A/N: Hello. This is my first story here. Admittedly I wrote this a while ago, so I apologize if it's still a little rough around the edges. I am a review addict, so please feel free to critique, question, and comment to your heart's content. Thanks for reading, Enjoy! (It's my first time here, be gentle)

Bioshock: Remnants

Part 1: Apollo Square

Apollo Square bustled with activity. This was nothing new, as it was one of the busiest areas in Rapture. Even though it was located nearly a mile below the ocean's surface, someone had gone through great lengths to ensure that it stayed as bright as day. Bright lights shown on the diverse collection of Rapture's populace.

From the rich to the poor, the have to the have-nots, at the best of times Apollo Square would make anyone feel welcome. However, 1958 was not the best of times. Though Rapture had been built to be a paradise, crime was a part of everyday life. People went missing, turned up dead, and, more frequently than not, were found to be involved with either Frank Fontaine or Andrew Ryan. The former was rumored to live within the square, or near enough that just being seen there would earn a person a permanent spot on Ryan's black list.

Between the towering Olympus Heights and the square sat a small bar. Unlike Apollo square which was home to everyone under the waves, this bar was home to only two types of customers. There were the suits, men of power and fortune, who strutted about with their heads in the air. Amongst, and yet not a part of, the suits were the working stiffs, their eyes cast to the ground, their shoulders hunched.

Trying his best to blend in with the other working class, David checked himself in a hanging mirror. His brown eyes went from the grease smeared across his face to the uneven, short, black bristles that covered his scalp. He tried to imitate the other working stiffs, with their heads down, and their backs hunched, despite the years of training that told him to stand straight. Repositioning the worker's beret on his head, David went to the counter and nodded to the bar tender.

Nearby, he could spot the others. Five leaned against a wall, talking to a woman, his confident smirk playing into his disguise as a wealthy businessman. Only a few feet away, Six marched into the bar, looking exhausted in a fish-gutter's outfit, his apron covered in blood and smelling of dead aquatic life. Only Eighteen looked truly out of place. Not because of his clothing, which made him look like a crime lord, but because he kept glancing over his shoulder and drumming his fingers on the counter.

As David casually glanced at the other suits in the bar, making sure he wasn't doing so obviously, he noticed that none of them seemed nervous. Internally, the boy found himself berating Eighteen. Then he took a shallow breath and returned to his drink, hoping that no one would notice he'd yet to take so much as a single sip. The four of them were waiting for the sixth member of their party, Number Three.

Without warning, Eighteen crossed the bar, and leaned over David. His eyes widening in shock, David hoped he was playing the role of a shocked working stiff and not of a man who was sure his colleague had just cost him his life. If anyone in the bar realized what was going on, the five of them would find themselves on the wrong end of about a dozen guns.

"What do we do?" Eighteen hissed. For a moment, David didn't answer, not trusting himself not to simply throttle his teammate. "Thirteen, I said what the hell do we do now?"

"Stick to the fucking plan!" David responded, his voice little more than a grating whisper. "Now, slap me on the back and walk away laughing before you get us killed." Eighteen followed David's instructions, playing the part of an obnoxious kingpin, drunk on his own power. David realized that he was shaking and hoped that, yet again, his real emotions were working to improve his deceit.

At last, as though he'd been waiting for one of them to make a mistake before arriving, Three strolled into the bar. Perhaps if he'd been there five minutes earlier, Eighteen wouldn't have blown his cover. Maybe, one of Fontaine's goons wouldn't have gone running to his boss.

Five caught it first. The woman he'd been talking to, casually pulled a derringer from her purse, and fired a round into his chest. Her face splattered with Three's blood, the woman fired again, putting another nail in his coffin. Before he'd fallen to the ground, the woman was turning to aim at Eighteen, and the bartender was raising a shotgun from behind the counter.

Before the bartender could fire, David rolled over the counter and planted his palm into the other man's nose. Using his momentum to carry him, the teenager then drove his elbow into the bartender's chin. Relieving the already unconscious man of his firearm, David aimed the shotgun at the woman. Even as he pulled the trigger he could see the insane smile that had crossed her face as she fired at Eighteen.

With a thunderclap, the shotgun let loose a cluster of pellets that slammed into the woman's chest and stomach. While her aim had been less precise, only winging Eighteen's stomach, the man who charged into the bar, his Thompson Machinegun blazing with automatic gunfire, finished the boy off with a single burst.

As Six dove behind the counter, David pumped the shot gun and fired again, this time going wide. Three had all but disappeared, leaving only Six and David to complete the task at hand. The orders, handed down from Ryan himself, were to kill Fontaine, the most wanted and dangerous man in Rapture.

"Well, it's hit the fan now," Six shouted as David knelt behind the counter. As he said it, his hand became alive with electricity. Six was one of the few who had been permitted to use Plasmids, and he put the ability to practice as the bolt of electricity slammed into Fontaine's goon. The force of the Plasmid sent the man flying.

Using the short lull in the gun fight, David and Six fled the bar, slipping into Olympus Heights. According to the plan, this was supposed to have been the easy part. Getting past Fontaine's guards, into his home, and then killing him would be the real challenge.

Ahead, the elevator that would have taken them to Fontaine's penthouse sat, though it was open, there was no way they'd ride it to the top unharmed. Instead, David ran at the wall as though he hoped to plow through it. Before he slammed into the concrete he leapt, kicked off from the wall and vaulted over the second story banister.

With the understanding that their initial plan had relied on Fontaine's men's observation skills to be lax, David and the others had found an alternative route into Fontaine's home. The third floor housed a small ventilation system that shared an opening with the fourth. Ideally they would have entered the penthouse quietly, without needing to shoot their way through Apollo Square. Of course, ideally they wouldn't have lost Five, Eighteen and presumably Three in a gunfight.

Before someone could spot them, Six and David crawled into the third floor vent and silently made their way to Fontaine's penthouse. Relying on haste more than silence, David kicked the grate from the vent and slid into the main entryway. He pulled the modified Colt from his belt and cocked the trigger.

Without warning, a horrible pain shocked David's stomach. Falling to one knee, vainly holding his stomach as blood slipped through his fingers, David watched as Six stormed into the room only to be knocked back, a neat hole in his head.

"You think we didn't know?" A deep voice thundered from the shadows. A hand suddenly appeared and wrapped itself around David's throat. "We knew from the beginning." Fontaine pushed David against the nearest wall, pinning the teenager with ease before bringing his pistol to slam into the boy's face with a nasty crack.

"About the slugs, Plasmids, even you little freaks," Fontaine explained, his voice confident and cruel. His Colt missing, David grabbed his knife, hoping to at least wound Fontaine before he bled-out. His arm was pulled aside, and without warning a fresh agony in his shoulder told David that Fontaine had dislocated his arm from its socket. "I've got plans for this city. Big ones." Even as the man spoke, David could feel a strange, burning sensation in his stomach as though someone had poured boiling water down his throat.

David didn't need a doctor or one of Ryan's goons to tell him what was wrong. The sea slug in his stomach was revolting. It was trying to reject its host. In the process, it would kill David, leaching deadly poisons into his body.

"It's a shame you won't be around to see it." Without another word, the crime boss of Rapture slid the edge of the blade across David's throat. Initially it had felt horrible, the cutting edge opening his skin, sending a wave of panic and horror through David's body. However, it was replaced by a foggy dreamlike state.

Letting the teenager fall to the carpeted floor, Fontaine turned to the other criminals who'd come in, possibly wondering what the noise had been. "Come on boys, Time to go out in a blaze of gunfire!"

Though he was dying, the sea slug refused to let David go so easily. It was simultaneously keeping him alive and poisoning every cell in his body at the same time. Time seemed to become less constant, things would slow to a crawl, and then in the blink of his eye, the room would change, like he'd been asleep for hours. People moved through the room, their voices nothing more than vague rumblings, shadows crawled across the floor and lights danced before his eyes. It wasn't until a pair of luminous eyes came into view, that David's mind could process what was happening around him.

"Uncle Ryan wants me to tell you something," the Little Sister said in a singsong voice. "He says only he gets to decide when you become an Angel. No one else." With that the Little Sister jammed her ADAM-gathering hypodermic needle into David's heart.