Chapter 1

Liam stared out across the ocean, the sun now rising, the evanescent fog fading away. The bench sat overlooking the waters, and blue stretched as far as the naked eye could see. He could smell salt as he watched the waves lap up against the jagged rocks.

The sound of speeding car wheels echoed through the entirety of the encampment, making Liam jump in his seat. His neck turned and his head pivoted, eyes tracing the trail of dust left by the 1940 Plymouth that dragged along the dirt road. It was a dark teal color, two passengers locked within. It skidded to a halt after being let through the gate, and the men stepped out, stretching their limbs.

One of them was tall and sturdy, dressed in a black suit and tie. His blonde hair flowed to the side in the wind, and his muscles rippled, protruding outwards from underneath his clothing. He was pale, his cheeks were flushed, and his stark blue eyes peered at Liam, squinting, before his hand outstretched and a finger pointed.

The second man glanced in Liam's direction before nodding and hobbling towards him. He was tanned, with an oval face and dark, neatly combed hair that was graying at the fringes. He was wearing a brown, three-piece, formal outfit, complete with a striped tie that encircled his neck and fell across his torso. He too had blue eyes, though they were not nearly as electrifying.

Liam sighed inwardly at the quaint men heading his way. He was not in the mood to deal with anyone; especially complete strangers.

"Ho there!" the dark-haired man called. He had his hands cupped around his mouth, attempting to make his voice carry farther. Liam only blinked twice before turning his gaze back to the ocean.

By the time the mysterious pair had reached him, the older and shorter man was heaving and gasping for air. His blonde counterpart stood, arms crossed, silent.

"Mind if I have a seat?" he asked.

"Yes." Liam replied.

"Let's go for a walk then?"

"No," Liam answered.

"Not too friendly are we?" the man pried, sitting down anyways. "I'm Andrew. Andrew Ryan." He held out his arm, ready to shake.

"Liam Payne," he said, glancing down at the wavering hand before turning away, refusing to accept the embrace.

"Good thing I'm not offended easily," Andrew laughed. He crossed one leg over the other as he pulled a packet of smokes from his coat pocket. "Niall," he said, motioning to the fag he held.

The blonde man pulled a lighter, struck a flame and set it to the end of his cigarette. Andrew set it between two fingers as he blew the cloud of smoke high in the air.

"Why is it a good thing you're not offended easily?" Liam asked.

"Boy, you're as cold as they come, that's why," he said, cocking his head to the side.

"I'm not a boy," Liam snapped. Andrew only chuckled.

The two sat there, with Niall standing beside them, for a long while. The silence was deep, none of the men willing or wanting to break it. The sun was high above the sea now, and Liam had gotten no work done all day. Andrew went through nearly his entire package of cigarettes, each time motioning for the blonde man to light it for him. It upset Liam that Mr. Ryan was so seemingly dependent upon his…what was Niall to him?

A friend? A servant? An escort?

"What is he to you?" Liam asked.

Andrew was completely thrown off guard.

"Excuse me?"

"What is Niall to you?"

"Niall is my body guard," he stated plainly. He was still surprised, though; tinges of interrogation bled through his words, tone deceiving him.

"What need do you have for a bodyguard?" Liam questioned.

"Ah, and now the fun begins!" Mr. Ryan exclaimed, arms open to the ocean. "You see Liam—" he began.

"Get to the point—"

"I was going—"

"Get to the point," Liam demanded once more.

Andrew laughed. "You're a funny one, you know that?"

Liam only stared back at him, eyes full of impatience.

"Right, well then. I've been working on this…project of mine, if you will, for a long time. You may have heard rumors, you may have not. But the reality is that underneath the Atlantic Ocean, at the very bottom of the sea" he stuck a finger out towards the expanse of water, "lays a city of untold greatness. A city built for those willing to break the barriers of society and reach for something more. To grasp what is beyond the limitations of the surface world. In Rapture—that is its name—you can be free of religion…free of social classes and pressures…free of political instability. For in Rapture, there is only man that rules; and man alone."

His eyes were serious, ambition taking control of his features and exuding a life within him that went, Liam guessed, unseen to most.

"Tell me more," Liam begged, suppressing his excitement.

"Ah, yes, of course, Liam. I have not even reached the best part. On top of the railways… the bathyspheres…the beautiful landscapes of the ocean, lay an opportunity that has been forever unknown to the human race." He set his arm on the back of the bench, elbow bent. "There are no foolish laws to bind you from progressing in your work. Science and technology will thrive without the limitations that are placed so heavily upon them on the surface world; they will become unstoppable!"

"See...I chose the impossible. I chose...Rapture. A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well."

"Yes," Liam whispered, mind filled with anticipation and a longing he never knew existed.

And he was hooked. Instantly, irrevocably, and indubitably drawn in to the boundless extraordinaire that was Rapture. His hands trembled as realization was burned into his skull.

No scientific boundaries, he thought. Nothing to hold me back ever again.

Unconstrained, with endless possibility.

Liam liked that idea.

Eleanor Calder was a reserved and introverted woman with a shy and bashful personality. Her hair was long and brown, parting at the middle of her bangs, forming a halo around her thin face. Her eyes were deep and loving, and she had a small, petite frame. She wore a silky smooth, lavender night gown that was draped around her, falling back against her body as she lay on the couch, awaiting the return of her husband in the ambient laconism that surrounded her.

Their apartment—that her spouse and she shared, of course—was a large, three bedroom, one bath living space complete with a balcony overlooking the city of Doncaster. Often times Eleanor stared out the window of her bedroom, observing the wind that blew in the trees when she grew lonely. Her husband was a lawyer, and always seemed to be caught up by God-knows-what at work.

"Always alone…" she said to herself, words ricocheting in the silence.

A click of the door sounded, Eleanor turning her gaze from the ceiling to the entrance, eyeing the man that stepped in.

His shoulders sagged in his suit, which glistened in the living room lighting. It was a rich and vivid navy blue, with black vertical stripes chasing down his back. He held a wide, leather briefcase, a few tips of the documents contained within poking out at the edges. He kicked off his Oxfords, stretching his toes out on the hardwood floor. He spun to his wife, a sullen expression on his face.

His hair was knotted and tangled, its delicate strands causing him pain whenever his hands carded through it. His eyes were not the usual energized blue that melted the hearts of the captive jury he faced in court. He appeared dead as he staggered to his wife across the room from him, enervated as his exhausted muscles propelled him forward. She motioned for him to sit down, and he rested his head against her breast.

"Tired, Lou?" she asked, massaging the sore muscles in his neck.

"Yes…" he breathed, quickly nodding off into sleep, falling limp against his wife. She leaned back, lightly dragging his body with her as she rested against the soft cushioning of the couch, curling by his side.

"Me too," she said. "Me, too…"

Rays of light rippled across the floorboards of Eleanor's flat, moving in currents and dancing across the polished surface. She stared at it for a long while, unmoving from her place on the couch.

During this time thoughts of foreboding and tugging apprehension raced through her mind. Her worry of their new "family", their new home, their new life. It was all so strange and so different, and it was nothing Eleanor was accustomed to.

But then again, no one was accustomed to an eternity under the sea.

Eleanor slipped off of the furniture quietly, and began to prepare breakfast. She had a long day ahead of her.

"Sweetheart, it will be grand, the whole thing will be brilliant!" he exclaimed, jumping out of his seat at the kitchen table.

"Louis, sit down and eat. I didn't cook for all this food to go to waste…"she sighed, knowing he would not listen to her.

"El, darling," he said, rounding the table and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Aren't you excited?" She stabbed a piece of scrambled egg with her fork and slid it into her mouth. She nodded, still chewing the morsel of food.

Louis returned to his seat, dissatisfied with his spouse's reaction.

"You don't look too happy," he spat, shoving a piece of toast in his mouth and washing it down with a swig of orange juice. "I don't know why you're not delighted to be moving down there," he continued. "Anyone would kill for that chance. Do you understand that? Do you understand how lucky we are?" his tone pitied her and poked at her in crude contempt.

"Yes, dear," Eleanor replied, lamentation striking her words. "I am happy—excited. I'm just…a bit worried." Her tone was unconvincing, Louis not falling for the act.

"What are you worried about?" he asked skeptically.

"Life will be so…" she had to be careful with her words. "Different. It will be a big change," she said, head held downwards, facing the table.

"Change is good, Eleanor," Louis answered, sternly.

She nodded in agreement and, as usual, submitted to her more dominant partner.

The evening air was thick with enthusiasm and commotion as people piled into a single gold and polished bathysphere, assuming their descent to the great depths below. Zayn glanced around him, clutching his suitcase tightly. His knuckles were white—an odd thing against his dark skin—Harry standing by his side. The bathysphere went up and down, up and down…

The room in which they stood was packed tightly from wall to wall, the clusters and mobs of people touching shoulder to shoulder. They were all in the not-so-large space in some tower in the middle of…well, nobody quite knew.

The bathysphere housed about fifteen to twenty people at a time, depending on their size. It was a painstakingly slow process, watching it disappear and glide up again and again; Zayn waited a long time to reach the spot at which he stood now. He was no farther than ten feet away.

And he was no less than terrified.

His mind raced with thoughts of error and cruel chance. What if something went wrong? What if there was a malfunction and Zayn's life was quickly ended—due to his own stupidity and ignorance?

"Calm down, buddy…" Harry nudged him, sending him a reassuring smile. His leafy green, emerald eyes shone even in the poor lighting of the damp and putrid tower. His best mate's hair had been ruined by the lingering and sultry air, rendering his pomade useless, and his thick curls were jostled and sticking out in every direction.

"Aren't you nervous?" Zayn asked him, trying desperately not to feel alone.

"Hell, yes," Harry replied. It was the first time Zayn noticed his friend's hand trembling as it gripped his encasing of personal belongings, the leather handle shaking in his grasp. As he inched closer and closer to the bulky, gargantuan sphere of transportation, his heart began to beat faster, and faster. Sweat soaked through his clothing and his hands struggled in holding his luggage, fingers slipping.

"Shit," he said, turning to Harry. "I'm sweating like a pig and this suit is brand new…"

"You'll live," Harry replied, rolling his eyes.

"But what if we don't?"

"What?" Harry asked, a bit taken aback.

"What if something goes wrong, what if that- that thing explodes under the pressure or something? I mean, we'd never survive. No way in hell—"

"Quit your babbling." Zayn was interrupted by a man in front of him, standing tall and confident; arrogant, even. He inclined his head and glared at them as he spoke, eyeing Zayn with an audacity and disdain that pierced his soul. "If the bathysphere hasn't collapsed by now, then it won't when you get on it, either."

Zayn had his mouth agape, stretched and contorted in disbelief at the interjection.

"Mind your own business," Harry snapped.

"If you don't want your business to be heard," the man said with a nasty undertone, "then don't speak of it so loudly and in such a confined public area."

Zayn normally wouldn't act in such a manner; certainly not with the domineering and pompous ass that stood before him.

But he was at a loss for words. His mind continuously drew blanks in attempts to dig for some retort, some reply. Anything.

For what he had seen—despite the utter and absolute look of disgust—was the most gorgeous human being he had ever laid his eyes on. Never had he looked at a man that way before; never in his life. It confused him, sending a trickling of self-hatred down his spine that shook his resolve. He battered himself within his own mind, fighting over what was right, and what was wrong.

If that had been a woman, then he would have charmed and sweet-talked her to bed with one sentence. One measly word and a snap of his fingers and she would be his, taking his every command and following his every word.

But it wasn't a woman, Zayn reminded himself. That was a man, you dirty pervert.

But his thoughts could not leave the man's face. His flawless hair, jawline, eyes, lips, complexion. Everything about him enticed and pulled at Zayn's heart strings, luring him in as the smell of perfumes wafted and permeated through the air. He could see that the man's muscles in his back were tense, and he wanted nothing more than to massage the knots and stiff tissues.

He envisioned his deft hands gliding across the warm, silky skin, fingers spreading and contracting in skilled motions. He was now biting the other man's ear, whispering to him, rubbing him up and down; across his chest and his legs, his shoulders and his neck.

"Zayn," Harry said, shaking his arm. "Zayn, we're getting on, let's go." Harry stepped forward, shoes clanging against the metal of the bathysphere. It was lined with people that traced its circumference, the mysterious man included.

Zayn jumped in, losing his balance and reaching for the closest arm to him. With sour luck, it happened to be none other than the lad he was fantasizing about just moments before.

"Don't touch me," he said, jerking away, and dusting off his lab coat.

"What's your name?" Zayn asked, ignoring the reclusive and withdrawn man's wishes.

"Liam Payne," he stated, shooting a look of hostility.

"Zayn Malik," he replied, a hand outstretched.

"Don't touch me," Liam repeated.

Only this time, his words were softer, and less harsh. They hinted at compassion and yet strayed from benevolence, taunting and perplexed with convoluted complications that Zayn did not understand.

But as the motor kicked, and the bathysphere began to plummet into the sea below, Zayn became sure of one thing.

Forget the fact that he's a man, he thought to himself. Liam Payne will be mine.

And Zayn always got what he wanted.