Pulp

In a new world, old faces remain. Booker DeWitt, private eye, is hired by the government of the Republic of Columbia to track down a mysterious assassin linked to the growing Vox Populi movement, led by Daisy Fitzroy. However, when he meets an agent of a resistance separate from either side, his life is changed forever...

A love letter of sorts to the grindhouse genre, this tale combines aspects of noir, thriller, and steampunk stories into one bloody good tale.

Rated M for brutal, graphic violence, mild sexual content, and language.

Hello readers! Before we start this magical journey, I would like to clear up a few things with you guys.

1. Although this may be my first project on this site, I do not wish to be treated like an autistic four year-old. I will accept the harshest of criticism with open arms; as long as it actually pertains to the aspects of the story which "require fixing" (I'm sure I'll be receiving a lot more colorful versions of that phrase).

2. As a way of massaging my hypertrophied ego, I will keep a facade of attempting to post every other week or so. However, in truth, you will probably be getting a new chapter every month. Just a word of warning.

3. This piece, being a love letter of sorts to the grindhouse movies of my retrospectively screwed-up preteen years, is going to contain gratuitous amounts of gory, Robert Rodriguez-esque violence, including intricately described gunshot wounds, dismemberment, impalings, torture sequences, executions, and a run-in with a vat of molten iron. As a rule, expect at least one NSFW scene per chapter. Yes, I am only writing this now because I'm too damn lazy to do it for every chapter. Oh, that reminds me... ThisworkoffictionisnotintendedtostakeaclaimontheillustriousBioshockfranchisewhichisownedbyKenLevineandIrrationalGamesalongwith2Knotthehumblefanficerthatkneelsintheprescenceofthegloriouscopyrightgodsgobblegobblegobblygook.

... Yeah, don't expect me to do that again. My fingers hurt.

Now, with all that stuff out of the way, enjoy the show, you depraved loonies.

Prologue: The Puppet

Navigating through the seething mass of people was always an annoyance, especially when one had a job to do. Even if someone moved forcefully, attempting to shoulder their way through the crowd, the going was slow. This, coupled with the constant shoving and jostling from the other streetgoers was a detriment of walking the many bridges connecting the thousands of islands which made up the Republic of Columbia. However, some tasks necessitated the use of this primitive form of conveyance.

Such as this one.

Cloaked by the mélange of activity surrounding him, the shouting of a portly sausage peddler, selling his fare from large copper pots, or the scratchy, popping, artificial voice of a newspaper automaton, ceaselessly repeating the headlines of the day (Water refinement facility in a quagmire! Production costs through the roof!), the Simulacrum strode towards his destination. To the observer, he appeared as but a nondescript passerby, like all the others. Garbed in a clean, canvas one-piece uniform and work boots, he could have been a dock worker, or a builder. In fact, from the looks of his clothing, he could have passed for almost anyone, as could his features. He was neither unnaturally short nor tall, but of average height, with not enough bulk to make him an imposing figure. Even the way he carried himself was unremarkable. His face told the same story, with a slightly boyish complexion hidden beneath a layer of stubble, inferior to a moderately large, aquiline nose. The Simulacrum smiled, which was but a system of cogs and pistons moving under his artificial skin, but his master had given him emotions, and the feeling behind the grin was real. It was that of a type of elation he had felt many times before.

The kill. It was on the horizon.

No one ever paid him any heed, until the last moment. Saltonstall. Blake. He was but a shadow, one who could bring the State to its knees. Yet, for all the terror he caused, now, on this street, in broad daylight, not a single person recognized him, none of them even paying him a second glance. However, as everyone else looked away, the Simulacrum was always watching. He had been designed this way, meant to be unseen and unrecognized but always learning. A train crossing was above him now, the shadow it cast standing in stark contrast with the bright sunlight, unobstructed by clouds. A locomotive crossed overhead, its wheels sending tremors through the crossing's supports, and in turn into the bridge the Simulacrum was on, where the supports were planted. He ducked his head, and half-walked, half-jogged out from under the crossing, following suit to the crowd in front of him. The simulacrum was always confused by this action, people scurrying like frightened mice from under the presence of moving trains. It was an illogical practice, but one he had observed on multiple occasions. Perhaps they were afraid of the structure collapsing from the machine's tremendous weight, he did not know. Whatever the reason, the Simulacrum did the same as the humans, to avoid revealing him as... Something more... Or, was it less? This was question he had pondered for a very long time, one that had haunted him since his creation. For all the ways in which he was considered superior, with a storage of information the greatest of human minds would commit unspeakable acts over, or the ability to shift objects even the strongest of human bodies would never attempt to move, the Simulacrum believed he was lacking a vital piece of the enigma that was humanity. Perhaps it was whatever terrified people of passing locomotives, or compelled them to speak about the most inane of subjects, like the two men who had just passed him in the opposite direction, discussing a recent boxing match. He did not know, nor did he ever think he would.

Reaching into his pocket, the Simulacrum produced a small card, the kind a businessman would have in a holder on their desk. He glanced down upon the neat, almost calligraphical hand writing which lay upon the thick paper, reading the single address printed on it.

223-81-R

The Simulacrum returned the card to his pocket, exhaling through his nose. It was a habit he had developed over the years, constantly checking and rechecking his destination, even though he would never forget it, for it was impossible for him to do so. 223-81-R. 223-81-R. 223-81-R. 223-81-R. 223-81-R. The address became a mantra, blocking out all other thoughts. He had left the bridge by now, and had arrived on a fairly small piece of land, mostly covered by an open-air marketplace. A town square, surrounded on all sides by tall residential buildings, seemed to be the center of the activity, and the Simulacrum headed for it. He kept to the side of the road leading to the square, so he could look for the bronze plaques bearing the address of the buildings they were affixed to.

223-86-R

223-85-R

223-84-R

Once again, the Simulacrum smiled. He was close. His body seemed to fill up with anticipation, as if a balloon was being inflated from within. He had the overwhelming urge to run, to shove his way through the cavalcade of people, to reach his destination in the shortest amount of time possible, and carry out what he had been told, no, created to do. However, he restrained himself. His time would come, and he would never have to break his cover if he contained his excitement.

223-83-R

223-82-R

223-81-R

He had arrived. The Simulacrum paused for a moment, calming himself, before opening the door. It was warm inside, almost uncomfortably so. A crackling fire stood to the left, a centerpiece of a small lounge area, formed by three well-worn leather armchairs and a low coffee table. Overhead hung a bronze chandelier which held several oil lamps, which cast a flickering light below. Several other such lamps were scattered throughout this entrance room, which, when couple with the numerous windows at the front, provided a sufficient level of illumination. This design for an apartment building was very common, as the Simulacrum had seen hundreds of almost identical structures throughout the country. Ahead of him stood a desk, rising from the ground like a far-off island in the middle of an ocean. Behind it stood a woman clad in a typical receptionist uniform. She waved her hand towards the Simulacrum, a ridiculous grin plastered across her face, baring two rows of unnaturally white teeth.

"Can I help you, sir?" The lady called towards the Simulacrum, who then began to approach the desk, his leather boots clicking on the wood floor. When he reached the desk, he stood there for a moment, not answering the question, but simply staring, as if lost in thought.

"Sir?" The receptionist asked again, with a sight hesitation in her voice. Once again, the Simulacrum did not reply, instead reaching over the desk, and tearing out her throat. Blood spattered his white clothes, and the woman fell to the floor, twitching violently. She struggled to lift her head, staring at the Simulacrum with terror in her eyes. Her mouth opened, as if to say something, but a mixture of saliva and blood burbled out instead of words. The Simulacrum watched the scene coldly for a few moments, then decided to bring an end to her suffering. Raising his leg, he sent his boot crashing down onto her head, shattering her skull with his inhuman strength.

He left the woman's corpse on the floor, scraping flecks of brain off of his boot on the leg of the desk. Then, he pulled open the desk's drawers, and began to search through their contents. Eventually, he found what he was searching for. Opening the resident log, the Simulacrum quickly glanced through the list of names, searching. Suddenly his eyes widened, and a wicked grin spread across his face.

Booker Dewitt, the page read, Apartment nine.

Well, thanks for viewing! I hope you enjoyed. Also, throwing me a review, even an exceedingly negative one, would make me a very, very happy person. I hope that you guys will continue reading, as more chapters will be coming soon.