Prologue
June 19th, 1948
"I am Andrew Ryan"
Those were the words that started it all. There was three of us, My father, dressed in that expensive business suit he saved for the occasion, my mother in that plain blue dress she liked to wear, and me with my polo shirt, and corduroys. We were sitting in the cramped room of the Bathysphere, just the three of us, as it descended down its path into the Atlantic Ocean.
The year is 1948. My name is Neel Chandra. My Father, Ram Chandra, is an Indian engineer, who managed to find a way to refine and produce a metal, stronger, durable, and more reliable than any other alloy in existence. My mother, Sita, is his devoted wife. I am his son, destined to carry on the family business. When Andrew Ryan was creating his city, He needed powerful metal, strong enough to withstand the pressure of the sea. My Father's invention was perfect for this. He moved to America where he met Ryan, and they made the agreement.
I came here with them to take up the family business. At the tender age of 15, I was to begin my secondary schooling in Rapture.
"Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?" asked the Image of Andrew Ryan in a loud and commanding voice on the screen in front of us. He then began to rant about how it was rightfully ours, but was instead devoted to the poor, god, and everyone else.
"I rejected these answers; I chose the impossible I chose…Rapture."
The screen pulled away and I saw the impossible.
It was a city. Deep in the Atlantic Ocean was a city.
The city was a dull shade of blue, but was studded with bright glowing lights. Two searchlights scanned the sea eagerly, revealing the sight of more Bathyspheres around ours. Neon signs marked the buildings. I saw a casino, a restaurant, a coffee shop. The buildings were sculpted in Art Deco, and curiously reminded me of Manhattan, where I was born and raised.
I had to stifle a laugh when we went past a barbershop. It's funny how extraordinary one of those things look when it was at the bottom of the ocean.
"A city where the artist would not fear the censor,
Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality,
Where the great would not be constrained by the small."
And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well."
The Bathysphere slowly careened a tube, inscribed upon it "All good things come to this city"
Well, Rapture, let's see what you have in store.