Disclaimer: I do not own BioShock. This is only a feeble, pitiful fanfiction attempting to simulate a particular scenario that isn't entirely explained within the games. Also—I'm a chicken who would never be able to actually play through the first game, and I only recently finished the second—on easy! Nor did I listen to all the audio diaries of either game—which could explain possible holes and discrepancies between my fanfic and the game. I apologize for any mistakes that may occur.
A/N: I never thought I'd write something on this site other than cheerful things, like cats and Pokemon… But I did have a very creepy dream that gave me the idea for this fanfic. I was a Little Sister, ordered to gather ADAM in a Rapture—except the glorious, false Rapture-dream (Y'know, when you play as a Little Sister? :) ) was replaced with the actual thing. And I was scared *&^%less—as a little girl with nothing besides a puny needle-gun contraption to protect me. Daddy, of course, was taken down by meanies. Very frightening. Also, I usually don't write any single chapter so long, but preferred to keep this a one-shot; didn't really want to turn this into a long-winded (It's already long-winded, I'm sure) series without a real purpose.
But on a final note: Thanks for reading. Reviews tickle my little chicken heart; maybe they'll steel me enough to get to playing through BioShock 2 again?
Part 1 – Growing Up
She prowled through the golden hallways, the tantalizing scent leading her past silky curtains and marble pillars. Humongous statues, depicting men in gleaming armor, loomed at every corner; she paused in her quest to gaze fondly at one such figure. Daddy. Her gaze wandered to the shining knight beside her, in the flesh—or rather, polished metal. Her protector, the one who shadowed her footsteps to shield her from the strangers. She shivered, although the atmosphere was anything but cold. She had much experience with the strangers—much more than her younger brethren. Masked men and women, wanting to steal the precious red drops so painstakingly gleaned from the sleeping angels—and sometimes succeeding in their efforts, draining her of her hard work. And murdering countless fathers, countless Mister Bubbles. Oh, Mister Bubbles always came back—but recently she had noticed something… different. Not just in Mister Bubbles' countless reincarnations, but in… everything.
The Little Sisters are getting older... which is troubling.
The rose petals were increasing in number, the smell growing in strength. She finally found it, as she skipped up the steps—by threes, a feat impossible for the other Sisters—giggling at the prospect of tucking the angel into bed. And Mister Bubbles, ascending four steps at a time, assuming his normal protective stance to watch her back as she tended to the angel. Blinking tenderly at her knight in shining armor, she knelt beside the angel, its red wings outlined in white…
As soon as she drew her injector close to the angel the warm golden lights faded, faded into nightmare. Blood lay, in dark, crimson pools, where roses had been resting just heartbeats past. And the angel, no longer a sleeping woman with wings of rose petals, but one whose face was twisted in the last agonizing throes of death. Death—she knew what it was. How many fathers had she lost to those like this woman here? Anger rose up in a red tide, as red as the blood that stained the cold floor that was no longer carpeted in velvet. A floor had, she realized, never been carpeted in velvet.
As they reach adolescence, they become aggressive, feral.
She embedded the needle into the woman's shoulder with such force that blood spurted out along the edges of the puncture. How many of my Sisters has this woman terrorized? Another stab to the woman's—no, this murderer's—shoulder. How many fallen protectors lay at the feet of this murderer and those of her ilk?
The ADAM was ready, and she knew, from countless experiences over the years, that the reality would return almost as soon as she finished draining the red liquid accumulated from the angel—the wonderful hallways, the cheery music, the soft carpeting. Yet even after she chugged the liquid down, the reality did not return. It frightened her, this dream world, full of leaking pipes and flickering lights amidst the darkness of a cold, unfriendly world. For the past few months, the nightmare refused to recede even after she had finished with the angel; it took longer and longer for her to wake again.
Or was this nightmare the reality?
Worse, the ADAM they ingest contains traces of lethal Plasmids left over from the war.
"Mister Bubbles, I'm scared," she whimpered, running to her protector—not a knight in shining armor, but a hulking behemoth encased in rusting metal. "Take me to the hidey-hole."
Even before they encountered the first vent she knew: she could no longer fit into the hidey-hole. The hidey-hole, once a beacon of safety from the malicious strangers that so desired her ADAM and pursued her Sisters to fulfill their own ends, was now only a mournful reminder of the easy access to a haven—an access that was now inaccessible. Mister Bubbles stood behind her, as if waiting for her to crawl into the vent. There was no prompt from him for the next several minutes as she gazed silently at the hidey-hole; he stood, a dumb brute conditioned into his role as guardian, understanding nothing of her internal conflict.
She looked down at herself, the body that seemed to change beyond her control and imagination. Her feet, stained with the same red as the red of the angel's blood. Her legs, too long and too skinny, ungainly as she skipped along the years. Her arms, spindly yet strong enough to pull her weight up after years of climbing into the hidey-hole.
And her hands. The occasional crackle of electricity that raced across her fingertips, and the sudden burning flicker of flame dancing amongst her palms. She had seen the same electricity wielded by the monsters that hunted her and her Sisters, the same flames used to bring Mister Bubbles down. If anything, these strange manifestations frightened her more than any nightmare-reality could. They made her the same as the murderers—or did it? The fear kept her from confronting Eleanor's mother about it, yet they knew, they knew…
The splicers are becoming far more effective predators as well. Our Big Daddies are falling left and right.
The sudden roar erupting from her protector jolted her from her reverie. She whirled, seeing only a glimpse of the assailant—not a masked man in a neat suit and tie, but a marred and disfigured monster, wielding hooks in each hand, his limbs unnaturally long and distended—before Mister Bubbles flew towards him, revving up right drill-arm to bore into his flesh. She knew something was wrong, and realized as soon as she heard the crackle of electricity, and the pool of water that lay between the splicer and her charging protector. "Mister Bubbles, no!"
The scream brought other hidden splicers out of their protective hiding places, but the warning did not seem to reach Mister Bubbles—or rather, he could not interpret the fear in her scream, nor the meaning of the sudden electricity that paralyzed his limbs, forcing him to his knees. The monster with the hooks laughed—a horrible, disgusting laugh, nothing like the giggles of her other Sisters—as he and the other ambushers converged on Mister Bubbles, weapons drawn: wrenches, shotguns, palms blazing in fire.
Rage. The red tide of anger that had washed over her mind as she gathered the ADAM from the angel was now a flood, consuming her entire body. Her right hand seemed to rise of its own volition, raised towards the predators still beating down her fallen Daddy. And as if she had been doing so for years, she willed the lightning to stream from her crackling fingertips to the mob—the feeding mob, still standing upon the pool of water that had been her protector's undoing.
"They're dancing," she called out to the motionless behemoth that had been her protector, her father, her Mister Bubbles. "Let's dance with them, Daddy…" Her voice faded to a whisper, and she had to raise a hand to wipe her tears.
Perhaps... perhaps the elder Sisters could be trained to sniff out the lost ADAM, and reclaim it for us.
She walked to the electrocuted bodies, harvester in hand. And as violently as before, she plunged the needle through each splicer's heart, detesting their endless taunting and calls over the years, which forced her and her Sisters to cower as their protectors died. Not anymore. And no more would she suffer the pain of having her precious work stolen away. She would always be there to reclaim what had been lost.
A groan came from behind her, a monster's moan. She turned, rising from her latest victim, as the spidery man—not yet dead—raised one of his hooks in a cruel arc, prepared to fling it towards her. She sidestepped, and the hook grazed her shoulder; once the wound would have sealed immediately, but such years were long past. The blood, however, only excited her; she managed a wide grin, mimicking the cold smirks of countless splicers from her past. The first word that leapt to her lips was Daddy—but she corrected herself, remembering that Mister Bubbles was dead—"Sister's mad, and you'll be sorry…"
Yes... from what I've seen, they certainly wouldn't have to wait for the culprit to die... – Gilbert Alexander
The splicer was fast, but she was faster; he leaped off of walls to throw himself at her, but she learned. One jump sent her flying to the wall, and one calculated push sent her from the wall to the monster, her harvesting tool drawn bank to plunge into his flesh and drain the blood of its ADAM. As the monster grew weaker, she felt herself grow stronger—stronger as she utilized the ADAM running in her veins with every fireball she sent flaming from her hands, with every jab of her needle into the monster.
The Spider Splicer was dead. She calmly drained him of the last drops of ADAM, the thought of her dead protector far away from her mind. It would be a long walk to the upside-down house, where Eleanor and her mother—she shivered visibly at the word mother—and the other Sisters would be.
Part 2 – Big Sister
We put our eldest Sister through a new regimen of physical and mental conditioning, and suited her up with modified Protector equipment of my design.
There had been no fear in Gilbert Alexander's eyes as he realized the meaning behind the strange powers that were now accessible to her. He had been hesitant, yes, but in the end the decision was made—to make her into a protector. Like Mister Bubbles. The training had been rigorous, but with each trial her body succeeded—the body that had seemed to ungainly to her was now a wonder. And the strange powers, she saw, were different from those wielded by the monsters. They were far more… sophisticated. Teleportation showed the biggest gap between her and the splicers; in a flash of blinding purple she could disappear at will, to travel faster than any legs could carry her—faster and farther than could the teleporting splicers.
And now the training was over. In her sleep they had outfitted her in a suit of metal, cold and restricting—yet as she looked at a mirror, she could see the remnants of her former protectors: the porthole, glowing red; the gauntleted hands, with her killing weapon mounted to her left wrist; the oxygen tank strapped to her back.
The younger ones have dubbed her a "Big Sister."
When she entered the ward that had served as her home for years, she was met by a crowd of fascinated Little Sisters, surging to meet her. They, too, saw Mister Bubbles in her metal armor, and even a semblance of a drill in her large needle weapon. When they sprawled out together—just like in old times—to play with the toy blocks and scrawl color drawings on the floors and walls of the ward, the Sisters clambered over her, chattering and giggling in glee. Before long they had taken a crayon to her tank, scribbling simple outlines of fish; her basket, designed to allow Little Sisters to ride upon her back in safety, was soon adorned with pink ribbons tied into neat bows.
"My turn for Sister-back ride!" the younger ones argued, fighting for the coveted seat in the basket.
"Big Sister has the bestest toys," they murmured, comparing their small harvesting tools to the needle on her wrist. "Big Sister's so tall!"
Sadly, this is a stopgap. Between rogue splicers and the aging of the girls, we'll run out of viable Little Sisters soon. After that... the surface may be our only source... – Gilbert Alexander
"We need more Sisters," Lamb began. "It is the only way to gather more ADAM for Eleanor, the People's Child."
She had been sent out into the broken city numerous times, confident of her strength, sure of the protection that her armor granted her. ADAM could rarely be stolen under her watchful eye, and those who attempted to hurt her Sisters would not live to tell the tale. Even as she stood, listening to orders from Doctor Lamb, two more of her younger Sisters were undergoing the same training as she had, to attain the status of Big Sister. She liked the name. Never mind what she had been called before by her Sisters. They could not recognize her underneath that helmet—only see her for who she wanted to be: a protector, as Mister Bubbles always was.
"We need girls from the surface. Can you do that for me?" Lamb looked at her through the glass of the helmet, locking eyes as best as she could. "Can you bring us more Sisters, for the sake of Eleanor?"
Eleanor. The girl of the upside-down house. Eleanor had always been connected to her, she remembered—she could feel Eleanor's reaction to Doctor Lamb's orders even now, although the connection had faded considerably since her transformation into a Big Sister. The only thoughts she could pick up from that girl, now: Father. Father…
She paid no attention to the world of the surface, once she leaped out of the frolicking waves to race along the sandy shores, in search of Sisters. She no longer felt the neverending hunger for ADAM, and the hallways of Rapture were forever dark, never to return to the wonder of her Little Sister days. But these new Sisters—they would see Rapture for what it was, what it was meant to be: the golden corridors, the warm fireplaces, the silky red curtains, the velvety carpets. And she would protect them as Mister Bubbles had protected her. She would bring these girls down, down into the sea of dreams.
Remember, Big Sister is always watching. – Sofia Lamb
Audio diaries Growing Up and Big Sister by Gilbert Alexander