Hey,I've had this story kicking about in the recesses of my computer hard drive for years, but have never actually had the guts to post it. I have now had the kick up the backside; which came in the form of a vast quantity of wine and a good friend using those infamous words "I dare you."

I also need to note that the concept for this story was actually inspired by Minimalist Rose's 'The Iron Prince' ( s/6262161/1/The-Iron-Prince) I read it and fell in love with the idea of it - please please please go have a read! Soooo...this is a fanfic of a fanfic...fanfic-seption!

And of course. Legal bit. I don't own Bioshock, and have gained no profit from this fan fiction.

- Somewhere off the coast of Reykjavik -

Gwen attempted to stifle the yawn, as it built unbidden to her lips. She rolled her shoulders trying to forget how every muscle in her body prickled and ached.

"Gwen?" Mary was pulling at the corner of her coat to catch her attention.

"What?" She snapped, snatching the fabric out of the small insistently grabbing hand.

Internally Gwen groaned. She didn't mean to be curt, but she was tired. They had been on the go for days with only a few hours of fitfully interrupted sleep and, in truth, patience could not truly have been described as one of the virtues she possessed in the first place. Luckily Mary brushed off her brusque manner as only a twelve year old was able; with a pair of big blue eyes that claimed butter wouldn't melt...and a half smile twisting her pouting lips that promised the affront would not be so easily forgotten. Knowing Mary as she did, retribution would be taken at its least convenient moment. Evil little – Gwen took a long breath.

"How long now?" Gwen looked sideways to their travelling companions, how on earth was she supposed to know?!

"Not too far." Was her non-committal reply.

Mary huffed and stamped her foot, arms folded. "You said that last time." She pouted, puffing out her cheeks, indifferent to the raised eyebrows and disapproving looks of those that accompanied them.

Gwen considered chastising her cousin for such unladylike behavior, especially in front of company. She risked a quick glance up at their chiding looks, but who was she kidding, if she'd been a few years younger she'd have been a mirror image of the girl, pouting, back hunched, arms folded. They were both exhausted, and so far this journey had not been the fantastical adventure her uncle had promised in his letters.

The first leg of their travel, from Washing D.C to New York by train hadn't been too bad, but by the fiftieth game of Eye Spy, she'd been more than ready to put her own eyes out. Then had come the steamer trip, her stomach twisted even at the mere memory of it. Storms had hounded them all the way across the Atlantic. And when they had finally made port in Reykjavik, there had been a unifying green tinge to each of the passengers as they had staggered down the gang plank with unsteady legs and gratefully back on to solid ground. And the small fishing vessel that had sailed them out from Iceland, she felt a shiver run down her spine, the boats' master a foul mouthed old soak that had stunk of stale ale, whiskey and decomposed fish guts; as he had eyed each of his female passengers lasciviously.

They were standing on the upper level of the great lighthouse they had been brought to, everything looked so out of place she thought; as though the entire structure had been plucked up out of upscale New York and dropped precariously onto a small rock into the freezing Atlantic Ocean. Everything about the place screamed money and influence, even the front door had been gold-plated, with a figure that had reminded her of the statues they presented at the Academy Awards carved into it. The pillars that rose high above their heads looked to be made from bronze and stylized, she expected her Aunt Vivian had been in seventh Heaven when she'd set foot in here. Vivian adored anything that was 'modern' and 'art deco' especially if it was 'European' in design.

It was the looming visage of Andrew Ryan that had made Gwen pause though, with its scarlet banner flying beneath. "No Gods or Kings. Only Man." Emblazoned in gold lettering. She'd considered the golden features scowling down at her, something about it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. The banner's wrong, she thought, the bust seemed to be bellowing something different. "No Gods or Kings. Only Me!"

They trooped down the series of bronze staircases into the bowels of the lighthouse. "The hell is that supposed to be?!" One of the smartly suited men demanded indicating the spherical bronze thing with a wave of his suitcase, in a strong southern drawl. One of the women stepped forward, peering at the machine with a critical eye. "Xорошо Бог [Good God]! I have seen creations such as this." She whispered reverently, looking back at the rest of us where we hung back. Gwen noticed the American man stiffen at the woman's Russian accent, though the woman herself seemed too enthralled to be aware of his uncomfort. "This," she waved at the bronze and glass, "this is подводная лодка…" She waved her hand around, presumably searching for an English translation. "Can, travel under the water…"

Gwen considered the Russian woman her head tilted "A… submarine?" She offered, the woman's eyes widened as she grinned at Gwen, nodding. "Jesus." The Southern man whistled low.

The second gentleman, whom Gwen had taken to be the Russian woman's husband, an older gentleman everything about him suggested he was an intellectual; from the tweed jacket with leather patches at the elbows to the thickest pair of the glasses Gwen had ever seen, stepped forward to scrutinize the vehicle, squinting through his coke-bottle glasses. "Невероятный [Incredible]. I believe it follows a design similar to the deep sea exploration vehicle of Beebe and Barton, something they called a 'Bathysphere', note the spherical shape to protect the explorer from the pressures of the deep sea. вдохновенный[Inspired]. I believe," The man stood and looked back towards his fellow travellers. "That the deepest depth recorded in such a vehicle was over 3,000 feet!" The man straightened his glasses and looked towards his wife, sharing and excitable smile with her, offering her an arm as she stepped over the contraption's threshold "Eсть надежда на будущее[There is hope for the future]." He told her with a conspiratorial wink.

Mary and Gwen stepped in next, shuffling along the scarlet velvet covered bench seats to allow space for the final pair. The man stepped forward, but his wife hesitated, her fingers clutching at the collar of her mink fur coat, perfect white teeth biting at her perfectly painted red lip. "I'm scared Reg..." Gwen carefully looked away in an attempt to give the couple some privacy, there were tears shimmering at the corners of the poor woman's eyes. Her husband turned to her, gently taking her hand. "Come on Milly," he hushed her with a low voice, wiping away the tear with his thumb. "New start. You and me, eh girl. Fresh slate." The woman, Milly, took a long steadying breath, and nodded, squaring her shoulders she stepped into the submersible.

This 'Bathysphere' contraption was hot and stuffy and cramped with the two other couples squeezed inside it with all their luggage piled on the floor of the vehicle between their feet. And through the great porthole of a window the small group watched the bubbles rise as they sank, the 10 fathom marker rose, Gwen licked her lips nervously, 60 feet below the ocean. Another statue passed them in the murk, his arms upraised as though he were swimming for the surface. 18 fathoms, Gwen sucked in a shaky breath, more than 100 feet down…and then they were in near pitch darkness. Mary's hand seized Gwen's in what felt like a bone crushing grip, Gwen fought the panic, whatever happened her first priority was Mary; had to be Mary.

And then there was light, Gwen blinked, the vice-like grip on her heart of terror ebbed slowly from her. An advertisement she didn't understand flickered on a projector screen that had descended from the ceiling; what were 'plasmids' she wondered? But the image was quickly replaced with an image of Andrew Ryan sitting at a desk, pipe in hand, and the voice of the man himself was piped into the small craft through unseen speakers.

"I am Andrew Ryan and I'm here to ask you a question; is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?" Gwen took a quick glance around at the faces of their traveling companions. The American couple were nodding reverently as the warm tones of the billionaire that rolled over them. The Russians, sat stoically, hand in hand. She eyed the image projected, the assured tones of the charismatic man sent an uncomfortable tingle up the length of her spine. He does like the sound of his own voice, doesn't he?

"I chose something different. I chose…"

The darkness fell again, but this time the panic didn't strike. And then the Bathysphere emerged into the light a collective gasp overtook the small space. "Rapture." A city, a real God's honest city under the sea. Gwen's mouth went dry as her jaw fell open. She couldn't focus on the words as the recording of Ryan continued, she was simply overwhelmed at the towers, the undersea skyscrapers, the glass walkways between them, the luminous schools of fish that darted through the half gloom, the illuminated signs of places and brands that she would come to learn of.

It was magnificent, simply magnificent.

Rapture.

Russian translations are from Google translate, so sorry for anything if its incorrect. And the "There is hope for the future" is a quote from the 1954 film of 20,000Leagues Under the Sea, and they are the final words of a dying Captain Nemo.