I do not own Bioshock. Otherwise, the game would have taken two decades to complete from all the stuff thrown into it and would have enough sex to melt the heads of every WASP in the `States.
I was tired of all the damn waffle pieces, of all the crappy AtlasXJackXFontaine fics, the incredibly under-researched OC fics, and the dopey "K" stuff written by even MORE Little Sister fans (not that I have anything against the last fanbase…). This is going to be somewhat epic, but largely stupid… mainly due to some questionable material…
~B~
Alan Bove crouched on the brilliant alabaster steps of the ball, gazing upon the beautiful masked host of party goers upon the ballroom floor who were whiling away the hours before New Year's through his heavily lidded eyes. Pretty people they were. Pretty, stupid people. Damn easy living civvies.
Alan pulled at his cat mask to scratch his cheek. The time was approaching soon enough, thankfully. He hated waiting around like this.
Now, he loved parties. Parties were almost always his thing. However, the people involved in this one were unsavory political beneficiaries and standard sheep in the great herd, so he wasn't one to mingle while waiting for his orders, and therefore he was extremely bored.
Feeling the need to stretch his legs, he stood up from his perched position, meandering over to the bar and snatching up a conveniently abandoned (and full) bottle of beer. He takes a measured swig (gotta stay sharp, after all) and leans against the bar.
"Feeling lonely, handsome?" a voice beside him says. Alan turns his head to get an eyeful of an attractive blond in a flatteringly bold red dress. The corner of his mouth quirks. Might as well have some fun…
"Sure am," he replies, "And how's the evening been for the lovely lady?"
The woman smiles, her cheeks slightly pinked from enough of whatever fine alcohol she imbibed during the party, her masque long forgotten. "Well enough. But- I'm bored. I have to have a night of it, or else paying so much for this dress would have been for nothing. Got any ideas?" On that note, she leans in, giving an even better view of her modest bust.
How besotted the "nuveau riche" were; wanna-bes of the upper class who got just half a foot up in Rapture and thought the world of their rather minor (and easy) achievement, annoying the living hell out of the real tychoons and simply pissing off the rest of the population… which included Mr. Bove here. However, he was ever cool, and even decided to take this simple woman up on her rather sluttish offer. Hell, she wouldn't have been more obvious if she'd stripped down and put herself out on a clothesline, her butt wagging in the air like a demented flagpole.
"I may," he says mock-thoughtfully, "Care to help me along?"
The woman grins and half-drags him by the arm across the ballroom and down the hall to a dimly lit room that was earlier used for the showcasing of some modest gene tonics. Alan had seen more exciting events. Like paint scraping or Anna Culpepper's plays.
She pulls him in and shuts the doors and locks them, and then turns to him, smiling in a way she probably thought was seductive.
"I've done my part. Now, do yours." She batted her lashes unerringly.
Alan smiled as sincerely as he could, saying "I suppose. Come; let us have this dance," and he takes gently by the hand and went through the motions of a slow, somewhat seductive waltz.
He let the blond girl lead, all batted eyes and thrust out chest. Alan didn't know whether to be nauseated or amused. He compromised and tortured himself with this rather false back-and-forthing. Taking a little initiative, he guides the dance over near a high hardwood table.
Alan thrusts forward, breathing out through his teeth. The "lady" blushes, hiding her face behind a prettily displayed hand.
"Oh! How bold we are!" She grins saucily.
The bemasked man pushes her to the table and lifts her onto it by her rather thin thighs. The woman giggles, spreading her legs a little.
Alan smirks, pressing up against her and slipping a finger inside. The woman breathes, a passionate sigh escaping through her lips.
The cat mask casts an eerie shadow on his face, his dark grey eyes reflecting the dim light and almost seeming to shine. His digit winds and thrusts with a formulaic rhythm of excellent ecstasy, sending the woman under him slowly into a foggy bliss.
Eventually, he withdraws his index and introduces something a bit more personal. The blonde, before somewhat restrained in her pleasure, now falls back onto the smooth, cool surface of the table, letting out almost pained gasps through her pure white ivories. Alan dips and rolls, thrusts and bends, jabs and strokes. All in all, he gave a very good showing. No need for any cheating with the "sweet spots" the impotent boys at the engineering posts swore on, just pure, simple intercourse (`Sides, anyone has a hand).
It dragged on for a good three quarters of an hour, and better, bringing the blonde probably the most satisfying night of her life. For Alan, he barely got off enough to say that it was decent.
Still, casual sex like this was cute to have every now an again. Alan leant over the soiled dove like a rather sultry vulture enjoying this modeste "conquest". There really was no serious fun in the standard bar fly unless she was really something. This one was probably the variety that had less joy in the moment and more in the joy of the after-morning pinching of the hungover idiot's wallet.
This won't be a night to forget, to be sure. Not that it would be, with all that was planned…
Speaking of which, now would be—
The wired speaker in his ear from his radio crackles on. "While the dog's away, the cats will play."
Alan nearly groans. One, that was probably the cheesiest rendition of a code phrase to date from Fontaine, and two, his time with this lady was wasted for nothing. Well, almost nothing; it'd be a nice story to tell at the pearly gates.
Mister Alan Crosby Bove withdraws his silvery stiletto from his sleeve.
"Well, miss. It's been nice. Now bleed for me." Alan, ever coolly, slides the dagger through the woman's liver as she barely makes to stop him. "Don't worry; it'll be painless. Tell Saint Peter 'Hi'…"
He wipes off the blade on the table edge and stands by, watching the wretched woman depart, probably the only one to care. Alan felt a little sorry for her.
The woman sighed, giving out. She looked like she had a half-smile on her face, as if she didn't know whether or not to be happy. For all the world, maybe she felt her life was pointless. Now the world will never know…
Alan sighs himself and stows away his stiletto. He pulls out a compact Retimager revolver and heads for the door as the world erupts into madness around him. One of the ballroom partiers runs toward the door behind him. Alan pistol whips him on the way by, flooring him and giving the rabid splicer chasing enough time to catch up and get his bloody hooks into him. The prone man screams as Alan reenters the ballroom, and keeps screaming until his head is pulled off.
Alan cocks the hammer and blasts a random woman right in the face, splitting her mask and the area between her ears sloppily, gore flying everywhere. Mister Bove barely takes notice and casually shoots a man's kneecap just before a thug breaks his ribcage with a hearty kick.
An oily flare nearly nails Alan in the head, at which point he crouches and whirls to spot his assailant. One of the Saturnine, from what he could see of the maple bark mask. The cat mask dodges another flame and sprints for the pyromaniacal cultist. Alan nails the crazy bastard right in the face before the shithook could get up the gumption to reform somewhere else and proceeded to make his brains one with the floor the hard way. When all was said and done, the Saturnine ballgoer was undeniably dead from the neck up, and everywhere else, too.
Alan got up and rejoined the rest of the real party, making sure no one that was a part of Ryan's crowd got out alive.
~B~
Well! This is my latest regular FanFic. Hopefully, I won't fuck this up.
No one's really done a fic from the view of a Splicer. They've always made some sort of sappy humanistic approach to them or made them serial killers and royally screwed up both. So I've decided to end that little indignity with this.
This is the legacy of Cat Mask, Alan Bove. Now, I'm not too sure if there are other Splicers with cat masks as well, but this one's gonna be THE Cat Mask.
Also, please be sure to note that this is the end of any natural sexual encounters for Alan. He's generally a mercenary and doesn't go out of his way to get some. He just gets what drops in his lap and he handles it pretty well. It's not like he's an asexual worm or anything, but he's not one of those impotent males, young or old, that you meet in your daily life that spit and curse and talk about sex every other minute of the day. So, by point of fact, he's gonna handle himself a bit better. Doesn't mean he won't at some point get serious blue balls, but he's not gonna go rape a fish*.
This is one of my better and more serious fics, so I won't fuck this up as easily. If I do, somehow, it'll be due to lack of you readers doing your part in reviewing my work. So, review, and be entertained…
*Yes, that is a YTWatchdog reference. No, I'm not a big fan of the guy. He's funny, but he doesn't have an attractive kind of crazy.