled up. He could almost believe she was warm.

He took a deep breath.

One. Two. Three.

“Yeah,” he said, breathing out. “You’re right.”

What was this escape, after all, but a marathon? A test of endurance. Mourning could wait. Once he was out, he’d take a bat to the dump for a day of beating bottles and old armchairs to death, and he’d sure as hell tell every newspaper he saw. Wouldn’t bring Jules and the boys back, but it would take everything from Ryan.

She slapped his hand.

“I saw that,” she said. “Stop it. Think about something nice.”

“Sorry.” He bent over the steak, groped for something innocuous. “So… you have cows here?”

He jabbed the beef with his fork and sawed it in half with one motion. The blade screeched against the plate. Naomi winced.

“Yes.” She smiled prettily. “But they’re miniature cattle, and there aren’t that many.”

He chewed slowly, then scowled.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Tastes like someone rubbed a fish all over it,” he said.

“Oh, they can’t help it,” she said. “It’s the seaweed, I suppose…”

“Darling,” a lady said. “What are you doing here?”

A woman in blue strolled toward their table, a white handbag tucked under her arm. Her hair rolled in thick chocolate ringlets over her shoulder, pinned with pearl-encrusted clasps; her face was half-hidden by a hat trimmed with polka-dot ribbon. But the first thing John saw was her eyebrows, and all he could think about was that they were sharp enough to pin butterflies with.

“Blanche!” said Naomi, rising to her feet. “What a surprise!”

John rose to his feet, too, but Blanche did not look at him. Instead, she clasped arms with Naomi and they kissed each other on the cheeks. Both began speaking rapidly in French. He stood there dumbly, glancing from woman to woman. If the tone of their voices was to be believed, they were the greatest friends in the world and they hadn’t seen each other in a decade.

Naomi waved at John and grabbed him by the arm. Blanche’s eyes flicked from the top of his head down to his feet.

“Hmm,” she said.

Naomi said something that sounded conciliatory.

“But this, darling?” Blanche said, in heavily-accented English. She jerked her chin at John. “I am surprised at you.”

“I knew you would be,” said Naomi.

“Don’t tell me that you are keeping him in your room.”

“Not in my room, dear. On the sofa.”

“Still, it is a dangerous thing.” Blanche looked him up and down again. “He might have a disease.”

Naomi shook her head. “Please. Of course not.”

“But look at him. Where do you see cause for all this excitement?” “Why not? Consider what he has done. Nobody else has simply broken into the city and successfully defied the council…”

“There are hundreds of smugglers down on the docks. Probably much nicer-looking ones.”

“And without Fontaine, what on Earth would they be?” laughed Naomi, tossing her head. “This man came here of his own strength and cunning.” She threw a glance at John and winked.

To John’s shock, the wink thrilled him—as though for one magnanimous moment she had opened a bright and shining door that included him. He actually gave her a grin before he realized what he was doing.

Oh, hell no, he thought, and squashed the smile flat.

“Furthermore,” Naomi said, “he’s one of a great band of explorers… he’s world famous in diving circles.”

Blanche chuckled. “For what? Being the cleanest among them? You have dressed him very nicely, but I can tell your handiwork when I see it.”

John looked at Naomi. “And who’s this?”

“Mademoiselle Blanche de Glace to you,” said Blanche, her lips curling. “And you are the diver.”

“Yeah. I’m the diver.” He looked at Naomi and jerked his chin toward the table. “Can I cut out? My food’s getting cold.”

“Oh, don’t mind Blanche.” Naomi took him by the arm. “She’s having a party tomorrow night and she was wondering if you could come.”

“Sorry, can’t go. I’ll give her friends fleas,” John said.

“They have no taste; they deserve it,” Blanche said. “Now. You tell me. You are the one who destroyed two bathyspheres, and…?”

“Sure,” he said. “I also fought a hundred men at once with my bare fists and I won.”

Strangers leaned over to listen. Conversation died off. The only sound was the canned music.

Naomi shook her head. “He’s being facetious. But he did fight off over a dozen attackers and escape the police in Neptune’s Bounty fish market.” Her eye flickered to the diners around them. “After traversing the ocean floor, tricking sailors in a bathysphere armed with torpedoes…”

“He could not possibly have fought everyone,” said Blanche. John shrugged. “Well, no, but there’s a trick to it. Keep a few steps ahead, don’t fight unless you have to, and fight one at a time if you do.”

She arched an eyebrow. “How would you learn to fight so?”

The edge of his lip twitched. “I’ve had a lifelong career as a rascal.”

“Then you are perfect… if I must have a bar fight,” said Blanche. “Such a gimmick!”

“What, don’t you believe me?” John asked.

“Of course not. You are a silly little man, a puff of air,” she said. “Ah, well, if that is the price I pay…” She handed Naomi a card. “The party begins at 9 on Friday in the Demeter Ballroom at Adonis Luxury Resort. Be there promptly.”

“I have work that evening, Blanche,” Naomi said sweetly.

“Promptly!” Blanche snapped. “I hope that he will gimmick and make nonsense… and for god’s sake, make sure he is clean. Throw him in a bucket and swish him around.”

“Of course he’ll be clean,” said Naomi. Her voice lowered conspiratorially. “Please, John, don’t mind her. For Blanche, everything is a scene.”

“This is not a scene.” Blanche’s eyes flicked over Naomi’s shoulder. “Now I am very sorry, but I must go…”

Naomi grabbed her by the wrists. “Oh, don’t leave so quickly, darling. Wouldn’t you like to stop for a bite to eat?”

John set his jaw.

Blanche glanced at John. “Not for the world. Until we meet again.”

She strode away, snapping her purse shut with a note of finality. John leaned toward Naomi as they sat down.

“What the hell was her problem?”

“Blanche is one of the top-billing actresses in the city,” said Naomi, taking a sip of wine. “She expects everyone to react accordingly.”

“Tell me you’re not really taking me to her fucking party.”

“Of course I am. Oh, don’t give me that face. There will be two or three hundred people there, maybe more. You won’t see much of her and it will be a fine debut for you. In fact, I welcome you to break your silence. Tell as many stories as you like. Feel free to embellish them…”

He looked at her blankly.

“I mean that you should lie and exaggerate, darling. Look, don’t take her so seriously. She is past her prime and these days she’s running on her name alone. It’s only a matter of time before she can’t find anything at all.” She smiled. “Unless she’s willing to take parts for meddling aunts and the like. And if I know Blanche, she’d rather die.”

“You don’t like her, then?”

“I don’t like or dislike her. She’s a connection, that’s all. I owe her a little for taking me underneath her wing early in my career, and we help each other from time to time.”

“So you have no friends.”

“In your sense?” She smiled. “No.”

*******

Friday evening, after a whole day of nothing but art exhibits and promenades, John attended Naomi’s play—a romantic comedy called “A Ballyhoo in Boston.” Showings were weekend affairs staged at a theater called Fleet Hall in Fort Frolic, a theater John’s eyes had slid over before—just more grandeur struggling for definition amongst grandeur.

He fought his way through the paparazzi all the way to the ticket booth. Once he popped past the ushers, the mass of humanity on the other side assaulted him with programs and pencils. Only when a handful of ushers stepped up was he able to escape up the narrow stairs to his private box.

He drew the curtain and sat in the back rubbing his face. He felt distracted, nervy, off-kilter; below, a sea of top-hats and chiffon, strange faces peering up at him with mild curiosity. He ended up scooting all the way to the back of the box until the lights fell. The orchestra welled up and the curtains swept away. At first, all he could see were the silhouettes of what might have been buildings; then the colored lights burst on.

He’d never seen anything like it. The sets were a caricature of turn-of-the-century Americana; the players sported bushy handlebar mustaches and bustles, rushed along below oversized posters for minstrel shows, and tended real horses pulling real carriages. He slowly migrated from the back of the box to the front.

Soon enough, he leaned over the balustrade, mouth hanging open. The plot went right over his head. There was so much going on in the backgrounds, so many interesting little details peeping out behind open doors and false storefronts, acrobats hanging on wires and dancers on rooftops, and an orchestral score that swelled up in themes strangely striking and fresh. He only really started hearing dialogue 15 minutes in, and he missed Naomi’s entrance completely; it took him halfway through the play to pick her out. There were a lot of blondes, and almost everyone wore hats.

Near the end, as the mistaken beaus stood alongside a puffing life-sized train considering their headlong flight into the country, Naomi rushed out of the wings with her skirts in her fists. The orchestra rattled off her footsteps, chased her down with tympani and snare, rolled up behind her in a building brassy cloud.

It was so easy to forget, just for a little while, that life couldn’t always be like this: every human being heralded in song, every color rich enough to drink, every detail an artisan’s dream. Oh, that the whole world could be one great big sensible misunderstanding tied up with a pretty bow.

*******

They returned to Naomi’s apartment by 8:30. He found himself staring out the bathysphere window into the city feeling oddly high. At first, it was delicious; he had been unhappy for so long—and hadn’t realized it was unhappiness—that he welcomed the momentary madness. All of Rapture seemed brighter, more colorful. Every person was a character; every object was a piece of art; every color was so deep and richly saturated he fancied he could sink into them.

Then they walked through the apartment door.

“We’re gonna be late,” John said, squinting at the clock.

He cut himself off. His voice didn’t feel real; his words felt scripted. When had he become an actor in his own life?

“I know, darling,” Naomi said. “There’s no helping it. I’m not going to starve for Blanche.” She looked over her shoulder. “I’m going to use the shower first.”

“Ladies first,” he said, shrugging.

The tension was back.

Naomi immediately disappeared into her bathroom. The shower hissed on.

John did not immediately move. Instead, taking a deep and shuddering breath, he rolled out his shoulders, closed his eyes, just stood and thought nothing. He concentrated on his breathing:

In. One, two, three. Out.

In. One, two, three. Out.

In…

Out.

He followed the tension from the tips of his toes up his legs, into his hips, into his belly, up his spine, then back down again. Jules had taught him to do it early on in his training when he got too worked up.

“It can be scary down there,” said Jules. “When it’s dark, when you can’t see for shit. Don’t worry about the oxygen and just breathe. You can’t do a damn thing if you’re panicking.”

The air kicked on with a loud hum.

John let his breath out, shook out his hands, dropped to the couch, lit a cigarette. The nicotine drifted over him like a blanket.

“What comes after this?” he asked himself.

He tried to think of people who’d been famous for, say, a month or two. How long had he been aware of them in papers? On the news? Some of them appeared only once, then disappeared without a sound. Where had they gone to? What were their lives like afterward? Tragedies aside, he’d suspected that most of them had gone back to the invisible labors of everyday life, and that their fame became a fun five-minute story at family barbecues.

But after fame dropped him here?

Couldn’t dive.

Couldn’t work in the Bounty.

Back when Jules had started training him, he’d thought he would have at least two decades of work, injuries permitting. Now he was stuck: there were no railcars out of Rapture. He could weld and he was handy with a toolbox, sure, but welding paid peanuts compared to salvage. And in a place like this, peanuts would kill him.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Gotta start job-hunting now or I really will be shit out of luck.”

Then the black-and-white images of the Hercules popped back up in his head. In his imagination, he could almost feel the weight of the ocean, and the water shivered with unseen scavengers creeping many-legged…

He turned on the television, cranking the volume all the way up. For a while, he watched a mystery serial. None of it was clicking; the actors were just noise and cutouts. Out of the corner of his eye, the front door beckoned.

You could just leave, he thought. You could just fucking go. Right now. Fuck Naomi and her shitty friends. Not like she could do any take-backs.

Memories of the slum tunnels and their visceral stink slapped him in the face. He winced.

What do you want to bet you end up there anyway? he thought.

Maybe Naomi was right. Learn the city a little bit, make some good connections while he could, enjoy himself before the inevitable descent. Put the shitty parts of his brain in the box. Kick it back under the lockers for now. Why not? It wasn’t like he was forgetting them. It wasn’t like he wouldn’t take care of it. Just not now.

Before he could follow the thought further, a news reporter rattled off his alias. He glanced down. The screen flickered to an afternoon entertainment news broadcast with highlights. There was a shot of him sawing at his steak.

“I wasn’t moping,” he said under his breath.

Eventually, the shower switched off. The cabinet clattered and drawers slammed. The clock chimed the hour. Count on a dame to take an eternity; he’d probably get himself ready in 15 minutes. He flipped a paper open to the classifieds and picked up his trusty magnifying glass.

He had worked through a couple columns and circled a number of promising leads when the bathroom door swung open. He didn’t look; he had averted his eyes all week even though she had been practically mummified in towels. Not his business. He was starting to think she should be nobody’s business. He traced a column with his pen.

Her soft white hand dropped on his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Job-hunting,” he said, flipping the paper closed. “You won’t be my meal ticket forever.”

“Oh?” She leaned over his shoulder. Her breasts drooped beside his ear, hugged in gold.

He jumped back. He had just swung around to tell her to cut it out when he met her eyes.

His breath caught in his throat. The way she leaned was indecent. Those naked shoulders, that heaving bosom. Gold webbed around her throat. Her lips were wet and red and slightly parted, and over her ears twisted gold leaves speckled in pearls.

He slapped the paper down over his lap.

“Don’t do that,” he said. His voice cracked.

“You need to use the bathroom, I’m sure,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, rising to his feet, folding up his newspaper officiously. “Quick shower.”

“You’re not going to shower with the paper, I hope,” she said.

He tossed it on her bureau and ducked in. When he caught his reflection in the mirror, he jabbed a finger at himself.

“Don’t you dare,” he whispered, and thrust off his jacket.

*******

When he stepped out in evening dress—fresh-shaven, hair slicked back, spinning his hat on an index finger—she was still leaning on the couch watching television. She did not look at him, but even so, he felt that something had changed. Something like the wink, he thought. Like a door had been opened. He was being included, somehow, and she was doing this without looking at him.

“Are you done?” she asked, swaying upright.

God, did the dress have to hug her like that? He wracked his brain for her last outfits and couldn’t think of any of them. They’d been outfits, that was all. Nice-looking ones, sure, she was definitely a pretty bird, but…

She took his hand.

“You’re thinking again,” she said, slapping him on the arm. “Stop that.”

Her smile was intoxicating. Damn, and the musk she wore. Fucking primal. Was this what it had been like for Annie when he had smiled at her? Fuck, he hated it. He’d never do it again.

As she led him out the door and locked it, committing them to the flash and pop of the paparazzi, he collected himself. There was no reason to start thinking of her any differently. He knew what she was and she knew he knew. Just breathe and keep walking. It wasn’t going to be forever.

But then she took his arm. She nestled into his side just right, fitting the straight lines of his body without even trying. The heat of her skin, the rise and fall of her ribs, the thud of her heart…

Suddenly they were halfway to the metro. He was time traveling. Her breasts pressed against his arm and he had to make a concentrated effort not to look.

My god, the boys would think I was sick, he thought.

“I thought you hated me,” he said as they ducked into the bathysphere.

“Whatever made you think that?” she asked, punching her ID and hitting the button for Adonis Luxury Resorts.

“You don’t have friends, just… business partners.”

“And they can be quite enjoyable partnerships, too.”

“Look, I’m just trying to ask you to stop hanging all over me.”

“Darling, we’re just playing a part.” She curled up against him as they sat down.

“Nobody can see us here,” he said, shifting away. “Why the hell should we play a part here?”

“It’s practice.” She shifted into him. “Oh, do stop worrying. Let’s just try to enjoy each other’s company. After all, we have to stick together for such a long time.”

Even her voice had changed, although he couldn’t have said how. Were his eyes wet? Was he going to fucking cry? Jesus. He forced his gaze out of the window. Even there, he couldn’t escape her. Her reflection lit a cigarette and the orange light flickered across her cheeks. Did she know he was staring at her? Fuck, how could she not? He’d always known when the girls were looking at him, hadn’t he? Shit, and he’d savored it. No reason to think she wasn’t doing the same.

He tried to remember her heels on Gerard’s forehead. He tried to remember the way she turned off at lunch.

“You’re quiet,” she said at last. “You aren’t thinking again, I hope.”

Yep, there was that faint note of satisfaction. Good, now he hated himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said flatly. “You look very nice tonight.”

She tossed her head back and laughed. The pearls shivered in her hair.

“Is that all!” she said. “I hope so!”

The bathysphere dinged and ground into arms of steel, bumping as it docked. He turned to snap something about how that’s not what he meant and she knew it, but the bathysphere lurched as it rose and jolted him into her side. He met her eyes. She met his. She brushed his cheeks with her lashes and her breath was hot and wet on his throat.

And then the bathysphere shuddered, the door creaked open, and she drew him into a hail of flashbulbs.

Blinding. Like walking onto the surface of the sun. Squinting, arm up over his eyes, he finally made out the wall—rosy marble, pinstriped wallpaper, and a massive oil painting with the same square footage as his first apartment. Its subjects: a dozen nubile women falling out of bedsheets.

John had just parsed what might’ve been a nipple when Naomi yanked him down the hall. Royal purples and velvet mauves and gold trim: if Fort Frolic had been the burlesque dancer of Rapture, Adonis Luxury Resort was the Carnegie. Marble nudes and satyrs stared lifelessly from false forests. Above grand entryways were fish arcing beneath blazing sunbursts, and the floors were geometric roses. Naomi craned her neck around him to peer down a hall. Her throat was so smooth, so slender! The muscle tensed beneath the gold. God, he just wanted to…

“Oh, John, we’ll have to come here next,” she said, squeezing his arm. “This is the wing for the ballrooms and restaurants—there are saunas and pools lower down. Don’t you think that would be enjoyable?”

“Yeah,” he said, and pulled back. He had started leaning down toward her. Why was he letting her hug his arm like that? How dare she hang from his elbow with that familial ease? It hurt him, it was so pleasant: he thought of Jules laughing at him from the wheelhouse.

Just past the crowd was one of the omnipresent glass walls. He could see Neptune’s Bounty swelling out of the gloom, windows gold and green; just beyond it, the Welcome Center towers lit up in silver and blue.

“Does this connect to the Bounty?” he said.

“There’s one tunnel, yes,” said Naomi, her voice darkening. “Why do you ask?”

“Just don’t want the law to think I’m coming here on purpose.”

She laughed. “Why would they think that? You’re a philosophy-abiding citizen now.”

“I guess I am.”

He laughed, and to his shock, she laughed with him. He started smiling at her. He started smiling at her! He was going to hell! He was an idiot! She was going to push him into a meat grinder! And still, without even meaning to, John had relaxed into her touch, hands tucked in his pockets. The heat in his belly built up into his chest, down between his thighs.

Hell, they were like… they were like friends, almost.

It won’t be forever, he thought. She knows it. I know it. Maybe we can just have a little fun. That’s all it is. Fun never lasts forever.

A weight was lifting away from him. He stood straighter, looser. They shouldered through a hallway filled with journalists, dames like peacocks, and a hundred identical Mr. Moneybags. He was one of them, too. No one would have been able to tell the difference unless they shook his hand; his calluses would cut them in half. Suddenly he wished he’d worn gloves.

At some point, they were no longer fighting for space, but being pushed by a current of humanity. They dragged a long train of interested passersby who peered at John like he was a lion at the zoo. Whispers followed in their wake. The only thing John could pick out with certainty was the whisper, “Is that him? Is that really him?”

Naomi kept walking as though she could not hear them. As for John, he was beginning to feel claustrophobic and light-headed. Suddenly he was grateful that she held him. She knew where to go. She was taking him to the place he needed to be. He didn’t have to think about it: it was in its box, it was waiting for its time; every deed had its time. Besides, his debts were paid. Oh, thank god, thank god, the weight rose off of him, it bounced with the cigarette smoke on the ceiling. Was he smiling? Was she smiling back? What was that word she mouthed at him?

The high-class mob squeezed them through the hallway, faster and faster, like water through a sluice, flowing madcap past pink and satyrs and flowers and servants in matching suits, until they were swept into a ballroom.

John whistled as they stepped onto the landing.

An entire wall of the ballroom looked out upon a garden shimmering with bioluminescence. The pillar in the center of the room had been carved to look like a tree. Its branches glowed with lanterns, birds, apples, and leaves of bright and glittering glass. The ceiling was painted like a sunlit sky with scudding clouds and putti as pink and lumpy as ham hocks. At the foot of the pillar was a bar sculpted to look like a hedge, and around the bar spun a hundred couples resplendent in rainbows. The floor reflected the painted heaven back at itself. On the stage, a woman in red sequins hovered over her microphone, and her voice welled out like amber, like coffee, like rich earth. Behind her was an orchestra, a pianist flying over ivory. Some song he’d heard somewhere. He couldn’t place it.

Blanche swept out of the crowd toward them.

“There you are,” she said. “You are late!”

“I told you, darling, I worked tonight.”

“I said ‘promptly,’” Blanche said, “and I meant ‘promptly.’ If you will inform the muck-digger that he should close his mouth, as he looks like a fish.”

John snapped his mouth shut and gave her a stink-eye.

Blanche had gowned herself in an ivory floor-length number and had thrown a mink stole around her naked shoulders. Now that he gave her a second look, he saw what Naomi had mentioned: faint lines in her cheeks, the touch of crow’s feet, the old woman pressing through—death taking its due.

“Oh, don’t be cruel!” Naomi dragged John toward Blanche, glowing like a star. She kissed Blanche on the cheek and rattled off a line of French.

With a shock, John felt the shape of jealousy balling up in his gut.

“As long as you have the gimmick,” said Blanche, turning to the crowd.

Now, in addition to John’s train of followers, some curious ignorants bunched up in the door to listen to Blanche, and a ruckus kicked up in the hall as the crowd backed up.

“I have an announcement to make,” Blanche called out. She clapped a few times. “An announcement!”

When nobody paid attention, she flung up her naked arm and snapped her fingers. John nearly jumped out of his skin: her eyes flashed and a long thin flame burst above her pointing finger.

“What the hell!” John said.

Everyone started laughing.

“This is Johnny Topside, as I promised,” Blanche said.

They fell upon him chattering. The fumes from their perfume and cologne and tobacco choked him. He coughed and backpedaled, nearly losing Naomi, only to bump into a wall of people extending their hands. The voices were an unintelligible roar.

“Damn you, Blanche!” he said.

Blanche plucked a cigarette-holder from her purse and laughed. Soon, he lost sight of her in the mass of people. Naomi was his foundation. She propped him up; she pressed part of the throng back with obsequious smiles and an out-flung hand. He clenched her arm like she could save him.

He had no idea of half of what they asked him; he shook dozens of hands, politely declined to dance, and gave vague answers to breathless young men asking about his adventures. And the women—they were everywhere, of every age, from grand dames to starry-eyed girls. Soft hands touched his. Soft hands on his arms, soft heaving bosoms, soft bright-eyed girls in every color, every shape, bejeweled and smiling, and Naomi—

Naomi crushed his arm to her waist. Her fingers slipped between his fingers; her hip melted into his hip.

“All right, all right!” John said at last. “Everyone pipe down. I can only answer one question at a time.”

The crowd erupted into questions again.

“I’ll ask!” he said. “You.” He pointed at the prettiest girl in the circle—a hazel-eyed brunette in dark blue. A golden net winked in her hair. Naomi’s grip threatened to cut off circulation to his hand.

The brunette blushed. “Did you really fight all of the smugglers in Neptune’s Bounty?” she asked.

The crowd shifted and he saw Blanche again, glaring at him with thinly-veiled contempt.

“Uh, not really,” he said. “Maybe I should start at the beginning.”

John had just told the crowd how he’d been ground into the seafloor by the submersible when Blanche reached through the crowd, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him through the throng. Her nails dug into his elbow like the teeth of a rat; Naomi staggered along with them both.

John hissed and the crowd grumbled.

“Oh, Blanche!” said the pearl-haired girl. “He was telling us a story!”

“You are clogging the way, muck-man,” Blanche said. “Down to the dance floor, if you please.”

“Blanche, don’t be so rough,” said Naomi. “You just have to ask.” John ripped his arm away. “Exactly.”

“Go,” said Blanche, pointing down the stairs.

“I just managed to get it organized,” John said as they turned down the stairs.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d just jump in like that,” said Naomi. His hand ached where she squeezed it.

Soon storytelling was the last thing on John’s mind. He moved slowly down the stairs, shaking hands as he went. Naomi introduced each person; here was a famous producer, here was a great actor, here was a businessman who made more money a day than John had in ten years. John forgot them as soon as he met them. There were too many. Every time he said hello to one group of partygoers, another glittering wave swept up to meet him.

Naomi tugged him toward the bar when they reached the bottom of the staircase.

“He’s getting tired, I think,” she said. “Wouldn’t you like a drink, darling?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Please!”

The crowd laughed.

“It’s on me,” said an oily shrimp with a camera. He had a face like a weasel and a Jersey accent.

“Who’re you?” John asked.

“Stanley Poole, Rapture Tribune,” said the little man, offering his hand. It was sweaty and a little greasy. John shook it and wished he hadn’t.

“You here for an interview?” John asked, wiping his hand off on his pants. Naomi pursed her lips and dug a handkerchief out of her handbag.

“Natch,” Stanley said, smiling. His hair was slicked back with Brilliantine and his scrawny neck stuck out like a box turtle’s. John immediately had the sensation that the man was thrashed regularly as a child.

“Maybe later,” John said, leaning into Naomi. “I’m a little shell-shocked.”

“All right,” Stanley said. “Understandable.” He laughed. It was an ugly, horsey sound. “Here, maybe a drink’ll calm your nerves. Bartender—you got some of that Allson’s Orchard Limited, red, 1948?” He passed a hundred-dollar bill to the bartender.

“That’s okay, really,” said John. “I’ll just have a beer.”

The crowd around John laughed as though he had uttered a joke.

“Yeah?” said the bartender. “Which one?”

“A Schlitz?”

The crowd laughed even harder. Naomi blushed.

John blinked. “What’s funny?”

“You’ll like it,” said Stanley, pushing the drink over to John.

John nodded to him and picked up the fluted glass. He sipped it, smacked his lips, and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“Like it? Yeah? Mind if I take a picture?” Stanley asked.

“Sure, go ahead,” said John. “You’re going to take one anyway.”

Everyone laughed again. John wished they wouldn’t. He felt like they were all privy to a joke he didn’t know.

The camera popped; the flash left stars in his eyes.

Grimacing, John took a quick swig of the wine. The crowd laughed again, but he laughed with them. He rolled his shoulders as he set the glass down.

In…

Hold…

Out.

“So what did you want to know?” John asked.

“That’s just what I wanted to hear.” Stanley set a dictaphone between them, then flipped out his notepad and pen. “First things first. You’re the Naomi Lucas, right?”

“Yes.” She smiled prettily. “I’m a friend of Blanche’s.”

“Fantastic.” Stanley scribbled something down. “You’re movin’ fast.”

“Why not?” Naomi said, squeezing John’s arm.

“Jesus,” John said.

The crowd laughed again.

“So, Johnny Topside. The Rapture populace wants to know,” said Poole. “Where do you come from? Are you a spy? An explorer? Or did you come here by accident?”

“Maybe I should begin at the beginning,” John said. “Just to set the story straight.”

The crowd grew silent. Even the bartender leaned toward him.

“That would be fantastic,” Stanley said, and pressed the button on his dictaphone.

*******

The story took much longer than John thought it would, mostly because he kept getting dragged down rabbit holes. He told them about his dives on Spanish galleons and modern shipwrecks, as well as his last near-death experience, when his air hose had fouled during bad weather in shark-infested waters.

The crowd around him posed questions; sometimes they spoke too loudly or too much, and John had to repeat himself. By the end of his tale he had managed to drink the wine and two small glasses of cognac and had accepted several cigarettes that were quite clearly made with real tobacco. Three filled glasses sat by his side waiting to be drunk. He felt pleasantly warm, relaxed; he couldn’t imagine why he had ever been on edge. All these plump, soft-handed paper-pushers? Sometimes he fancied that he loomed above them and they were the sizes of kittens.

Naomi sipped a glass of wine, leaning on his shoulder. For once, he was glad she was there. He didn’t know if he could have stood being there alone, the heavy eyes of strangers boring into him.

Stanley finally punched the button on his dictaphone and closed his notepad.

“Thanks, bud,” he said. “Mind if I call you ‘bud’?”

“Nah.” John shook his hand. “Thanks for the drinks.”

“It’s no problem,” said Stanley, slipping him his card. “Keep in touch.”

Stanley dropped off of his stool and disappeared into the crowd; it closed around him and crushed in toward John, hands extending pieces of paper and pens, a hundred mouths calling out his name. John backed into the bar.

“Whoah!” he said, stuffing the business card in his pocket. “Give me a second!”

“Why don’t we dance?” whispered Naomi in his ear, and then yanked him through the crowd. It broke around them grudgingly.

“S-sure?” John said. “Good god, is this the way it’s gonna be all night?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Naomi patted him on the cheek.

Naomi swept him to the edge of the dance floor. The song was a swing number that he did not recognize. He perked up.

“Good tune,” he said.

“That’s Anna Culpepper and her orchestra,” Naomi whispered in his ear. “She’s an acquaintance of mine.”

“Do you know everybody in show business?” John asked.

“I try to. Shall we dance?”

She took him by each hand, gently wrapping his left around her waist. When she lifted his right—gently, instructively—he realized she thought she was going to teach him something.

So the minute the music hit an upbeat, he whipped off into a swing step, sore foot be damned. She stumbled after him with a squeal and for a few seconds struggled to keep up. He was gratified to see her mouth fall open.

“You—you know how to dance?” she said.

“Sure. This isn’t my first rodeo.” He hooked his arm around her waist, thrusting his hips up a mere inch from hers. He leaned in close. “What if I told you I took lessons?”

Just as she shuddered, he swept her away.

This time, his crooked grin landed. Her eyes lanced into his; she bit her lips. She wasn’t as fast or smooth or precise as he was, and frankly, he didn’t give a damn.

“How inventive do you want to get?” he asked when he swung her close again.

“Oh,” she said, blushing. “I’m… not right now.”

“You need me to slow down? Maybe downgrade to a little foxtrot?”

“No!” Her blush was doing something to him. “But do you know how we dance in Rapture?”

She almost sounded frantic.

He leaned in close, pressing his cheek against hers. He felt her sharp intake of breath more than heard it.

“Show me,” he said.

There were deep red grooves where her nails had dug into his hand earlier; now all she did was hook him with the pads of her fingers. There before the coral garden, she gripped his hands, she scuffed at his feet with her pretty white pumps, she counted out loud. He picked it up in minutes, and soon they swung off together to the beat on the edge of the dance floor, then into it.

God, it felt good. Without warning, he cast his worries and fears out into space, reunited with his body, and was free. It felt good to fall into a rhythm, to whirl with the surge of trumpets, work in all that subtle sway to his hips and knees, to match the beat of the drums with his feet. And it felt good to feel watched—for he was good and he knew he was good. He noted out of the corner of his eye how others were looking at him—women and men both—and he leaned into it. The whip-snap precision of heel to toe, the way he swayed with his whole body, the complementary swing of his limbs, the arch of his back. Stanley Poole was one of the watchers, standing next to one of those ubiquitous Moneybags, with his camera on his hip and his hands in his pockets.

Let them laugh at him about his booze and background as much as they wanted. He’d show them up here.

As the song rushed to its tumultuous end—the throb of drums, the crescendo of trumpets, Culpepper with her hands trembling on either side of the mike, her eyes closed as she surrendered to one rapturous note—he yanked Naomi tightly against his body, then dipped her, and she stared up at him so starstruck that he started laughing. One curl had broken free of his pomade and bobbed over his right eye. He let her go. She staggered back from him, hands on her cheeks. Dancers were clapping for the band, but a fair number were looking at him. He pretended not to see.

“Oh my god,” she said.

“I feel like a drink,” he said, offering his arm. “How about you?”

She hooked her arm in his. “Oh, absolutely.”

He drank some wine, watching the other dancers twirl. Naomi leaned into him, breast heaving, gleaming with sweat, and he tucked his arm around her waist. For the first time in a long time, he felt like he was standing on his own.

He hadn’t stood there long before a host of pretty girls swarmed up, begging for the next dance. Naomi’s hand clenched at his arm.

“Sure,” he said, and patted Naomi on the hand. “I’ll be right back. You were going to talk to some people, right?”

He danced with every girl who asked, watching Naomi seethe from a distance. He was finally warm. The lights were melting stars; heaven was cloaked in bumping clouds; when he eyed Naomi, the light had smeared around her hair in rays. He had a cocktail no one told him the name of, and then someone gave him another champagne. The tastes all ran together. He didn’t care. The faces of strangers disappeared in a haze. All he could see were smiling faces. Everyone liked him, and he liked them. Eventually he returned to the bar, sopping with sweat. Naomi clung to him like a barnacle. She laughed at every joke he cracked, even if it wasn’t funny; she gazed up at him with sweet smiles and stroked his arm.

After an hour or two of dancing and free booze, winded and weary and buzzing, Naomi and John finally stumbled to a table overlooking the garden. In the dusky evening lighting, the kelp and coral glowed, and strange lights flashed in alien patterns between the waving leaves.

John set his hand against the window. It was ice cold, but the sensation was good against his hand. An inexpressible longing passed over him.

“Are you all right?” Naomi asked, nestling against him.

“Yeah.” He quickly turned back to her and wiped his hand off on his pants. “Don’t know what came over me.”

She bit her lip and looked out at the garden with him. “Darling, this is a bit off topic, but…”

“But what?”

“I have a question about your story.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“You mentioned taking pictures.” She looked up at him. “What happened to the camera? You said that you took it with you, but you never said where it went.”

“I hid it.”

“Why would you do that?” she said.

“They said I had a duffel bag on the news program. I had to drop it off.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” She looked at him closely. “Would you like me to go get it for you?”

John hesitated. “You’d do that for me?”

“Certainly. I’m sure the camera holds sentimental value for you. Didn’t your friend make it just for you?”

He looked away. Something clenched in his gut. All glory and gladness melted away.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. “It’s behind a vending machine in the Welcome Center, in the lobby above the bathysphere dock.” John leaned in close. “You’d really get it for me?”

“Oh, of course! Nobody can stop me from going to the Welcome Center.”

“God, thank you,” he said.

“It’s my pleasure,” she said.

Before John could react, she kissed him on the cheek. Her eyelashes tickled.

A flashbulb went off and John jumped. He glanced over his shoulder to see Stanley Poole fiddling with his camera, and behind him, several crestfallen girls.

“Don’t look at him,” said Naomi softly.

“What was that for?” John whispered.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose you could think of it as a reward for doing so well tonight.”

“What makes you think I wanted that?” he said.

She laughed and did not answer.

*******

The return to Naomi’s apartment seemed to take longer than before. The tunnels stretched out for miles and miles, and the railcars slumbered like giant pill-bugs beneath the ribbed glass. It was almost homey, even if the cold had returned. When strangers passed, he did not think of them. He was one of them now.

The hallway was stable for the most part, but every now and then it swayed gently. They staggered together. He couldn’t remember how many drinks he’d had. How much had Naomi drunk? He couldn’t remember her drinking more than two glasses of wine, but maybe that was because he had been concentrating on the crowd.

“Damn it, I don’t want to be drunk,” he said.

“Oh, you’re not that drunk,” she said. “You’re just a little tipsy.”

John stumbled into her. She propped him up, cooing.

“I don’t want to be tipsy.”

“I like you tipsy,” she said. “You’re not so serious, and I get to see that real smile.”

“The hell are you flirting with me for?” he asked, laughing.

She blushed and squeezed his hand.

They wobbled up to her doorway, laughing louder and louder. John was still snickering, tears in his eyes, as Naomi drew out her purse and turned to face him.

“Thank you for walking me home, Mr. Topside. Would you like to come in?”

“If you’re willing, miss.” He leaned toward her. She leaned back. She uncurled one hand against his chest, the other on the doorknob.

“I have to open the door first,” she said, teasing the key from her purse. He missed the pressure of her palm.

“You tease,” he slurred, slipping his arms around her waist.

She pressed back into the cradle of his hips. He buried his face into her hair and took a deep breath. Lilac perfume, and beneath it, the pleasant scent of her sweat.

She sighed; one hand stroked up underneath his jacket, her knuckles dragging against his sweat-dampened shirt.

“Hmm,” she said. “You scoundrel. At this rate we shall astound the neighbors.”

He nipped her ear. Her skin was hot, her sweat was bitter with perfume…

She turned the key in the lock—slowly, taking her time—and then turned the knob, gently. The door swung open. She pushed it open, fraction by fraction…

John kicked off.

Shrieking and laughing, they stumbled into the apartment. The door swung shut behind them. It was lightless; she was only a silhouette against the windows, through which he could see the lights of the city on parade. She whirled upon him in the darkness and her mouth pressed against his with so much fire that it spun his head. Her hands slipped underneath his jacket and she began to unbutton his shirt with rapid-fire precision. John’s hands stroked down her back, hunting for a zipper.

They broke apart momentarily, gasping for breath and fumbling with each others’ clothing. John abandoned the search for the zipper and yanked her gown up over her knees. He lost his grip when they staggered backward, laughed stupidly, righted themselves against the sofa. She kicked off her heels and fumbled at his belt. He kissed her down her cheek, down her throat, down her collarbone. They lingered there, kissing roughly. He cradled her head in his hands, running his fingers through her hair. Her crown pricked at his fingers.

“I shall be the first lady in Rapture to have you,” she whispered in his ear.

“Lucky you,” he whispered.

Before he could finish his thought, she shoved his slacks off. He snapped the buckles on her garter—cradled the plump round of her ass—shoved her against the cold window and kissed her. The lights of the city haloed her silhouette like fireworks and set her hair on fire with a thousand colors.

UPRISING: BLACK SCRAPBOOK HUB