Disclaimer: I do not own the Bioshock franchise. This is merely a work of fanfiction that borrows elements of it. Well, that was just downright boring now wasn't it? Stupid things. Anyways, back to what you all came here for...

The Pawn walked rigidly out from the tenements and back into the alley, the cold barrel of his own gun held to his back as Lutwidge calmly strolled after him, the old man's marred face hidden by the tilt of his hat. Cold sweat was trickling down his hostage's brow, the young man's heart racing even more as he noted a slight rustling noise echoing towards them from further up the alley. His captor had seemed to notice it as well, for with one swift one motion, the old man pulled in the Pawn closer to himself, a knife retrieved from his jacket pressed to the young man's throat.

With the younger man now acting as his shield, Lutwidge whirled about the alley, gun pointed at any perceived threat.

"Show yourself!" he called in a voice as harsh as a crows.

The only response was a muffled thump, and a moment later a sharp pain in the side of his neck as the sedative laden dart found its mark. His weapons fell from the man's hands as Lutwidge relaxed his grip on the Pawn, the older man staggering drunkenly before collapsing to the ground. Panic quickly overrode shock in the Pawn's mind, and he sprinted back down the darkened alley, only for a second dart to find its mark, and the same chemicals that had downed his former master began coursing through his own veins. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was blackness.

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Jack sat in his favorite armchair, nursing a scotch whiskey in one hand, a pencil and notepad in the other. Scribbles upon the paper were a half hearted notes, the man long since exhausted by the ordeal of the past few days. What had started as yet another attempt at deciphering Meltzer's files and maps had devolved into a moment of relaxation, as Jack Ryan prayed for a restful night's sleep. The little girls had all been tucked in and bid a goodnight, clusters of them sleeping in each bedroom under the watchful eye of one of his own daughters. Now, at last, all was quiet, and sleep was beckoning him. Finishing his drink, he tucked the notes aside and arose slowly from the cushioned depths of his chair, floorboards creaking ever so slightly from his motions. All that remained to be done was to turn on the security system, scavenged and cobbled together from Rapturian relics, and climb the stairs to his own room, free of children for the night as a gift from his daughters. With a content sigh, the man paused and straightened, leaning back to crack his back, only to the floorboards groan once more. He hadn't moved.

Out of instinct bred in that underwater hell, Jack's hand reflexively shot to his hip, grasping thin air where it expected the familiar weight of a revolver or heavy wrench. Silently cursing his own stupidity, Jack silently turned to face the source of the noise, only to find himself facing a black clad mountain of a man, ski mask obscuring even his face. In the blink of an eye, a gloved hand shot out, a glint of silver flashing in the dim light before the needle was stuck into his neck, the plunger depressed, and sedative flushed into his arteries. With a wheezing gasp, Jack stumbled backwards a step before collapsing into the giant's arms, the world around him fading to nothingness.

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The hapless Rosie died with a mournful cry, like a whale in its death throes, before finally shuddering to silence and stillness. The dirty, ghostly little girl cried over its body, the corpse like a metallic pincushion from the spears and crossbow bolts lodged in its frame. Black scorch marks covered the once proudly shining brass diving suit, blood, fuel, and mechanical grease dripping out of the downed behemoth. Silently, a second metal figure stomped into view, its massive, gauntlet clad had gently extended. The Little Sister cried with elation, her sorrow not even a memory.

Sighing, Subject Delta held the girl's hand as he led her to the nearby vent, carefully helping her up to the 'hidey-hole'. A blinding flash filled the dripping, dank space, and a moment later a wide eyed child babbled her thanks through tears of joy before scampering down the metal tube to safety. Delta turned to face his companions. Alice held her helmet in her needle-free hand, the metal sphere pressed between her hand and her hip. She had taken to removing it as often as possible, the Big Daddy noted. It makes her feel more human, he thought bitterly, visions of his own, monstrous visage burned into his memory. No, he resolved, mine will stay on.

Carnegie looked on, his stony gaze tempered with a mixture of respect and uncertainty as he looked upon the Big Daddy. Billy Parson was methodically retrieving his bolts from the Rosie's corpse, and the Big Daddy noted that the young man seemed to be doing everything in his power to avoid looking eyes, or porthole in his case, with either himself or Alice. The metal man grumbled idly. Trust was not one of Carnegie's group's strong suits.

Delta sighed once more, and headed back over to where Carnegie stood, heavy booted footsteps echoing through the dank alley, drowned out by the hissing of escaping steam from the pipes. Rapture was dying, piece by piece. The pipes and wires that kept it powered, the pumps that kept it dry; everything was in utter disrepair. Andrew Ryan's dream, a jewel of a city to shelter humanity's greatest minds, was slowly being reclaimed by the very sea that had kept it hidden, a new Atlantis to be buried beneath the waves, taking its dark secrets with it.

Delta stopped himself. Thinking like this led to nowhere productive. Doom and gloom would not get him out of this hell. But nestled away in the back of his mind was the creeping taint of doubt. Did a monster like him even deserve to leave this city of the damned? Thoughts of the family he had gathered about himself, the girls he had saved, Alice, and above all Eleanor, beat back the tide self loathing and disgust, but did not defeat it. The thoughts would return. It was a slow death, the agony of wanting your own demise.

Carnegie's words roused the metal man from his internal battle, returning his attention to the real world. Creatures such as he weren't meant for deep thinking anyways, he silently berated himself.

"The poor bastard didn't stand a chance," the veteran of Rapture said nodding approvingly.

"Well, by my count we only have one left to go. The maintenance tunnels from this alley will spit us out right by the Agora. It's this big shopping complex. That's the next place we should look."

The Big Daddy nodded silently, before turning to retrieve his spears from the body of the Rosie. He spared a final glance at the fallen Big Daddy, sorrow welling up in his heart as he felt a kinship to this mindless slave of the city, this monster so similar to himself. Poor bastard indeed.

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Consciousness was a fleeting sensation, a brief tingle of awareness that Jack clutched for wildly only to slip back into the drug induced haze. Finally, mustering his strength, the man forced his eyes wide open, the mute sounds that reached his ears echoing louder and clearer until he could recognize voices. Harsh, foreign voices conversing in a language he knew was not English.

The hood they kept on him smelled of something foul. Bits of chatter reached his ears, before a louder and domineering voice arrived on the scene, barking out what could only be orders. In an instant, the hood was yanked off him, and he was blinded by the lights. His eyes finally, painfully adjusting, survivalist instincts honed in Rapture took control, and he quickly surveyed his surroundings. The air was chilly, strong drafts blowing against the back of his neck. An opening to the outside had to be near, he concluded. The interior of the building looked gutted though. Dented and dust covered metal desks were bare of all ornamentation, and loose wires hung from the ceiling where long fluorescent lights had once stood proud. The light he had found so blinding upon his release from the hood was in fact a mere array of electric lanterns and flashlights. Thick tarps hung in various places along the walls, covering windows, he assumed.

With an experimental flex of his body, he discovered himself to be bound to an old office chair, hands chained behind his back and wrapped together, feet tied to the base of the chair. With his hands bound as such, the limited repertoire of plasmids he could still perform would be useless. His captors were well informed, or just lucky.

A quick glance to his right revealed two more chairs, each with an occupant bound as he was, though their hoods remained. The scent of cheap cigarettes reached him, and he traced its source to the dark silhouette that stood before him, the man's back to him, framed by the mad light of the lanterns. With one noisy, final draw of it, the shadowed man casually walked over to the prisoner adjacent to Jack and snuffed out to smoldering flame of the cigarette in the man's mottled flesh. There came a curt and muffled cry of pain from the prisoner, and the cigarette smoking captor's response was to idly flick the butt at his hooded face before turning to face Jack.

"Hello Mr. Ryan," he stated casually, stepping into view, his voice carrying only the faintest hint of an accent.

"We have much to discuss."

End Chapter. Shorter than usual, I know, but I apologize and hope to deliver a quick update. Please review.