Chapter One - Flood
Augustus Sinclair 1968
Dionysus Park. A haven for the creative and the rich until the flood seeped through the walls, washing away life and art in a strike envied by the gods themselves. Any remnants of life were encased in plaster and blood, as if the water had resurrected the palace in death and cement. Sinclair stared at the stranded storage crates that bobbed in the distance like beacons, gently brushing against the barnacles that had encrusted the few columns that remained intact, as if they were desperately trying to push out the force of the ocean. The light was a dim, yet sheer turquoise that reflected off the plaster, scattering fragments of colour across the water so it mutated into a haunting green that snaked around his ankles. He sighed, his shoes were getting wet.
He was following Delta into the depths of the abandoned retreat, choosing to stretch his legs rather than persevere on the train. Nearly dying from asphyxiation taught him that fresh air was a luxury, and he was determined to experience as much as he could whilst he had the time. However, Rapture's oxygen was the atmospheric equivalent of an oil slick, and coiled around his lungs with smog that felt like his organs were writhing beneath his skin. Picturing the hordes of splicers that prowled the skeleton of the city he wondered, how do they survive? Then he realised the simple answer that was seared into his skull, they're not human anymore. His countless encounters with the remnants of the human population had taught him one thing – aim for the head with no regrets. Abiding by the code for nearly nine years had caused death to become more familiar than life, and he found that dropping the former citizens of Rapture came easier to him than lighting a cigarette. However, Sinclair was a man who preferred the blood to be on someone else's hands, and found Subject Delta to be the greatest investment since selling spirits in a strip club.
His current scheme for avoiding the threat of madness in Rapture was to trail behind Delta, and explore the aftermath. Currently, his plan was working as Dionysus Park was left deserted behind the figure as if he was walking in the wake of a tornado. He enjoyed the tranquillity; it had been a while since he had revelled in silence. Sinclair was a conman, an opportunist and proud. His traits had made him one of the last survivors of the fall of Rapture, and he had managed to make a quick buck from it. It was hard not to smile. He had never been shaken by the empathy that drove Sofia Lamb and Delta, and had managed to successfully distance himself from everyone, choosing loneliness over death. His plan was genius; with no ties, he had no weakness but himself.
He wandered into Cohen's Collection hesitantly; the man still irritated him in death. The abundance of feathers and silver had always disturbed him at Fort Frolic, but he pitied the people that emerged from its doors even more so. Sander Cohen had always been in the ideal position to start a revolution, and would have been a master manipulator if he hadn't succumbed to ADAM and insanity. He could count the times he had met the man on one hand, and could also count the things he admired about him on the other.
With scrutinizing eyes wandering around the room, Sinclair waded through the remains of dead art and floodwater, feeling the walls and stray furniture in the darkness to help find his way. He cursed under his breath as the water clung to his slacks and seeped into his shoes, he felt as if he was walking on sponges, and slipping under the weight. He started to regret his venture, preferring the comfort of a dry train booth and dignity that remained intact. However, he had felt a sharp pain of curiosity the minute the train had rolled into the flood drenched dock, and believed that the only way to satisfy thirst was through blood. Besides, there was no harm in exercise, he thought before realising that no soul in Rapture cared about physique and wellbeing.
A desk lay upturned in the water, reaching towards the ceiling like a stranded ship. It attracted his attention and he sifted through the flood to reach it, helplessness was his flame. He found nothing more satisfying than watching the fall of something beautiful; it made him feel better about himself. He rummaged through the drawers, looking for answers rather than money. His collected wealth could buy him half of Rapture in its prime, and could salvage its remains in the present. Exploitation was an art, and he had mastered it better than Picasso had conquered the paintbrush. Cigarettes, pistol rounds, a photograph. He picked up the photo, it was damp around the edges as the ink started to run and felt limp in his hands. He glanced at the woman in the photograph, she was pretty with flowing dark hair. Feeling cynical he tossed the picture back in the drawer, deciding that she was either spliced or dead. He hoped for the latter, it would cause him less trouble. He took the cigarettes, praying that they weren't drenched and useable. He was running short, and nicotine seemed to be a great refuge in a wasteland.
He slammed the drawer and sighed, it wasn't half as exciting as he had expected it to be. He was hoping to find dirt on Cohen or something that would interest him more than a dead girl and a last stand. He reached for the radio in his pocket and summoned Delta, feeling uneasy in the silence. He didn't want to watch his safety net slip from his grasp, especially when they were hard to come by.
"Kid! You there? Feels like I'm talkin' to this wall o'er here," he called, waiting patiently for a reply. He was optimistic; the brute hadn't spoken a word since they met. "Never mind, you jus' keep on dancin' out there, seem to be doin' a mighty fine job to me," he continued apologetically, feeling as if he was torturing the man by making him speak. He didn't know whether his voice had been lost beneath the suit, or whether his accent was difficult to understand. Silence washed through the doors, drowning him in a tense, unsettling atmosphere. He was numbed to this feeling having lived in Rapture for nearly twenty years, however, he was still open to surprises, and he didn't like the suspicion emanating from the plaster clad figures that danced around Cohen's Collection. Anxiously, he retrieved the pistol rounds from the drawer. There was nothing more comforting than a fistful of lead.
He turned towards the exit, groaning as he flailed in the gravity of the water and his slacks curled into a whirlpool around his ankles. It was a long way back. Starting towards the doorway he waded through the water, stopping short as he noticed a poster leaning between the skeleton of a chair and a storage crate. He pushed through the water and reached the crate, knocking the poster free with his foot. He picked it up, stumbling slightly as he freed it from the chokehold of the flood. It was red and faded with time and neglect. He recognised the figure, it was her. He dropped the poster, allowing the water to engulf the figure as she winked back at him. He was losing it.
He pressed his fingers to his forehead, hoping to block out the pain of memory. He had done well to hide it for nearly eight years, buried deep in the back of his mind beneath business ventures and survival tactics. Feeling guilty, he rescued the poster as it bobbed helplessly in the water and placed it on the desk, closing his eyes sadly and hiding from the figure as she scrutinised him. He cursed under his breath, he wasn't thinking rationally. She wasn't real, she was paper and glue and couldn't feel anything. He snapped his eyes open, preparing for the worst. He had sold the world, washed the blood from his hands and sat back as his city burned, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eye.
'Elizabeth Ryan. Fleet Hall, 12th September 1958'
He could recall the night as clearly as the lights of the city that glowed from the window. A decade had passed since the show, and eight years had passed since she had been lost in the Civil War. Understandably, many had been lost, some by his hand, but he couldn't have prepared himself for losing her. He removed himself from the past and found himself standing in the floodwater, alone and dazed. He could feel a headache coming, as if chisels were tearing away at his conscience.
Giving up, he stepped away from the scene, sliding through the water towards the exit. However, intuition struck him as his face was lit in the glittering sconces of Rapture's night sky. He had an idea. The storage crate moved into a desiring position in the water and flailed as if trying to gain his sympathy. He pulled at the crate, dragging it behind him through the flood and onto the permeable embankment that was the exit. The plaster that coated the tiles was thick, dense, and stuck to his shoes like glue as he slipped onto the platform. It was not his day. Kneeling by the crate he pushed the lid off, feeling dust and time whip around his face like a sandstorm. He peered in curiously, and was met with twisted metal and flashing red lights. Jackpot.
He made his way back onto the train, the crate following him diligently. There was nothing more he loved than dollar bills, but secrets came a close second, and the thought of opening a crate containing at least twenty audio diaries was as fruitful as El Dorado. He perched in his chair, shook the water from the cigarettes and watched the fire snake from the holder as smoke circled the cabin. Delving into the depths of the crate he reached for the first log, the metal was cool in his hand, and he stared at the grooves inquisitively, life was good when you were the only sane one left. He pressed play, and leant against the window, hoping to become immersed in secrets and dealings of the dead. However, he was met with the voice he least wanted to hear, and choked on a ring as the smoke crept from his lips.
'She's taking me to Persephone, seems the right thing to do to me. The mighty will fall, and sinners will be frozen in hell till the debt is paid. They burned down my house, took everything that ever mattered to me. Well, she won't be locking my voice away I'll be telling you that. I will scream so loud that the Atlantic itself can hear me. What does it matter, not a soul is tuning into the radio anymore.'
He froze. The charade shattered. It was her. It was easier to ignore her picture, but her voice? It was as if ten years of memory had been swimming in his sub-conscious and crying to break free. He was overwhelmed. The possibility of her being alive made him ecstatic yet anxious. He had left her to drown in Rapture; she would hardly glow behind the bars when she saw him again. If she was alive that is. Identities had a habit of being stricken from existence in Rapture, and he would be surprised if the fire hadn't got to her. However, Lamb indulged in torture when it came to Andrew Ryan, and leaving his daughter in a cell to rot wasn't beyond the psycho, he thought. He looked at the date – 17th June 1960. It had been eight years. But there was still hope, and Sinclair had always been proud of his ability to look on the bright side. He looked out of the window into Dionysus Park, the water seemed to glow a more vivid green than before, as if it was trying harder to compete with his optimism. He smiled softly; nothing could rain on his parade, even at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or settings apart from Elizabeth.
Author's Note: This is my first Bioshock story, and after reading a few others I was disappointed to find that there was little on great characters such as Sinclair, Ryan and Gil Alexander! So I thought I'd write my own, and my story details the events of the Civil War, which I find to be little documented on the site also.
Anyway, my story will follow the character of Elizabeth Ryan (Yes I know, relatives amongst canon are common and usually poorly executed, but I couldn't produce a character that would command such an importance amongst others in the canon, so she does serve a purpose!) and will mainly follow a flashback form alongside Sinclair's present. I will promise that once all introductions have been done, there will be plenty of action, drama, romance and tragedy to entertain you!
However, I will warn that it will be a slow burning story (sorry!) as that is what I love, so I do ask for a bit of patience with the plotline. I do hope you enjoy reading!