The Difference
Chapter One: A Chip in the Glass
They always put the newcomers in cell block D, the prison equivalent of Skid Row. It was a hell hole, right down to the chipped tile floors and rusted bars, not that the rest of the detention centre was any better. Nicer rooms could be bought with likely the last of your cash if you were desperate and stupid.
What cell block you were in didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. It didn't make the warden any kinder, it didn't make the food any easier to swallow, and it sure as hell didn't mean you were off the list. In truth, nobody behind bars knew what "the list" was. It gave them all a number, and when yours came up, the show was over.
Every month or so, a handful of people got shipped out to all over Rapture. The underwater city had more than enough scientists who'd gone off the deep end, but the only ones who could afford human test subjects were in the Plasmid business.
Nothing was irregular about that. Those running the tests promised rewards of all sorts to their volunteers. The only catch was that you had to make it out alive. Most did, but with scar tissue jutting out of their chests and legs.
Those who were smart enough to keep their mouths shut melted into various states of panic when the warden chose a small number of prisoners for something secret. None of the few sent out ever came back.
Persephone Correctional Facility was as close to Hell as anyone could get without pissing off the devil. The emphasis on simulating life on the surface that was so popular in the city overhead was drop-kicked in the trash. The architects chose dim lights that sapped up all life, and strung them up everywhere.
The outer areas had hunks of wall removed and thick panes of glass put back. Just beyond was murky water and darkness. The coral that grew in the cave glowed unnaturally, making small pockets of light that were few and eerie. As you walked to your new home, you saw all of it, all the hopelessness. They took every chance to depress the inmates by showing them first-hand there was no escape.
For the most part, it worked. Most of the common criminals, the dangerously insane, and those who posed a threat to Rapture -if you didn't count the screaming- were quite docile. Persephone was the level-headed solution to every citizen who proved to be an issue. They'd get tucked away under the rug and nobody would give a damn.
Life went on as normal for those who didn't know the incarcerated. Andrew Ryan kept on borderline preaching about the Great Chain and how everyone had their place on it. He put Persephone close to the bottom, and it made the business man forget that it was still a weak link. Not much else would come crashing down if it came loose, but it would break off of its own accord, not his.
They escorted the new inmate from the dingy sub to the entry way, his hands cuffed so tightly you could see the veins bulging if you looked close enough. No one bothered to do so. He was abnormally quiet for a first-timer. Under normal circumstances he would have yelled about how he didn't do it, how they had the wrong man. That or he'd be dragging Ryan's name through the mud with plenty of colourful language following.
Whoever he was, the rest of the prisoners who watched him go by through the common room knew he was smart. If you kept your mouth shut in Persephone, you were golden. A lot of the guys who looked toughest had been to prison for years when they still lived in America. They taught whoever would listen how to outlast whatever the guards could throw at them.
A woman watched the man walk by, and knew he wouldn't need to hear to a thing any of the pilgrims had to say. Of course, that made him a target. Mister Mystery knew stuff, was someone with enough evidence stacked against him not to bother denying whatever he did. She could practically hear some of the troublemakers thinking about the stuff he might have smuggled in.
That or he's a snitch. She thought, a half-smirk curling up on her mouth. She hugged the back of the chair she sat in to her chest, a knee braced on either side of the body of it. She tilted her head to the side as she watched the man go by, his eyes staring at the ground like he didn't have enough in him left to raise his head.
He'd barely got started and he was already worn out. Either he was smart enough to play dumb or he didn't want to attract attention. It would explain his quiet-as-a-mouse attitude and the way he was trying to look as non-threatening as possible. Satisfied, the woman unlaced her arms and leaned against the wall behind her where she'd dragged her favourite chair. The man was a snitch, and she'd pegged him in five seconds.
She looked to her right, locking eyes with a beast of a man. He'd ripped up his striped jumper in a few choice places to give his tumours more room to breathe. The Rapture Medical Pavilion housed delightful little monsters that went by Plasmids and Gene Tonics. The guy beside the woman had apparently tried every one. He grunted at her in recognition.
"What'ca think, Macken?" The man asked and the woman shrugged, brushing a lock of hair behind her ears.
"He's smart either way. I'm not sure yet." She drawled, pausing to watch the newcomer's retreating form. "Could be." The woman seemed to make her decision, her smirk brightening to a smile.
"Could be what?" He asked. "Come on, Mack, tell me!" She just shook her head, swinging a leg over the seat of the chair and standing up. She flexed and felt something in her spine pop. Whether it was back in to place or she'd jarred something, she didn't know.
"Cant have you trying to hurt the poor boy, Ford." She said, her back still to him. After a moment, she sighed and looked over her shoulder. "Relax, he doesn't have anything that would be of any interest to you." The man's eyes widened.
"You sure now?" He asked. "I'll make sure you sorry if you're lying." Ford threatened. The woman just rolled her eyes.
"You promise?" She replied. Taunting him was not the way she wanted to go, but was the only way he would respond. She didn't give the early Splicer a chance to say anything before walking off. Her mind wandered to the possibility that she could be wrong about the new kid, and to Ford beating down her cell door as a punishment. Turning her back on anyone wasn't the best idea, but the part of her that still wanted control only seemed to thrive the longer she stayed in jail.
She was certain the entire common room could hear her stomach growling as she approached the cafeteria. More often than not she found herself hungry. Yet more often than not the woman skipped a meal. Food in regular prison was, apparently, completely wretched, and yet she often wondered how it would hold up compared to fish jerky and purified water.
Upstairs jail food would win by a mile. She imagined as she grabbed a plate and tray, taking her place in line. In front of her, another prison spoke their name to the one serving lunch. Her eyes almost rolled again, as if someone would sneak in an extra helping of the crap they dished out.
"Name." The woman behind the counter asked the one opposite to her.
"Lula Macken." She nearly groaned in response, getting quite tired of the sound of her name. The woman narrowed her eyes.
"We have a strict nickname policy here, Miss Louella," she repeated for the third day in a row. "It's expected that you follow it." Her gripe finished, the woman shovelled a lump of fish mash onto her plate. Lula grimaced before nodding.
"Some habits die hard, Rosie." She muttered before shuffling away to a table. Lula sat by herself in the corner, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked her way.
Ford was only half-crazy, and left her alone most of the time if she pointed out which inmates were carrying smuggled goods. What he wanted wasn't specific. Only once she thought she saw the outline of an EVE hypo in one of the block C boy's pocket, but the guy didn't live long enough for her to find out. More often than not, a couple of men would smuggle Rapture cigarettes into the prison.
The guards didn't seem to mind their inmates smoking, so long as they lit them the old-fashioned way and left the Incinerate! Plasmid most of them had hiding in their left hand alone. Lula wasn't fond of either of them; cigarettes or the gene splice that lit your arm up.
She knew what Plasmids and Tonics did to people. More than half of Persephone's population were Splicers. The name made her cringe, but the excuses for human beings made her do much worse. The ones that were looney weren't allowed near those who still retained their sanity, but that didn't mean that some of them hadn't gone around the bend in the meantime.
It began with whispers. Lula could hear the horribly disfigured at night, talking to thin air about anything and everything that was troubling them. One couldn't find a date, another had to bury their infant child. All their little stories were sad, but all the people telling them to the walls were insane.
Despite attempting to draw attention away from herself, Lula couldn't help but stare at a few. Their faces looked morphed, like someone had melted them and pushed the skin into new and stomach-churning shapes. ADAM had done that. It bred cancer, making tumours appear almost everywhere.
Lula finished the poor excuse for food quickly, wanting only to hide back in her cell. The clock ticking away on the wall told her she still had half an hour to kill before it was time to go back under lock and key, however.
The recreational time was a new to the detention facility. Some of the pilgrims said that they would be breaking rocks to pass the time if they weren't close to thirteen-thousand feet below the shore. Lula thought she liked playing pool a little more than pointless destruction.
Lula gave the room a once-over before deciding to try her luck with the security guard. She was sick of the scratched records and the torn posters. The walls were an unsightly gray that tapped her mood and sucked her happiness dry. Lula would not have been surprised if the floors were just dirt with the film of dust that caked the tiles. The common room didn't make her feel any freer, or any more in tune with how society was evolving.
She turned her back on the dreariness of it all and on the people attempting to amuse themselves. One of the thirteen guards, armed with a nine millimetre pistol, stood near the hallway leading back to the cell block.
He seemed bored, like everyone else. If you weren't a troublemaker, the only thing your life could be was dull. Punishment was by no means amusing, as the various forms of therapy were either redundant or ridiculously dangerous. It did give existence a bit of spice, however, instead of sitting all day in your cell. Before recreational hour had come in to existence, the sound of her neighbour in cell block D almost made Lula wish they'd stuffed her down in the pits with crazy Splicers.
"Want to walk me back to my room a bit early, Charlie?" She asked him when she was close enough. Lula wasn't overly fond of raising her voice, not when anyone could hear her anyway. The look he gave her should have been answer enough, but Lula was itching to crawl back into her hole and disappear for a bit.
"This is the third time this week you've asked me that, Lula." Charlie said, his voice grating and monotone. He sounded like he was talking to his neighbour's kid, if they had behavioral problems.
"And will it be the third time you say no?" She asked, her voice on the whining side, making the man wince. Nobody down here liked her accent that much. Lula chalked it up to the simple fact that it made her sound common.
"Yes'm." He replied, sounding distant. Lula wondered what he was thinking about. It was what she deemed her gift, being able to climb into someone's head the way she could. She bet Charlie was thinking about some Betty he'd see later on that night. Maybe she was his wife, Lula didn't know. If he had kids, he wouldn't have been a security guard. The sights were too gruesome, with their pay coated in prisoner blood.
"Come on, Charlie." She squeaked, extending the syllables until she could practically see the poor man's headache settling in. It was a good feeling, she found, being obnoxious to the point of physical pain.
"You being an annoying bitch isn't about the change my mind, Lula." He snapped, his voice straining to keep the conversation quiet and private. The woman wasn't stupid, she knew not to rattle a cage with a crocodile inside.
Like the press of a button, Lula's whine was gone. Her voice was stony when she spoke again, like she was talking to her superior instead of an easily-persuadable friend. "Fine. I've got more cigs in my pillow than stuffing. I'll give you a pack if you take me to my cell."
Charlie nodded, pulling his gun from his holster. It had been over fifteen years since she'd held a pistol, or any firearm for that matter. She didn't miss it, but that's not to say her fingers didn't itch to pull a trigger again.
With a sigh, she held out her wrists, and waited for Charlie to handcuff them. She was hardly a danger to him, but she supposed a strict set of rules gave the guard an illusion of safety. He seemed all too happy to clamp her arms together, the metal bands snapping tightly around them. It didn't hurt, but was rather uncomfortable.
The guard turned, trying to look professional as he headed down the hallway behind him. Lula followed like a chained lapdog, but didn't mind the fact she needed an escort.
Along the corridor, posters hung like wallpaper. Most of them were for Fail-Safe Industries cell upgrades. Where she lay her head didn't matter to Lula, so long as it was private. She promised herself that no matter what, she wouldn't put another dollar into anyone's pocket put her own.
Cell block A was the nicest one, with a whole bunch of pretty crap strewn around, trying to make a cage look comfy. How long each person would stay depended on the crime they committed, but even if their sentence was for life -which most were- having a picture on the wall didn't really matter.
When the solid wall ended and the glass began, no amount of money could've persuaded Lula to look out of it. Being reminded of how she had hit rock bottom always left a bitter taste in her mouth. She stared straight ahead, ignoring the strange glow in water on either side of her.
Not soon enough, the view ended in another expanse of poster-coated metal wall. It was just hopeless enough to make Lula wish she could cry over it. Crying was like stealing a guard's pistol and firing a round into your head. It didn't mean Lula didn't want to, it was just a matter of her not being weak or stupid enough to fee anything but rage.
The room beyond housed the cell blocks. Rows of rusted bars housed maniac after screaming lunatic after completely innocent "threat". The place was a madhouse, no matter what block you visited. It was safe enough, Lula supposed, as long as you stayed well away from the inmates.
They rattled the bars some times, mostly at night or when a guard walked by. Cell block B was the stupidest by far. They put their cages to more tests than any other. The sound of bodies slamming against walls and physical aggression were often heard from both sides. The halls were the widest there, and for a good reason.
Lula didn't know a lot about the treatment in the therapy wing, but it was worse before Doctor Lamb came. It put her problems in perspective, perhaps, and would explain why some of the troublemakers had a stutter. Lula wasn't surprised to find that electroshock therapy was still practised behind thick doors. .
Cell block B was on the opposite side of C, the most unremarkable. Designed specifically for prisoners who didn't like being locked up in a box the size of a horse stall. It was a difficult thing to say no to, the idea of a bigger room. Lula's had two cots and a desk, with hardly enough room for what few personal belongings she'd been allowed to keep. It was with no small amount of satisfaction that Lula soon realized they were near what she called home for the past year.
Charlie paused a bit ahead of the woman, who fidgeted in her cuffs. She could have sworn with every second the man wasted getting her back to her room they grew tighter. Resisting the urge to yell in frustration, Lula waited as he held up a hand, motioning for her to stop as if she hadn't already.
"Just a minute, Miss Macken," he began, lowering his arm, "you'll need it to to adjust." She wanted to ask just what he meant by that as she darted around him, looking in to her cell.
Lying on her cot, nursing a bloody nose and two black eyes was the new boy she'd seen earlier. He seemed tired, as anyone in this hole could tell you stories about. His entire being radiated hopelessness. It made Lula sick to look at as he partially slouched against the wall, holding a stained cloth to his face.
She had to admit that he looked a sight. Whoever had arrested Lula didn't think physical violence necessary, but it seemed Mister Mystery wasn't spared the cane.
"Get out." Lula said. Her voice was a snarl, with no attempt to hide the rage behind it. Her privacy was her own, anyone who tried to violate that was either power-tripping or suicidal.
The man looked up at her with sunken eyes. They weren't surprised, nor were they angry at her tone. He looked disappointed. Not in Lula, but in everything he might have seen in Rapture.
The bastard can join the club. She thought as moved around Charlie, glaring at the guard over her shoulder.
"He's not allowed in there." Lula was testing waters murkier than outside the glass of the hallway. No one back-talked the security. She knew Charlie well enough that he would not shoot her point-blank, but he had no issue with handing her over to Weir. The thought made her head swim.
"The rest of the cell blocks are full, Miss Macken," his bored tone returned yet again, as if he was consoling a spoiled child, "your room has an extra bed. That is where he's staying."
"I have so little, Charlie," Lula replied, her rasp gone. She was deflating in front of their eyes. Her privacy only meant something to herself, and it no longer existed. "Have I done something wrong?" And then, both the guard and Lula realized that she was a child. A spoiled and entitled child like everyone else in Rapture.
"This is not a punishment, Lula." The guard said, his indifference giving way to the smallest amount of understanding that a human being could have. The woman was incline to disagree. "Do you want to go back to the common room and think for a bit?" He offered, making her shake her head and hold out her arms again.
"No, take the cuffs off." She nearly barked. Charlie didn't say anything as he obliged, slipping the metal rings into one of the loops at his belt before unlocking the door. There was barely enough room to stand inside her cell without coming stomach-to-face with the new inmate.
"Don't worry about the uh," he paused, watching the new boy with distrusting eyes. "I'll come and pick it up once he's settled in." Lula nodded, barely listening. It seemed the guard didn't trust Mister Mystery. Perhaps he really was a snitch.
"I want my money back, then." She called over her shoulder. She heard the man sigh. The only upgrade Lula had bought was the one that kept other prisoners out of her space. Everyone else had a room mate they stuck with.
Lula couldn't deny that she sometimes wished she had someone to talk to other than people like Ford during recreation hour, but the overwhelmingly nauseating aspect of sharing something she'd reserved for her private used dampened any curiosity she might have felt.
"You'll get it, Lula." Charlie attempted to comfort her, but she trusted him as far as she could throw him.
Distantly, Lula heard the guard walk away. She was not watching him, however. Lula was looking down at her new cell mate, and he was looking up. Both felt disappointed, but for a moment, it was for the same reason.
Is this my life choice? To write fanfic after fanfic and delay to finish any of them? Ah well, here's a BioShock one for you. *Insert jazz hands here*. I hope you enjoy reading this, whoever you guys are. It wasn't easy to write, that's for certain. I read this over a dozen times and I realized how boring it is. I guess we can't have action, action, and more action this early in the story. Things will get much muchier soon, I promise. With that, farewell, or dasvadinya – whichever you prefer.