[ And truly, there's just silence as Jack stares himself down.
Jack has always been a man of masks, long, long before the scar on his face had appeared. It was a part of who he was, because his whole life, he'd felt that the only way to grasp the life he wanted for himself was to wear masks. You never show what you really feel. You deflect with a smile and a joke. You keep people at arm's length while making them feel like you're an old friend, because that way, no one can get close enough to lift off that mask unless you want them to. After all, to do what he does, he had to be untouchable. Any weakness was ammunition. But at some point that he couldn't point out even if he wanted to, that mask had stopped being a mask. Whatever masks John had chosen to take were what made Handsome Jack, and as he was now, they're a part of him.
So, when he catches his own gaze like this, he's struck by that.
Elizabeth was dead, and here he was, rattling off numbers? Hunting down aliens that— Well, they could have had something to do with it, but that wasn't a guarantee. It was just a chance. It could have been some asshole just as much, and in that moment, he knows that. But one option comes with purpose, and the other comes with... Nothing. His shoulders sink slightly as some of that wound-up tension drifts out of him. It's a familiar heaviness, and he hates that it's familiar at all, but he knows it all the same.
When had Elizabeth become important enough to him that he would grieve like this for her?
He'd been ready to kill her just like Rhys if she defied him. That was just the way he did things, because that had become a part of who he was too. When he was hurt, then the only way they could properly apologize for that was through blood. It was never something he thought on, but that was simply how things had happened. Maybe he had hesitated in scorning her because of how much she resembled Angel, but he knew that this wasn't what had him stay his hand in the end. He knew she was similar. That was factual and undeniable. But now, when he thinks about Elizabeth, he doesn't think about Angel at all. Not really, at least, beyond how Elizabeth could bring Angel back to him. But she wasn't the only one.
He tries to pick that out, because it doesn't... make much sense to him. He'd hated her, but as soon as he'd seen her flesh twist into what he'd been hunting, he only felt a deep fear. It wasn't for himself. It was for her, and he knew that. For a moment, he'd felt that he'd failed somehow, but he'd never thought much further on that. Then, she came to him after, not scorning, but willing to listen. It had surprised him, because no one was ever willing to listen. His second wife hadn't been, so he'd killed her. That's how simple it was. So the fact that Elizabeth has been more willing to hear his side of the story than even she was, well... He'd actually never thought too much further on that either. Not until now.
No, he thinks. It had to have been when she threatened to kill him.
It's odd, and he knows that, because death threats were a daily occurrence for him. They held no weight at all, and if anything, he took a joy in the challenge. He had to her too, because he just had the sort of personality where he would do everything he could to defy death itself. In a way, that's why he was here at all. But from Elizabeth, there was a weight that was different there. He knew she meant it. He knew she would. He even knew that he shouldn't trust her, because whatever he said, he was sure that it was getting relayed to someone else. She was honest, in that way. He could always see how guilt twisted her up, and not being aware of himself enough to think that it was because of her associating with him at all, he'd always felt it was something like that. Yet, even so, he spoke with her honestly. More honestly than he had spoken with--
In his thoughts, he pauses, and his hand instead comes up to settle over his mouth. He tries to think back, but those memories get blurry and indistinct in that way that serves as that reminder of what he is. Jack can't remember, not with any clarity. It had been years and years ago, because that mask had become so much a part of him that it never shifted any more than it had to. From watching a series of videos where he can't question or deny what's said in them to having a girl who should hate him still offering her hopes for his salvation, he feels that he's starting to see those masks for what they are.
So, he wonders, is this grieving for her? Or is it for himself? He can never really be sure. But the fact that he even wonders, that does feel new. Jack walks back to the counter, as if he's trying to get a better look at himself. ]
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Jack has always been a man of masks, long, long before the scar on his face had appeared. It was a part of who he was, because his whole life, he'd felt that the only way to grasp the life he wanted for himself was to wear masks. You never show what you really feel. You deflect with a smile and a joke. You keep people at arm's length while making them feel like you're an old friend, because that way, no one can get close enough to lift off that mask unless you want them to. After all, to do what he does, he had to be untouchable. Any weakness was ammunition. But at some point that he couldn't point out even if he wanted to, that mask had stopped being a mask. Whatever masks John had chosen to take were what made Handsome Jack, and as he was now, they're a part of him.
So, when he catches his own gaze like this, he's struck by that.
Elizabeth was dead, and here he was, rattling off numbers? Hunting down aliens that— Well, they could have had something to do with it, but that wasn't a guarantee. It was just a chance. It could have been some asshole just as much, and in that moment, he knows that. But one option comes with purpose, and the other comes with... Nothing. His shoulders sink slightly as some of that wound-up tension drifts out of him. It's a familiar heaviness, and he hates that it's familiar at all, but he knows it all the same.
When had Elizabeth become important enough to him that he would grieve like this for her?
He'd been ready to kill her just like Rhys if she defied him. That was just the way he did things, because that had become a part of who he was too. When he was hurt, then the only way they could properly apologize for that was through blood. It was never something he thought on, but that was simply how things had happened. Maybe he had hesitated in scorning her because of how much she resembled Angel, but he knew that this wasn't what had him stay his hand in the end. He knew she was similar. That was factual and undeniable. But now, when he thinks about Elizabeth, he doesn't think about Angel at all. Not really, at least, beyond how Elizabeth could bring Angel back to him. But she wasn't the only one.
He tries to pick that out, because it doesn't... make much sense to him. He'd hated her, but as soon as he'd seen her flesh twist into what he'd been hunting, he only felt a deep fear. It wasn't for himself. It was for her, and he knew that. For a moment, he'd felt that he'd failed somehow, but he'd never thought much further on that. Then, she came to him after, not scorning, but willing to listen. It had surprised him, because no one was ever willing to listen. His second wife hadn't been, so he'd killed her. That's how simple it was. So the fact that Elizabeth has been more willing to hear his side of the story than even she was, well... He'd actually never thought too much further on that either. Not until now.
No, he thinks. It had to have been when she threatened to kill him.
It's odd, and he knows that, because death threats were a daily occurrence for him. They held no weight at all, and if anything, he took a joy in the challenge. He had to her too, because he just had the sort of personality where he would do everything he could to defy death itself. In a way, that's why he was here at all. But from Elizabeth, there was a weight that was different there. He knew she meant it. He knew she would. He even knew that he shouldn't trust her, because whatever he said, he was sure that it was getting relayed to someone else. She was honest, in that way. He could always see how guilt twisted her up, and not being aware of himself enough to think that it was because of her associating with him at all, he'd always felt it was something like that. Yet, even so, he spoke with her honestly. More honestly than he had spoken with--
In his thoughts, he pauses, and his hand instead comes up to settle over his mouth. He tries to think back, but those memories get blurry and indistinct in that way that serves as that reminder of what he is. Jack can't remember, not with any clarity. It had been years and years ago, because that mask had become so much a part of him that it never shifted any more than it had to. From watching a series of videos where he can't question or deny what's said in them to having a girl who should hate him still offering her hopes for his salvation, he feels that he's starting to see those masks for what they are.
So, he wonders, is this grieving for her? Or is it for himself? He can never really be sure. But the fact that he even wonders, that does feel new. Jack walks back to the counter, as if he's trying to get a better look at himself. ]