Disclaimer: All I own is this story. The BioShock games, sadly, I do not. Oh well. Moving on, we left our heroes in two very different places. Delta, after tearing through the Splicers who stood in his way, is trekking across the sea floor back into Rapture, in hopes of finding transport to the surface. Meanwhile, Eleanor and the rescued sisters have sneakily docked in New York City, and after tracking him down, she has asked Jack Ryan for his help. Let continue, shall we?

The waters around him muffled every sound, distorted every sight. Heavy booted footfalls in the sand sent up small clouds wherever they struck, and reached his ear as soft thumps. Rapture's lights shimmered with a ghostly glow, warped by the sea. Delta trudged through the murky expanse, past rock and coral, through wreckage and kelp, step by step as he headed towards the city. Schools of fish cut languidly through the water, only to scatter in a heartbeat whenever a larger fish, or the occasional shark, drew too close. Out here, in the open expanse beneath the waves, Delta was calm, a fleeting peaceful reprise from the hell of his existence. Out here, he could ponder his world without having to worry about shoot Splicers and drilling through psychopaths.

Ryan, and in their own parts Fontaine and Sinclair, had taken away his old life, grafting and building his body into a metal monstrosity. All he knew was love for Eleanor, and whatever scraps of conscience he retained. He was Subject Delta. But who was he? Who was the man beneath the shell of metal and glass? What had he left behind on the surface? Was he a good man, a bad one? Did he have family waiting on the surface? So many questions flew through his tortured mind as the hollow man walked onwards, ever onwards towards the jagged silhouette of Rapture. He had seen what befell Alpha's separated from their sisters; coma, or madness, but he could not help but wonder which would strike him first. Then again, his bond had been severed, his future clouded with uncertainty. The short term goal however was quite clear; get out of Rapture or die trying.

The eerie shapes before him began to take on definition as he approached. Each individual are and building had its own shape, own outline, own palette of drab colors painted on by a decade of disrepair. The closest to him was all too familiar. It had no ghostly lights, no dystopia beneath glass ceilings. Lamb had made sure of that. The pipes and ceilings of Siren Alley had failed catastrophically when the mad doctor had deliberately brought the place crashing down around his head. He stood upon a small ridge in the sand overlooking the flooded red light district. He could see a small space where the roof had caved under the immense pressure of the sea's rage, and the gaping hole that had resulted. With a final push from his legs, Delta leapt forward, the water caressing him as he sank down towards the gaping wound in the structure below. Like thread through the eye of a needle, the Big Daddy slipped down through the hole with hardly any space to spare, concrete and rebar scraping gently on his sides. His feet found wooden deck a second later, and he landed with a grunt.

Siren Alley, which mere hours ago had played host to the devilish Wales brothers, hosts of Splicers and ruined whore houses was now a watery grave, its only inhabitants fish who nibbled idly at the floating corpses, so many of them Delta's own handiwork. He stood upon one of the many balconies that traversed the street level, a latticework of bridges and overhangs that cluttered the roofs and upper stories of buildings. The hollow man gazed around at what his and Lamb's struggle had wrought, but felt no guilt; there hadn't been a sane soul in the Alley for years, and he knew it to be true. Delta gave a heavy sigh, hopping off the wooden bridge before drifting down to the streets, landing upon its metal and concrete surface with a heavy thud. A shark swam proudly above him, paying the metal man no mind as it surveyed its new domain. Fish nibbled away at corpses adrift in the gentle currents, while crustaceans and bottom feeders tended to those less buoyant. The Big Daddy saw a white shape float by, a billowing, ghostly form. He turned, only to find the white dress of Eleanor's that 'Father' Wales had found so sacred. It drifted past like a pale jellyfish in the dim shadows, a soft glow cast by only a few struggling lights the only illumination.

Eleanor. His thoughts turned immediately to his 'Daughter'. There was so much he wished to ask her, to say to her, and he cursed the surgeries that had scarred his vocal cords when he was grafted into the shining diving suit, finding just one more reason to hate them. To a man whose only speech was bellows, grunts, and roars, the finer nuances of conversation seemed as precious as gold.

A quick glance around showed him the foyer he had entered the then dry district a few yards away, and with it, its airlock. The hollow man stepped up towards the chamber, sending a silent thank you to the foresight of the device's designer for waterproofing the electronics as he stepped inside. He gave a quick pull of the lever within, shutting the door behind him as the chamber entered into an unnecessary flood cycle before opening on the other side. He gave a sigh as he stepped out into the alleys of seafloor that snaked between Rapture's districts. It was time to pay Stanley Poole a visit.

* * *

Jack Ryan stared at the shoddy looking warehouse on the docks before him with narrowed eyes, anxiously fingering the grip of the pistol held in his right hand. With a deep breath, he turned off the car, its headlights dying with its engine, and stepped out into the chilly night air, full moon overhead. Steeling himself, he walked towards the entryway of the decomposing building. He had felt his heart stop the minute the young girl on the phone had mentioned Rapture. He had thought it a hoax, but she went on with details; specific districts, its founder, everything. This was real. But what was all the more surreal was that it was no denizen of Rapture come seeking revenge, but rather a fellow escapee of its hell, or at least so she said. She had given him an address down at the docks, and then hung up, begging for him to come and talk to her. That had been nearly a half hour ago. He had wasted no time, rousing the girls, explaining to them, hugging them goodbye, and promising that come hell or high water, he'd be back in two hours at most. His fingers played over the surface of the gun nervously. It was a promise he intended to keep.

The rusty sheet metal double doors towered from a mere inch off the ground to a few feet from the roof, resting upon unseen hinges and adorned with a shoulder level handles. Jack gripped the left door handle and pushed ever so slightly, wary of the no doubt creaky hinges. His fears proved unfounded however, when the door swung inwards with hardly a squeak. Somewhat relieved, he pushed just a bit more, opening a gap just large enough for him to slip through. The inside was just as rotten as the outside.

Stacks of crates and boxes, obviously years since touched or moved, sat on the warped wooden floor, some teetering and leaning as if threatening to spill out onto those below them. The rafters and lights, none of which were on, were shrouded in shadows high above. The building was not overly large; he had seen it from the outside, but the way boxes and crates were stacked in a labyrinthine tangle seemed to amplify the dank space tenfold.

"So, you're really Jack Ryan?"

The voice seemed to echo forth from off to his side, and whirling around, Jack found himself looking down a small alley in the box stacks, tight at a girl no older than one of his own. She stood clad in what looked like some kind of cobbled together diving suit, lithe and form-fitting, and her hair fell in dark strands around her face, partially obscuring bright blue eyes, curious yet cautious at the same time. He took all of this in within a moment to seeing her, and kept his pistol pointed steadily at her head, positive of his accuracy even in the dim light. Time in Rapture bred those kind of skills into a man.

"How do you know who I am?"

He had thrown a bit more of an edge into his voice than he had intended, but the girl stood strong, unwavering.

"Everyone in Rapture knows who you are," she said, though her voice was soft, no accusatory tone or condemnation within it, "and I know that you're the one person who can help me now."

Jack kept the gun trained at the girl without falter.

"You keep saying that. Care to elaborate?"

She nodded sullenly.

"Just follow me. You'll see."

Without another word, she turned silently and headed down the corridor between the stacks. Jack eyed her suspiciously before following, albeit a good distance behind her. The boxes were like a maze, and he found it hard to keep an eye on her. At last though, they emerged from the expanse clutter, and what he saw took his breath away. The warehouse sat upon a pier, and a section of the 'floor' had been cut away to accommodate boats entering via the Sound, or in this case, a bathysphere. His heart skipped a beat. There, docked and secured, was a Rapture bathysphere, so much like the one that had carried him and the girls away from that hell ten years ago. What held his attention even more however, was what he could see within the bathysphere's clear cockpit dome; little girls, barefoot, dirty little girls with smudged dresses and torn bows in their hair.

"No," he rasped, vision spinning "no, not again."

His hand began to shake, the pistol's aim going wild.

"Explain yourself. Now!"

His voice wavered, and Eleanor sighed.

"You should take a seat. It's a long story."

Jack didn't move a muscle.

"Fine," she said, sighing once more, "it all started with my father..."

* * *

He was a young man, or at least relatively young considering his position, thin and athletically built. He relaxed in a leather office chair behind an equally vintage desk, its surface currently a clutter of folders and paperwork, a fountain pen askew atop one stack, and a great aged globe sat in one corner, a buffer against the flood of papers threatening to spill over the side. A bright brass plaque sat near the front of the desk , proudly heralding the "Office of Naval Intelligence". The man in the chair leaned back, slowly sipping at a shot of whiskey, careful not to drip any of the potent liquor onto his pristine uniform or jingling medals. He bore than any soldier or sailor should, but then again, he knew much more than any soldier or sailor. His drink in the dim light a table lamp threw off was cut short by the abrupt knocking upon his office door, reverberating off mahogany panels.

In one fluid motion he drank down the shot with a wince, deposited the glass into a drawer to keep its bottle company, and sat up in the chair as he took the pen up in his other hand.

"Come in," he called, looking up at his door. It swung open with a creak, and a grizzled old man in uniform stepped through, a folder under one arm. He gave a quick salute, which the younger man returned, before stepping forward and depositing a thin folder atop the pile of paperwork. The red stamp atop its cover distinguished it from many of the others however. Most files with "Top Secret, Eyes Only" tended to do that. The young, seated, whiskey drinker looked at the older man expectantly.

"What is this Captain?"

"They're the files you requested Commander," he replied, voice like grating gravel, "the brass approved your order. CIA expects them back intact," he gave miniscule, momentary frown, as if a bad taste had just entered his mouth, "sir."

The young Commander raised a brow expectantly.

"Is there something you wish to say Captain?"

The weathered Captain's brows furrowed.

"Permission to speak freely sir?"

"Granted."

"Sir these things have been sealed since we kicked out Hitler's hold on Europe and bombed out the Japanese. It's been nearly two decades, and there were all kinds of tests and projects going on, and some things are best left buried. Your predecessor understood that and-"

"I'm not in the habit of taking grief from my subordinates Captain," the Commander spat, "need I remind you that you can be court marshaled for insubordination?"

The Captain's jaws clenched, and his teeth ground.

"No sir," he replied icily, glaring at the Commander's haughty smile.

"Good. If that's all Captain, then you are dismissed, I'm sure a man of your position has a lot to do."

He flashed another venomous smile, and gave a sloppy salute. The grizzled captain gave a bitter sigh before replying with a crisp salute of his own and walking briskly out the door, shutting it harshly behind him. The Commander smiled hungrily as he pulled the folder closer to him.

"Let's see what Mr. Ryan was hiding. Time for a trip down the rabbit hole."

End Chapter. Please keep up the reviews and feedback. I love to hear what you guys are thinking. Until next time.