Dymond: Seeing my dear CaliforniaStop start her rewrite kind of jumpstarted me rewriting this. I know I've got other projects like In Sweat and Blood, Sweet Serendipity, and potentially Speak no Evil (once I get inspiration again for it since Bioshock Infinite wasn't exactly all it was chalked up to be. Beautiful, but the game play was really linear to me at least. Not as expansive as the first two games).
I tugged my hole-filled sweater closer to my body, the chill of the fabricated night bleeding in through the holes. Inside establishments, I could hear the cheers and toasts over drinks and celebrating the New Years. Even the Limbo Room was hopping as Grace Holloway sang her famous tunes that gave hope to the poor bastards of the Drop. The booze there was brewed in a bathtub and I'm fairly certain it was mixed with formaldehyde for potency, but as long as it tasted like alcohol the patrons didn't seem to care.
The televisions mounted to the walls displayed the same thing they do on every New Years Eve: Andrew Ryan giving the same monologue about making Rapture the greatest city for the next year, followed by a toast and the countdown.
I dug into a trashcan, with the vague hopes of maybe finding a half-eaten bag of chips, a burger even. I wasn't picky since beggars can't be choosers especially in this place that had been my… "home" for lack of a better term. The butterfly knife in my pocket kept most attackers at bay. A loud crash only earned a glance as a whore was backhanded by a john for something or another. The man would be dead in the morning since she was one of Fontaine's hookers and no one damaged his property.
Such is life in the belly of the beast: Rapture.
On most days, I assumed my position leaning against the first 'N' of the King Pawn sign, watching as the beggar and downtrodden moved about like they had no care in the world other than the fact that they are starving to death ever so slowly or scratching at their arms until track marks appeared. It was pathetic really, they moved around like they owned the world and whenever someone like that Sinclair fellow would come around, they hissed at him like he was the vermin. Made me feel bad for the man, 'course I trusted him just about as far as I could throw him. He had a hotel of sorts down here called the Sinclair Deluxe that held anyone who could pay the rent. Rent was cheap, but it wasn't like people here had two nickels to rub together.
The poor and the down-on-their-luckers would arrive at the doors, early in the morning. No matter the reason or the rhyme that they'd say to the businessman in a vague explanation, Sinclair would just smile and hand them a key to an apartment, take their down payment, tell them their rent and send them on their merry way. A smart man to collect their rent weekly and an even smarter man to own the bar – Sinclair Spirits – and cash in the rest of the money the poor soul would spend as the sad sap drowned their sadness in wine and beer.
If they weren't spending their money in the bars, they were buying a genetic goop called Plasmids to splice themselves up to look fit, beautiful, shoot electricity, burp fire, spit ice – you name it they probably had it. I even heard they were trying out a teleportation plasmid, but most test subjects would accidentally teleport themselves outside of the glass walls and drown in seconds. The market was still relatively new but booming – a new plasmid almost every week. The downside to something that made you equivalent to a superhero was that it was extremely addictive and when people didn't get their ADAM, they fell into madness and with the abilities they had gained traveled around Rapture looking for their next fix, killing anyone who got in their way. Killing people like me.
Other than that, they would wander their way to Siren Alley, to a whorehouse called the Pink Pearl.
Not that the whores in the Pearl were any different from the splicers except Daniel would throw a fit if they started to splice up. Most got kicked out on their ass and ended up down in the Fisheries working under Frank Fontaine.
I guess you could call Siren Alley the red light district of California in the USA. Like most of the Betties down here, Siren Alley was born originally with a more respectable name, but only God remembers what it was. The Pink Pearl was just a bunch of rooms with a girl assigned to each one by the owner Daniel Wales who was a proper drunk and definitely cheaper than Eve's Garden in Poseidon Plaza. There were even a few rooms that for 5 Rapture dollars you could get a show from a few of the girls.
In Eve's Garden, the girls were well cared for and beautiful, classy even; while Pauper's Drop was not to far a cry from any regular street prostitute with a pimp that beat them senseless. Only difference, the Pearl was a place where all the prostitutes would congregate and easier to find. People would come to the Pearl to scratch that itch they're ashamed of, even in a town with barely any laws.
Unfortunately, one of those whores was my mother, but only God himself could say if she was still alive or not. Perhaps I had lived a happier life before we came to Rapture, but I couldn't remember much of it. All I remember from the start is pain and the bruises coating my arms from my mother, blaming me for my father leaving.
Coming to Rapture didn't help the beatings, but it ceased them for a few months as we settled in. We were crammed in a bathysphere with 4 other people, artists, scientists, and people looking to be captains of industry. Out of them, I think I saw 3 of them down in the Drop looking like they were about to croak from starvation.
For only a few short months did I live in a small apartment with my mother until one day she just never came back and the name Dusky Donovan ended up whispered in the Pink Pearl, just another whore in the employ of Daniel Wales. No one even remembered little Jamie Donovan or was sure if Jamie ever existed, which I did.
Now, I couldn't pick her out of a crowd if my life depended on it. My mother had abandoned me and left me to wander around Rapture, looking for 'mommy' until I became another ghost. One of the lost people of Rapture, the ones that society forgot about in its rise to glory. I was quick to discover that I should trust no one or I'd be another body floating in the wharfs. Another victim to the splicers that had started to make their appearance at this time.
It's where my life truly began and probably will end. Not a very good life mind you, but a life nonetheless. My 19-year-old life consisted of keeping out of reach of anyone who decided I would be a good grab for a quick ravage in a darkened back room or disappear only to end up another body floating outside the glass structure of Rapture for passersby to see. I stayed on top of the King Pawn sign to watch the chaos pass below me; only a few months ago I watched as Sofia Lamb and Andrew Ryan duked it out verbally in front of the people of Pauper's Drop about religious freedom and reality - Utilitarian beliefs vs the Free Market beliefs.
Wandering to another trashcan, I could hear the music and Grace's beautiful voice flowing out of the Limbo Room. It was a small but well kept jazz bar which was surprising with the chaos of this place. Really it was the only place anyone could afford to go to down here. Grace would sneak me in through the back and give me shelter in her dressing room while she returned home for the morning. She was a kind woman with a heart of gold, a good soul and a beautiful voice that echoed through the PA system with her songs – a rarity down here. She even found the love of a man down here; a man who didn't join the race to see who could become less of a man and more of a monster. In fact, he had never touched the stuff so much that it would affect him. The occasional brain boost or sports boost, but not enough to cause him to turn into of those Splicers. James was okay in my book.
My stomach grumbled achingly reminding me of my hunger that still plagued my body. It would be for a while until I could get a morsel of food to calm it down long enough to maybe find my next meal. Trashcan potato chips would not cut it.
Stuffing my hands in the pockets of my baggy trousers (several sizes too big), I wandered away from the trashcan to find a place to sleep since it wouldn't be until the early morning when the Limbo would close. The perks of being alone meant having a lot of time to myself – especially to learn the ventilation shafts and know where all the dead ends and cubbies are to keep away from any roaming vent dwellers.
The King Pawn sign was my usual place to sit and also had a readily accessible vent to crawl through for quick escapes. I crawled through until I ended up at a dead end with a vent that overlooked the stairs of the Artemis Suites. Already I could hear one of the tenants arguing very loudly about something or another followed by something breaking. A European couple – Swedish if I guess right – wandered up the staircase to the third floor, talking about inviting someone in another apartment over for tea or some such.
My switchblade tight in my grip, I fell into a light sleep in the cramped space.
"Don't 'Grace' me, Jamie," Grace scolded, her finger pointed right at my nose. I held my hands up in a slight defense. "Darling girl, you're too thin." She reached her hand up and traced my jutting-out collarbone. I couldn't help but notice how her dark skin contrasted against my pale skin. I remember as a child I used to be tan, but that disappeared when my mother and I came to Rapture. "So I insist ya take a few dollars and go get somethin' ta eat."
"Grace, I can't take any of your money. What about rent?"
I jumped when a slim arm wrapped around my shoulders. James' wide grin settled me down just as quickly as the fright came. "Jamie, Grace and I are worried about you. You insist in not moving in with us, so this is the least we can do. Besides, we have a little extra from the tips Gracie made last night from her beauuutiful singing voice!" He released his grip from around my shoulders and swept Grace up in his arms, making her giggle and swat at him to 'cut it out!'. "Settle our fears and do it for us?"
I smiled. "You say this every time you guys do something for me. 'Jamie, take this and go buy a sweater. You'll freeze. Settle our fears and do it for us? Jamie, at least sleep on the floor of my dressing room. You might attacked at night. Settle our fears and do it for us?' I swear, you're like mother hens. I'm 19. A few more years I'll be considered an old maid."
Grace chuckled and placed her hands on my shoulders. "You're like a daughter to us. Of course we're gonna worry about you, child." She dug in her pocket and pulled out the aforementioned money, waving it in front of my face.
I didn't argue further and reluctantly took the small wad of cash, tips from last night's festivities. I didn't exactly know where to spend it other than the Fighting McDonagh's since it was the only place that served semi-decent food.
The bar was packed with workers getting off shift. Loud and rowdy as they watched Ryan's Raiders play, I weaved through the crowd and placed my order to the bartender behind the counter - Thomas if I remembered correctly. I sat down at a booth in the far back and rested my chin on my intertwined fingers. Mariska Lutz popped out a few minutes later with a plate in hand. Weaving through the crowd like they weren't there (plenty of practice), she placed the plate in front of me and smiled. "Enjoy!" She exclaimed over the loud noise and disappeared into the crowd again.
Digging in, I failed to notice someone sit down in the booth across from me. Glancing up, it took everything I had not to choke on the food: Augustus Sinclair.
Augustus Sinclair wasn't a conman, per ce, but a cunning businessman with an abnormally high intellect to know that you have to pick a brand name from the writing on the walls. He owned several of the businesses here and knew exactly how to squeeze someone with a fancy hat until he fell in the mud for every dollar he owned. He was a bit on the heavy side with a muffin top that was sort of stuffed into his black dress pants added with his white shirt, tucked in, clean and proper. He didn't wear a belt, but opted for overall straps, adding to his official working man look. He had his glasses hung around his neck and a necktie, red and yellow striped. His hair was charcoal black, smoothed back to make him appear suave and sophisticated and his bright emerald eyes entranced the soul and warped the mind into handing over your wallet.
Andrew Ryan always rambled on about the 'Great Chain', where there was no God in the sky, only a chain that we each had a hand on. Any man who said differently either has his hand in your pocket or a gun to your temple. Sinclair had people shelling out the pull that Great Chain for him.
I swallowed and asked, "What?"
Sinclair's lips curved into the famous grin that could charm a shark and held out his hand for a handshake, "The name's-"
"I know who you are. Let me rephrase my question: What do you want?"
Sinclair's hand retreated to adjust his tie - skillfully and rehearsed, "I'll be frank with you, since I can see that you're someone who doesn't beat 'round the bush: I've been watchin' you. I've seen you around the Drop, sittin' up on that thrift shop's sign. Also have seen you crawl out of the vents, it's safe to assume you know the ventilation system." He leaned back on the cushioned seats.
"Sure."
The vents were my home for the most part. It was how I got around and avoided the splicers. Most that would try and follow me would get lost in them very easily and end up another body stuck in the shaft, broken by a deadfall, lacerated by fan blades or sucked into the vats in the Fisheries. I had no idea where this man was going, but all I could hear was that money was involved and so was the risk of being killed.
"I'm willin' to pay good money for any information you can get. Anything downright juicy."
"You don't even know me."
"But I would like to. What's your name?" I chose the silent treatment. "Alright don't tell me. But then I'll have to make up a name for you. Calling you 'Girl' or 'ma'am' just doesn't suit my fancy. Too informal." I rolled my eyes and continued to eat my meal. I had to hear this. "All right, your name will be Hawkeye."
"Hawkeye?"
"Yes, ma'am. You stand on the highest perch you can get to an' watch the people around here like a hawk. I know opportunity when I see it. I like to look a person in the eye when I tell them: You an' me kid, we're going places."
"What is that? You're catch phrase?" I questioned, wiping my mouth of ketchup with a napkin. I pushed the empty plate aside and leaned back in my seat.
He chuckled and answered, "Might as well be, Hawkeye."
Hawkeye? I listened to the word bounce around inside my skull. It wasn't that bad; I actually liked it, not that I would admit it to the man. But I was not about to give this guy the time of day. As I had said, I've dealt with his kind before: business men looking for information at first until they realize your worth and try to sell you to their allies as a bargaining chip. I would disappear before the debate could even finish and they'd never find me.
"Good day, Mr. Sinclair," I said standing up to leave.
Sinclair only sat there with a smug smile on his face. He made no motion to grab for me, nor did he look like he was going to say anything to stop me. The man was way too smart for his own good. I knew he would be back and sick enough I was curious as to what he would say next time.
Stuffing my hands in my pocket, the switchblade brushing against my knuckles. "Well, this is annoying..." I muttered to myself.
I pushed open the door leading into Limbo Room silently weaving through the numerous tables and chairs that had yet to be cleaned off by the night cleaners. I had wasted enough of my time in the company of Sinclair, now I needed my sleep. I jumped up on the stage and went into the back room where Grace's dressing room was.
I was surprised to find a pillow and a blanket inside, folded neatly on the bench in front of Grace's vanity. I caught sight of my reflection which was a laugh if I could say so. My reflection stared back at me, tired, sad and almost had dead look to it. It was angular, had its exotic features, but other than that I was nothing spectacular to look at. I touched my greasy brown hair that was pulled into a low ponytail and opted to ask Grace for a bath. The woman was so kind that she was only person I could feel comfortable asking without having a shiv in my belly before I could get the question out. I licked my thumb and rubbed off a spot of dirt from crawling in the vents, knowing that it did little for the rest of my face.
I shook my head and threw the pillow on the floor and laid down, wrapping the blanket around me, cocooning myself in the fabric.
You and me, kid, we're going places...
That Sinclair was already becoming a thorn in my side – invading my head like this.