Kapitel One: Into the City
"Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains."
1946, Unknown date, Lighthouse
Cold, tired gunmetal blue eyes peered through the circular lenses that rested on the bridge of the man's nose; one would have thought that he was from a respectable profession, given his attire and overall demeanour. Not someone who was wanted and engaged in illegal or morally dubious activities—granted that there was a harsh edge to the elegant and handsome features that had attracted more than its fair share of trouble. For the most part, the German preferred to be considered someone who had a lack of moral inhibitions than someone who was suffering from insanity; rules, laws, ethics, they were all created on the basis of what is socially acceptable in human society than on a more neutral standpoint.
An envelope was held tightly in his hand; the other clutched a leather briefcase that was marked with scuffs and cracks on its otherwise durable exterior. Over the course of the last few years, the poor case had been through abuse that was not befitting of its long service to the doctor that used it—almost like a faithful companion, the dispatch case had followed him through most of his life. To the ordinary eye, the satchel was an ordinary piece of baggage like any other, most likely filled with spare clothes, dried food—in essence, basic items that were needed for travel.
Not jars of solution or hypodermic needles of questionable size and purpose, or notebooks that detailed experiments and theories which would have any decent human being burning their contents out of a mixture of horror and disgust.
He slowly exhaled through his nose; it would not be long till he was free from the shackles that tethered him to the world that he had come to despise along with his few but invaluable possessions, as well as his only human companion who functioned as both a bodyguard and test subject.
The man had never been one to believe in religion or any doctrine of predestination, in his mind everything simply followed a chain called causality. Therefore, it had never weighed upon his mind when he conducted himself as a person who showed no mercy or had a cruel streak unbecoming of the title he earned through his own sweat and blood—in fact, he could not care less for the pieces of paper that endorsed his qualifications and skill; besides, most of his patients did not care if he had any official approval: if one was about to die in minutes from injuries caused by illegal activity and the only person who could possibly prevent their demise was a back alley doctor with a reputation for performing 'miracles', who cared if the medical practicioner had something as trivial as a license.
In any case, even if he still had his license, the doctor doubted that he would have found any legitimate work whether in his home country or in another nation; given his accent, nationality and background—as well as the circumstances of the current times—no one would hire him or allow him to practice his profession even if he did possess the skill and knowledge that surpassed others.
Cruel, but that was the world and humanity in general; people would never look past the ugliness of things to remember and appreciate the beauty within, just like how children would fear and despise needles due to the pain associated with a vaccination when that pain could have been better related to something that would save them needless trouble over certain sicknesses. It always seemed like the majority could not accept that some answers were impossible to present in any manner aside from a chiaroscuro of both ends of the spectrum and it was frustrating, even amongst his peers or like-minded confederates who were most likely six feet in the ground now; the German could never really find someone he could identify with.
That was inclusive of the time he was reassigned to the less than pleasant side of the war at home, and he was free to exercise his faculties as he wished with minimal interference provided that he kept in line with the ridiculous political dogma and ideology of the nation. The latter of which the doctor and former field medic—now scientist—personally could not be bothered with even if he was threatened with death.
What he was interested in was not the boring eugenics that everyone else was obsessed with currently. It was how certain traits could set people apart so greatly due to abilities granted to them in their genetic code, how those traits could be given or taken away by manipulating things on the molecular level, and the many possibilities that came with altering a persons' genetic make-up that truly appealed to the man. However, with all the enthusiasm for those areas of study also came preoccupation for the reverse; could he possibly create something that could grant others temporary abilities by stimulating the correct receptors on a cellular level rather than having to delve too deep into something that was possibly irreversible?
At the present time, he could deem the inquiry of targeting selected receptors on a cellular level to grant temporary physiological power that was otherwise only available if the person had Australium on hand; the formula that he had theorised and created a prototype serum of in his university days in Berlin was finally perfected after much experimentation, what amazed him was that all of it had gone under the noses of those twerps he had to work with. Either they did not realise that the people that were sent to him often ended up leaving his work area in a much better state than they were when they first entered, or, the fact that the often unnecessary incessant screaming was out of alarm and possibly outrage as he idly recounted tales of his time on the frontlines and prodded them with needles whilst they remained restrained were more than enough to have no one question his activities.
Regardless, as far as Dietrich von Ludwig was concerned, he was still an enemy of the state if they had already discovered that the body was not his but someone else's who he used to falsify his own death. He had upped and left without much thought or notice, choosing to flee once he caught wind of any news that his license was to be revoked on grounds of him being a traitor and assisting the enemy; when in fact it was more along the lines of the unintended side effect of his experimental drugs proved to be assisting in healing than killing. Someone had to do some actual science that would truly be beneficial to humanity; if the state wanted glorified butchers, the doctor would rather still be in the Wehrmacht with people he could at least try to pity for having been tossed into a war that was, in his own personal opinion, stupid and a waste of valuable resources. At least, when he was on the field, he did not have to pretend that he was fully indoctrinated in some belief; he was free to be inventive with the parts flying around him and most importantly, he was never questioned or made to write official reports on his progress.
As much as he was grateful for not having to work whilst bullets flew past him from multiple directions, the doctor missed the one thing he took for granted.
Freedom.
A simple word. A word that carried so much meaning and weight, a word that had been the justification for many lives to be lost, for wars to be waged or the common people to overthrow age old systems of government. The medical practitioner was no philosopher or historian, but he had made a number of acquaintances and associates from the other disciplines in the university; most of them he had tried to save from some grievous injury or could only watch as they fell victim to bullets or shrapnel that reduced young lives into shredded, charred, ribbons of flesh and bone. Strange, how people who could be so full of life and ready to graduate with dreams of their own to change the world or be a pioneer in their respective fields would meet their end on enemy soil, dying unremembered and lost in history as another casualty of war that went badly due to a multitude of reasons.
For most part, he blamed his last 'patient'—subject would not fit the man; the American made even the most deluded of men seem sane— for the whole reason as to why he had to disappear from his own country at the time. A loud and foulmouthed soldier who just had to escape in the most conspicuous manner possible; if it had been a quiet escape, the German would have felt a slight obligation to consider forgiving the prisoner. In that case, no one living soul would have been any wiser and no unwanted attention would have been drawn to the last person who interacted with him.
On hindsight, it was also probably why no one had listed him as a criminal after the war; unless that was yet to be seen, given that he was guilty of affiliation if anything was to hold him accountable for his actions in the past.
Either way, it was the newly recruited doctor who had decided to test a new batch of the serum he developed in hopes of creating a formula that would revolutionise how field medics were to carry out their duties on the field—by extension, making killing enemy units far more efficient as there would be fewer wounded to tend to, and those that were injured could quickly return to their posts—who had to flee for his life while armed with nothing but a standard issue pistol and bone saw to what most would consider certain death.
Except that fate took pity on him, out of kindness for the events that had transpired or out of amusement to see him suffer; it was in the cold, bitter and harsh winter of Russia that he found a companion that gave him a sense of security, even now he had to admit that he had gotten used to the presence of the other human and found familiarity in it.
Said person was currently standing next to him, a tall, imposing figure of strength and solidarity, the Russian had a faint smile on his face, pale azure eyes fixated on the stormy sea that would soon be as close to home as any of the passengers on board the vessel along with them. The disgraced physician could only guess what was in the other man's mind; unlike many who he came across, Mikhail was an enigma beyond his comprehension. For starters, there were many instances where the giant of a man could have easily left him at the mercy of those the doctor had trespassed or, to begin with, decided to go on his own separate way after the war ended.
However, not being one to pry or question another being too much, the German took the man's companionship as it was, an ongoing mutual partnership for survival that had started during the later years of the war. Prior to receiving the invitation to join others in the endeavour to the depths of the sea, he had supported their financial needs with the work he had, and the hulking wall of muscle would deter would be thugs who thought that the bespectacled doctor was easy prey. Of course, the letter had only requested for the presence of one of the two, but arrangements were made; taking in to account all that the both of them had gone through, it had only felt right to Dietrich to bring the other with him. After all, debts had to be repaid in kind; even if he had questionable scruples, he was still human and had an obligation to at the very least, ensure that the both of them could survive during these uncertain times.
"I never thought I would be going back to living underwater again."
The speaker was a tall, lanky man with a tanned complexion that suggested time spent outdoors in a harsh environment. His voice had a strange accent; stereotypical Australian, but there was a slight difference which threw him off—possibly a case of nature versus nurture where a person grew up in their home country but spent most of their youth abroad long enough to cause changes in their pronunciation and such. Dietrich frowned thoughtfully, unsure if the sentence was an attempt at conversation or simply a thought spoken aloud. For most part, the doctor wondered if the stranger was one of those who believed in the mysterious nation of New Zealand. Actually, who was he to question the truth in those tales—were they all not going to do the same in a few moments, vanish from the face of the earth and into the deep dark depths of the ocean.
A tense silence filled the air, at which point the doctor, with his poor sense of social interaction, knew that the stranger was expecting a response to the statement. Thankfully, Mikhail had also overheard it and answered the man; a Mr Lawrence Mundy, the architect of Rapture and oddly enough just as he had suspected earlier about nature against nurture; a native of New Zealand who spent a long time in the Australian outback. Apparently, the fact that hailing from the secretive land which was indeed submerged into the bottom of the ocean was not the only surprising piece of information to trickle into the doctor's ears—the draughtsman had spent a duration of time in the wilderness of the outback away from civilization, learning how to survive alone and picked up sniping as a skill.
As much as eavesdropping; or as the physician preferred to consider it as a form of observation, was taken as offensive and intrusive behaviour unbecoming of a person, it was a skill that Dietrich took pride in. One could learn many things simply by listening to mindless chatter, be it about a person or the mundane motions of the world beyond his control. Information was power as was knowledge in the many fields of study that most only felt keen and wanted to be an expert in a small part of it. Much like how people were more interested in their respective roles in a play than the whole show itself.
It was a comment that was aimed at Dietrich which drew the doctor to take part in the ongoing conversation between the two men; a well meant remark that pricked him unpleasantly, he felt his brow furrow and face rearrange itself into his signature squint of annoyance.
"The doc seems pretty quiet, doesn't he? Bit shy or just a man of a few words?"
"I am not shy, I just find no reason to expend my energy on small talk, my friend." The German kept the tone of his voice to one that was almost affable to be dismissed as banter, well aware that most found his accent to be thick and grating—or as someone once told him, 'like an instrument that had been left unused and neglected', which of course led to that very patient suffering through a needlessly painful procedure—a curse to him, as he was turned away from any remotely respectable place the moment he opened up his mouth to speak.
There was an uncomfortable silence as two pairs of eyes turned to face the previously silent man, one hid an amused smile in their eyes, almost like a proud parent who finally saw their rebellious child learn how to behave appropriately in public; there was a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of the man's lips, as if he was struggling to keep laughter down—while the other displayed mild surprise and clear lack of contriteness on having been called out on his opinion. It was also only now that the doctor noticed that the latter was dressed in a rather casual manner, simple when compared to the rest of the passengers on board, and for lack of a better word to describe the architect's clothes—bumpkinish.
It did not help that the aviators that strange Australian—Dietrich had overheard that Herr Mundy preferred to be considered a citizen of the place that he spent most of his time in, and in his words, "got so used to staying in the land for so long, it was more home to him than where he was born"—wore even when the man was currently heading to the bottom of the deep abyss made him stand out like a sore thumb.
"Good to see that you aren't mute, mate." Came the blithe response, the tone informal and much more relaxed than before when the man had tried to strike up a chat. The man, Lawrence; appeared to be rather smug in a cool, aloof manner—as if he was a cat who had just gotten what it had set its eyes on—the expression was not too far off from a person having achieved some small personal victory. Dietrich could not help but silently wonder if the man had made that jibe to elicit a reaction out of him; recently met stranger or not, the German had been through school and had his fair share of classmates trying to force any sort of feedback from him—in a simple word, bullying.
"I prefer selectively reticent, my friend." Patting his sleeves down as if he had dust on his clothes, the tone of his voice was offhanded, close to taking a turn towards sarcasm. "Besides, I am intrigued about what you said earlier," the bespectacled man paused, taking a moment to allow a small smirk to find its way to his lips, "that someone like you who seems to enjoy living on land more than at the bottom of the ocean has for one reason over the other decided to return to your roots and take up residence in deep once more."
Neither of them missed the dangerous glint behind the tinted glasses of the eccentric architect, the same man who, also gained enjoyment out of shooting down targets from afar and preferred being under the wide expense of the starry night sky alone in the wilderness than in the company of humans—if the man's friendliness had been a mask to test waters out, then that mask was starting to slide down and show a less than pleasant side of himself.
Had Mikhail not let out a laugh, the tension that was palpable between the three of them would not have dissipated as it did. The sound itself was warm, hearty like fire in a hearth when one was surrounded by the darkness of night or the biting chill of harsh winter. "Both men are equally strong in one area that I cannot help but appreciate," the Russian smiled, sincerity and mirth shining in his eyes while his fellow conversation partners shared a glance that was between distrustful and judgemental. "To me," he continued slowly, taking care to choose the right words, lest they caused unwanted agitation, "the two of you excel at paying attention to details that others might miss and act on them to stay ahead. That is a good thing, because that way neither of you would foolishly charge in without having fully considered the possible consequences."
'Trust Mikhail to actually play the mediator.' The small voice of malice whispered into Dietrich's ear; a small part of the doctor had wished to see the conversation go down a road that was deplorable to those who did not enjoy verbal sparring, there was always fun in constructing and deconstructing points of view in his opinion. It was an art and acted as a filtering mechanism so that he would know who to look for when he needed assistance on certain matters; better to consult a person on their expertise than weakness, therefore saving time and frustration.
However, he also knew that the action taken by the lumbering man, who was by all accounts, protective and benign in nature until faced with a threat, was in the best interest of them both. If not, more so for his associate whose idea of friendship extended towards either a symbiotic relationship founded on a common need for reliance between two organisms or a dysfunctional partnership built upon a common goal that had to be fulfilled so that each respective person would be able to achieve their individual targets. After all, Mikhail was much smarter than he often let others on; prior his time being imprisoned, he had a degree in Russian literature in the University of Moscow.
"I guess that is true," rueful words of concession left the draughtsman's mouth; it was no apology, but a gesture at attempting to placate the situation before it turned ugly.
Dietrich was not one to give up on a potential fight if only to see the possible outcome and repercussions that would follow suit-it was his inherent nature to study and observe as it was for the sun to rise from the east and set in the west. However, he accepted that it was most likely not worth the time or the effort in this case; a time and place for everything, just because he stumbled across a cause for behaviour to be triggered, it did not mean that he had to act on every time it appeared. Ultimately, given that making the choice to go down to the underwater city was a one-way trip, there would be more and better opportunities for the both of them to dispute between themselves.
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1959, Medical Pavilion Atrium
Someone once told Dietrich that the creation of monsters was inevitable, if people did not have enemies or things they considered a threat to their needs, they would then create one so as to form justification for their actions. As for the enemies that they had created, it was in their nature to want to destroy their makers; quid pro quo, as some would say. There were few things that could truly make the German feel as if his blood had gone cold in his veins, but right now, he felt frozen to the bone. As though his mind and all form of rational thought had fled his body, the doctor could only stare at the protector model mutely. Words failed to form proper sentences in his head and he felt like a helpless child; he could not see past the helmet, but deep inside in his own gut, he knew the face behind the armour.
His suspicions were further confirmed when he glanced at the towering creature's choice of weapon; now much closer to him, the medical professional could further scrutinise the details of the powerful firearm and finally remembered with a sense of growing horror as to why he found it familiar. The man himself and seen it before, or at the very least, had the opportunity to examine its schematics. From the dread filled head that had a single word of denial screaming in a continuous loop, Dietrich faintly recalled a ghost of a conversation he had during the early stages of his societal discovery. In the past, it would have brought a bitter smile to his thin lips that had been hardened by the stresses of life. Right now, it was a taunt, a mockery of his failure as a human—if he could even be considered a human for all moral and ethical purposes at this point, given all the things he had sacrificed at the altar of scientific discovery.
'You never told me that you were proficient in the area of weapon design.'
'It was not necessary, but now that I am here with doctor, I should employ my other talents and help out with the funding for research. In any case, working with Dell is interesting; doctor can work without being worried that I have nothing to do.'
Mikhail was a student of literature; by all definitions, a person who was far from an arms manufacturer. However, like a shining example of glaring contrasts, the Russian was in his own right, a heavy weapons specialist and more than capable of coming up with new and inventive ways of creating tools of massive destruction for defense and security purposes. During his time in Rapture, he had partnered up their amiable Texan neighbour to produce a number of security mechanisms around the city. In fact, it was through that acquaintanceship that Dietrich had the chance to interact with the avant-garde inventor and mechanical tinkerer-resulting in many inventive products that was a merge of both their specialities of science.
In any case, unlike the Teutonic man of medicine whom he had followed to Rapture, he had a moral compass; however much or little he made use of it was influenced by the circumstances surrounding him and those he cared for in his heart. Despite the fact that acting on such a basis would undoubtedly lead to debatable moral actions, this generally meant that one had to be either stupid, or, extremely brave, or a combination of both to even entertain thoughts of harming any one of the giant's friends. With the hands that were no more than protective shields and associated with security to the German, those very same hands were powerful enough to tear, maim and break anything that meant harm; be it man or machine. The doctor had witnessed such an event before where Mikhail had, in a rare moment of fury, almost smashed a man's head in simply because he had the gall to threaten the medical practitioner with a weapon and was about to deal a mortal wound to him.
Which left a question, an important one that had to be answered given the implications of the matter the doctor had left unresolved a good few years ago; except that he had lost all contact with the only person who would have known anything related to the incident. Truthfully, the German was not too sure himself if he wanted to know the truth of the events that had transpired during that period. Nothing that had remotely resembled good or ethical took place during those times, and while he was not about to grow a conscience, residual feelings of frustration over failure did haunt him when he did sleep after Herr Cognaher forced him to. In addition, the fact remained that the current situation of splicers were due to his discovery; if he had not found such a powerful and addictive substance, even if the civil war still happened, people would not be crazed or have abilities granted to them by splicing their genetic code with plasmids.
On seeing that its outstretched hand was still yet to be accepted, the Protector tilted its head; the action made more obvious than it would have been on a normal human as the large helmet moved tandem.
"Take my hand. We go together."
If the doctor was told that the world had ended and he was in hell reliving a nightmarish version of the world created in his sick, twisted head, he would have believed it without a second thought. A weapon designed by none other than the man who he had traveled with since the war, a protector having the same voice and saying the same lines that very person had said-there were too many things that clicked in place to be more than mere coincidence, which meant that things had been planned and set in motion on purpose. It was disconcerting, how he felt that someone was playing him like a puppet along the song and dance of someone else with no say to it at all.
The cold, apathetic and oftentimes cruel side of his personality manifested itself through the maelstrom of denial and incomprehension as a plain factual thought, a whisper that to most was callous at the very least, taking into account the implications of what had happened to his former companion. Dietrich could not help this habit of his; as much as others who had encountered him as a person, even one as decent as Dell Cognaher, found this particular trait rather unfeeling for a human. It was in his nature to have his logical thinking override emotion; as if the latter was a young child who needed protecting, the former was there to act as a barrier while it recounted facts, figures and rational thought through his head with ease like a machine.
'Well, early Protector models never had to go through the voice box modification programme...with a lot of luck, he would belong to the series that were permanently sealed into their suits by having their organs and all grafted into it...Heliges Gott, this makes me wish I paid more attention to what that other schweinhund told me about his work on the Protector programme. Pity he had to die due to an accident with an enraged test subject didn't he?'
There were many questions that he wanted to bombard the creature in front of him, most out of curiosity while a lesser part was out of residual feelings of obligation. In the end, the only word that left his lips carried the hidden message of 'what has happened to you?' as well as an undercurrent of an emotion that suggested remorse, but anyone who knew the man of science knew better than to take it as such.
"Mikhail?"
He despised how his voice sounded, weak, lacklustre; it was laced with uncertainty and hesitation, both of which he was never known for or have felt in his life. Yet, here he was, eyeing the thing he considered an abomination of nature since the implementation of such a programme and wondering if the person inside the suit was his former ally.
People said that life worked in cycles; even in science it was proved as such, and now…
Now, it came full circle as the person who had inadvertently created the gatherers and was as good as one himself, would be reunited with an ally who was turned into a protector for the man he once shielded with his life.