Anthony Nash came to Rapture because he was bored.
Anthony Nash came to Rapture not because ideology appealed to him on a philosophical level, hell, he could hardly manage to get through The Fountainhead, but because it appealed to him on a baser level. A city that was free of the moral and legislative constraints of religion and government appealed to the libertine, what possibilities awaited him when there was no holding back?
Anthony Nash came to Rapture because the war had made everyone so frightfully dull and annoying. Everyone worrying, and every topic having to do with rations or some sort of offensive maneuvering and, have you heard what Mr. Churchill said on the wireless? People had stopped having fun it seemed, even the parties he attended held a dark sort of cloud over them, or some man with a cane and a story about his plane being shot down over some awful German sounding place. The rich were less rich, the poor were more poor and everyone seemed to nag him about it when he didn't care about any of it at all.
The last straw was when Lucy, the very pretty young lady he had been seeing (amongst many) had simply decided to stop seeing him and snubbing at him at any chance simply because he hadn't any really good war stories to tell. He hadn't been shot down over anywhere German sounding, and he hadn't had to stand in a hole full of ice and mud which meant he suddenly wasn't good enough for her company. The nerve!
Anthony Nash came to Rapture because he owed a lot of nasty people a rather lot of money and suddenly the family bank wasn't so open his requests for what was rightfully owed to him, by birth.
With the whole world going to hell and taking the very boring road to get there, Anthony Nash went to Rapture.
And it was more amazing then he could have ever dreamed. Outside of the magnificence of a city under water, far away from the light of the sun, the city itself was sleek and stylish. Brand new in look and feel. It glittered in the icy blue depths with a shine that needed no sunlight, that the world he left used to have in spades but had seemed to fade before his very eyes. It was a new excitement for him to feast upon, to sink his teeth and fingers into and to gorge himself upon for as long as possible, till it's siren song no longer called out to him to tempt and tease him. Some men assign the female gender to such simple things like cars or boats, measly things that they can easily possess and tame. He had done this at one point too, and until the very moment he clapped eyes on Rapture he never doubted this tradition.
Until that moment. Until Rapture rose up from the sea floor, a majestic Goddess, Amphitrite, spread out, gold and sparkling, pulsing, waiting, just waiting to be ravished into oblivion. It was a want that gripped him with an irresistible force, that inspired a madness in him so fierce that he could feel it pulse with every beat of his heart. A wild want that sunk into his bones, that gobbled up his eyes and tore it's dark, violent fingers into his gray matter.
Anthony Nash came to Rapture and Rapture did not disappoint.
There were parties, shows, loud and full of people. People who laughed and shined like the noon day sun. People who were full of ideas that even interested him and even fuller of wine and booze that set the whole place spinning around him like a fun time carousel. Such people, ladies with long limbs and coy smiles, with short hair cuts and red lips that revealed white perfect teeth, red lips made redder with wine and easy to kiss and who easily kissed back. The music was loud, the cards and games of chance came quick and easy. Fort Frolic quickly became his home away from home, away from home. If there was anything that could make Anthony Nash's head spin faster than a pretty woman it was the sound of falling change from a slot machine. Especially these machines, magical boxes, that could do no wrong, that practically rained coin through the constant wail of music. His luck had changed, he had come to the Garden of Eden, where all was sunlight and all the fruit on all the trees was ripe for his picking.
At the brightest of his days in Rapture he held the company of Sander Cohen, the wild maestro of Fort Frolic, who happily bought bottles after bottles of champagne for Anthony and his table of friends and then spent the night with them singing some of his most famous songs. The piano clanged and roared out under his fingers as the table swayed in rhythm and glee to the beat of his songs, till the company was hoarse and falling over with laughter. Even then, even after hours of drinking and song the composer screamed for, no, demanded more, more, MORE! When they had none to give, Cohen had raged, shoving the grand rolling piano and tearing at his hair, till his friends calmed him and eased him to his rooms. His energy, the energy of Rapture and the people in it seemed unending, forever, and as strong as any universal force.
Another party had him shaking the hand of none other then Andrew Ryan himself. It was the first time that Anthony Nash had actually been star struck, had been speechless in the presence of another living human, and a man for that matter. What good was a man to him? But Andrew Ryan had giving him something, had given the whole world something, a city under the waves, a garden full of endless possibilities and opportunities. Shaking his hand was like looking into the face of God, impossible and inspiring. If he hadn't been a believer before, he certainly was one now.
That had been the high point of Anthony Nash's life in Rapture. During those days life moved too fast, the arms around him a blur, one set blending into another in the blink of an eye. The liquor flowed freely, and the frenzy and the passion of the people he surrounded himself burned impossibly hot and long till it almost seemed as though he was drowning in the sea of them; burning, laughing, dancing bodies that he raced with but could not keep up with.
It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment he fell from grace, when the sun light started to withdraw from his face. Perhaps it was a moment that was incredibly clear and obvious when it happened, but he had been too stoned on sex and wine to notice it. The first notice he had of his fall was when he started to lose at the slot machines. The great big steel idols he worshiped diligently stopped responding to his prayers, and then, suddenly, the cards stopped as well. It was as if the two great gods had whispered to one another and had collectively turned their backs on him. So too did the pale and slender ladies of Rapture. Red lips no longer held kisses but instead pitying almost there smiles before looking away from him completely. It was a slow and painful dawning, the fact that he was no longer the golden boy of Rapture, that he had been cursed by the gods there, and whispers around the garden were to shun and exile him.
Even the lowest of the low sneered at him while they offered cheap liquor and shady hands of poker in a dim and dingy room. It was something, just something, all he needed was a little something, just to get him going and then he would be on top again, then he would climb and crawl back into the light and all would be well again, he would be surrounded by the heated embrace of Rapture once again.
"You ain't family," one of the men drawled at him from across the table. "You gotta ante up like everyone else."
"Apologizes, it slipped my mind, gentlemen..." There were exchanged looks, between the rough and battered men around the table as Anthony contributed his few dollars to the pot in the center. The first step in the ritual fulfilled, the cards were dealt.
Card after card slipped through hand after hand, around the table, folded and held, raised and tossed in. There was something slow churning about the game despite the speed that it was played with. The hands seemed to go on forever, and they never brought what he needed, what he wanted, driving him grit his teeth and to curl his toes into the bottoms of his shoes. Every series of cards he was given was always a card short. A king when he needed an ace, a spade when he needed a heart, coming so close to giving him what he needed but never actually giving it to him. Every dollar spent, every raise, every bluff, every fold tightened the grip around his throat. The great chain was no longer in his fist but instead around his neck closing off any air he might have left, any hope he wearily clung to despite of it all.
"You'll have to extend me just a little more credit, gentleman, I'm good for it. I have my safe right back in my room, loads of cash, we can take care of it all when the game is done." He had exhibited a carefree, lazy attitude his whole life, faking it now was as easy as breathing, even as it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. A wave of a hand, a passing around of a cigarette case, and the men who had little money gave it to the man who had none. And as the night wore on, the man who had no money lost what he had borrowed, and the men who had given it to him, became less and less patient and less and less willing to let the game continue.
"I want my cash now, I'm sick of this shit, I've got an early shift in the morning!" The man who had called out his lack of ante earlier, the man at the head of the table with dark, constantly angry eyes, called an end to the game.
"We're in the middle of a hand! I hardly think it's fair that I don't have a -" Anthony's words were cut off with a bark of a laugh.
"Fair, this fucker don't think it's fair." The laughter that rose up around the table was hardly anything pleasant and good natured. What little there had been had long since dried up, the money, the liquor and the cards had dried up. The men around the table were calling in their marker and he had nothing to give them.
The beating they gave him next to the makeshift card table was nothing compared to the beating they gave him in his room after they had tossed it, looking for the promised safe Anthony had kept babbling about. He had hoped that in their transport from the wharf up to his rooms, someone might notice the two large, stinking thugs dragging a well dressed man through the pristine hallways of Rapture. If any eyes were about, they weren't looking out for him, the small group went unnoticed, and the well built walls and doors muffled any cries he gave out as well as the crashes of rampage that filled his room. He was alone, miles and miles away from the sun, from land, with nowhere to go, no one to turn to, with fists and feet raining down upon him like the waters that started the great flood.
There is no mercy in Rapture. There is no grace, no forgiveness. The foundations were built on the strength and brilliance of man, not kindness and gentleness. The walls were sealed to keep all of that out, to keep out help and the evil they call altruism. No one sticks their neck out for anyone else in Rapture, everyone takes for themselves, builds themselves up and when man made gods fall their worshipers vanish, their temples crumble, and no one heeds their screams.
The only mercy in Rapture is darkness, and it fell over Anthony Nash like a thick blanket, heavy and cold that smothered the burning agony he had brought down upon himself.
"There ain't nothin' here," the words of defeat if ever any were uttered. "He's flat broke, we're out time and cash what are we supposed to do now?" The eyes of the speaker turned to the leader, the man who had helped drag the dead beat back to his rooms, the man with the aggressive eyes. For a long time, the man was silent, thinking, scanning the room in case they missed something. The shit head looked fancy enough, rich enough, maybe there was a painting or something? They all looked like shit to him, copies of copies, or one of those gross Cohen pieces of shit that were hanging everywhere. Not worth the canvas they were painted on.
The realization caused him to aim another sharp kick into Anthony's gut which got the asshole to move slightly but didn't get him to make a sound which was hardly satisfying at all. Another minute or two of silence ticked by before there was a decision.
"That slant eyed doctor, he'll give money for guys like him, he looks healthy enough, right?" Indeed, Doctor Suchong had started asking for healthy, male specimens for... Something. No one asked, everyone knew that his money was good, and that's what mattered, that his money was good. A quick haul of the unconscious man to his feet and they headed for the door. It was a trek to Suchong's clinic, especially with dead weight, but that's what Rapture was made out of, hard work and grabbing opportunities.
Anthony Nash would pay off his debts to Rapture.