Guns don't kill people.
Dads with pretty daughter do.
~ Anon
"Would you care for a refreshment, sir?" greeted a white-shirted waiter as Matthew Radcliffe entered the Kashmir Restaurant, his daughter clutching his left hand while the other in his pocket.
Matthew dismissed swiftly to the waiter, who began to greet other proud statured members, making almost the exact same pitch and tempo as before.
Emily, Matthew's young daughter, irritably kept yanking his arm down and nearly slipping him off his feet. He gave a small chuckle, and kneeled down to his daughter, eye to eye.
"Now," he began, his kindly blue eyes meeting her mother's soft green eyes. "Emily, this is a very important party. I don't want you to go out of my sight, alright?"
Emily nodded enthusiastically, and stopped clutching Matthew's hand. He sensed something was amiss with her, and decided to lead her to the bar.
"How about I get you a little drink? Huh? Must be a little thirsty after going all the way from the apartment in Olympus Heights?"
Emily fiddled with her dress, gave a little grunting hum, and nodded slightly. Matthew pursed his lips, pitying her daughter, but then smiled a cheek to cheek.
"Come on, let's go to the bar, I'll get you a little lemonade."
The Kashmir Restaurant wasn't usually this crowded, not with a sea of black tuxedos and brown or amber dresses covering the room, not to mention the frequent pointy rabbit masks everyone seemed to think was fashionable. The bar was halfway across the room, and it was easy to note that going through a herd of unfashionable upper class upstarts would be quite harder than it looked. And it would certainly be harder with a six-year old girl to drag through.
Matthew took the easy option.
"Okay, Emily, I want you to go over there." Matthew pointed to the small banister overlooking the table observatory, where the ridiculous Atlas statue was. "Just wait for me, and I'll bring you your lemonade. Okay? Off you go. Go on."
Emily smiled and nodded helpfully, and half skipped, half ran to the little banister, and clung to it. Matthew couldn't see her properly, not with all the people there, but he knew that Emily was small, and quick enough to get there through the crowd.
The party was starting to move, towards the screens in fact, as expected with Andrew Ryan's New Year's Speech being customary during this momentous celebration. As the herd moved away from the bar, and the path laid clear, Matthew unstrained his tie slightly and strutted towards the first tender he spotted.
"One lemonade please, and a Bourbon, over the rocks would you kindly." Matthew asked, and spread his arms wide over the table, and examined the tender's fervent movements as he prepared the two drinks. It must have been hard work, having to make drinks for impeccable higher-ups like him, but then Matthew remembered his current ordeal, and that he was nothing of the sort.
As the crowd finally stopped huddling over to the monitors, the infamous whirring chirp of Andrew Ryan's intercom clicked on, the "Please Stand By" thumbnail slid on fast, and the famous man was revealed.
He wasn't wearing anything formal, would you believe it, and seemed quite unshaven for such a powerful man as he. But nevertheless, Andrew Ryan maintained his firm voice, and began his speech.
"Good evening, my friends."
Matthew turned back, and two glasses were put on the bar, one having a yellow hue and the other a nutty red. He smiled, fast service.
"I hope you are enjoying your New Year's Eve Celebration."
Gripping the two glasses, Matthew noticed that the bartenders were moving to the kitchen's , oddly enough. Maybe they were just get more wine for the free-loaders, or maybe the cleaners.
"It has been a year of trials for us all."
You got that right, thought Matthew.
He began making his way to Emily, who was watching a monitor above her, and having a vivid fascination with Andrew Ryan on the screen. She didn't know who he was, or why he was on the screens, but she found him interesting nonetheless.
"Tonight, I wish to remind each of you that Rapture is your city. It was your strength of will that brought you here, and with that strength you shall rebuild."
Yeah, Matthew once again thought, halfway across the room, I'll try to rebuild my failing authoring career; thanks Mr Ryan.
"And so, Andrew Ryan offers you a toast. To Rapture 1959, may it be our finest year!"
Matthew reached Emily before he heard the familiar whirring, and all the monitors clicked off, and went back to their normal advertisements.
"Come on, Dad." chirped Emily, hearing the crowd raising glasses and cheering. "Let's give a toast."
He nodded, and both raised their glasses.
At that single moment, when they both raised their glasses to the globe weighing down a defeated stone Atlas, their bodies were thrown back from an explosion. The globe shattered from a bomb inside it, scattering hundreds upon hundreds of stone chips around it, and throwing back anyone from the vicinity of the explosion. Matthew was the first to land, due to being the heaviest, and hit the metal banister obstructing the drop from the stairs. Emily landed further away, at the head of the stairs, but was saved by a sofa that had no occupiers. All the other party members were either thrown back, or embedded with stone shards that cut deep into their skin. Screaming, grunts and shouts rang through the entire restaurant, and the walls shook from the force of the explosion, knocking out light fixtures and making them spark or turn on and off repeatedly.
A few moments after the shaking walls stopped shaking, the entrance doors flew open and tens of disfigured men poured into the restaurant, wielding guns or any other type of weapon, and began firing at or hitting any victims of the explosion. They screamed to the top of their lungs:
"Long live Atlas!"
"Death to Ryan!"
"Kill the rich bastards!"
After only three seconds of hitting the metal banister, Matthew's eyes blackened, and his ears began to fail hearing.
Note: This is more of an introductory chapter, just to establish the setting and such. The chapters further forward will be more detailed and less dialogue heavy.