When I reach the fairgrounds, the first thing that catches my eye is a closed gate nearby. It is guarded by two officers, but I might as well try through there. After all, it might lead directly to Monument Island!
When I approach, the two guards look at me with mild curiosity. I hope they do not become suspicious enough to arrest me; that might make rescuing Elizabeth somewhat difficult.
"Excuse me sir, can I pass through here?"
One of the guards shakes his head. "Streets closed for your saftey. They're prepping for tonight's fireworks show."
I know what fireworks are, but I do not remember having ever seen them before. The pseudo memories Fontaine put in my mind involve some basic information but few concrete memories. I only have a handful of milestones (first steps, tenth birthday, etc) with nothing but darkness inbetween. Even my fake memories are clearly different than my real ones; little details do not fade in and out at moments the way they do with real memories.
The other guard, oblivious to my pondering, makes a quip. "There's enough TNT back there to blow Peking to Kingdom Come. Again!"
"What happened at Peking?" Also, where is Peking?
The first guard laughed at this, apparently finding my knowledge gaps entertaining. "Hah! You MUST have been living your whole life under a rock!"
Well, that's not quite true: I have actually been living my whole life under an Ocean. Though the distinction is probably just hair-splitting ...
The guard continues, "Ol'Comstock sure put those uppity ching-chongs back in their place!"
I have no idea what any of this means, but based on what I know about him already it is reasonable to conclude that Comstock probably did something horrible to someone innocent ... again. All the more reason this rescue HAS to be successful.
Nodding, I head back into the fairgrounds in search of a route through there.
The first thing that catches my eye is a salesman on a stage advertising boisterously to twelve or so people gathered around. Above the stage is a giant billboard depicting a smartly dressed man shooting an Electro Bolt into a lightbulb. Next to him are big bold words that read; A LIFE WITH VIGOR IS A LIFE THAT'S BIGGER!
"If I told you a man could shoot lightning from his hands would you believe me?"
Yes, I actually would believe you.
"If I told you a man could hoist a one ton stallion strait into the air, would you believe me?"
Yes. At this point in my life the ability to do those things are no longer unbelievable.
The man continues, "Well friends I am here today to tell you those are no flights of fancy! Those are no tall tales told behind the pool hall! No sir! No Mam! Those are VIGORS I'm talking about, brought to you courtesy of Mr. Jeremiah Fink himself."
Standing at either side of the stage are two men dressed in costumes, preforming demonstrations with their Vigors: they are reminiscent of hideously deformed splicers. It appears that Columbia has unlocked the secrets to Plasmids. Nobody in the city looks like a Splicer yet, I do not see any tortured little girls drinking the blood of the dead, and I do not see any disfigured metal protectors. It is possible that Plasmids ... err Vigors ... were only recently introduced, or that this society gets the necessary ADAM without ripping sea slugs out of the stomachs of innocent girls.
"Who amongst you has tasted the divine gift of vigor?"
I have.
"One swig, and feats of wonderment are at the tips of your fingers!"
Plasmids allowed me to summon fire, ice, and electricity at will. Yet the best power Plasmids have ever given me is the power to cure The Little Sisters.
"You know our Prophet is fair!"
I started having my doubts around the time I learned he kept young women locked up in towers ...
"You know our Prophet is kind!"
He's kind alright; kind of a megalomaniac.
"And he has asked, personally asked Mr. Jeremiah Fink, to bring you these amazing wonders! Praise be to our prophet, and praise be to our fair city."
Yeah, sure; and it is just a coincidence that you never claimed they were free. This Prophet is selling Vigor-Plasmids to make money, not because he has a good heart. Even in the sky, this city is shackled to The Great Chain.
Leaving this man behind, I walk to the hotdog stand. I have not had a bite to eat in twelve hours (or at least what feels like that), and my stomach is growling incessantly. Unfortunately it is unmanned, so I will have to wait before I can get some food in me. At least I will not have to eat stale brine-flavored potato chips or moldy creme-filled cakes.
"Young sir, young miss! Roll up and try the amazing power of Bucking Bronco! Whether you need it lifted, lofted, tossed or tumbled Bucking Bronco is just the ticket!"
I turn around and see another over-excited salesman pitching Plasmids, only this time he is standing on a soapbox in front of a fair stall. The sign over the stall reads 'Cast Out The Devil'. I would not be surprised if this and the first salesman were related.
I walk over to him and pick up the bottle on the stall's counter. This is an goldenrod bottle with a cap in the shape of a horse.
"Well, give it a try!"
I drink it, and feel little-to-no effect. I guess it is only a sample; perhaps the the new genome additions reverse themselves after a small amount of time (Tenenbaum's attempts to explain genetics to me might have gone better if I did not have so many knowledge gaps).
I try to play this game, but accidentally shoot a Sonic Boom. The devil gets flung against the back wall and bangs his head. Fortunatly he is not knocked out or killed, though he does appear a little dizzy when he gets up.
The salesman reigns in his surprise with remarkable patience. "Face your palms down. There, like that. That's the ticket."
I try again, facing my palm down instead of forward, and I am able to lift the devil into the air with my Bucking Bronco plasmid. I do this two more times in a row, and the salesman gives he twenty silver coins as a prize.
As I walk away from this stall, I see another one nearby. This stall is called "Bring Down Sky-Line Vox", and features shotguns fixed to the counter so as to shoot at the wooden figures that move across the wall. Standing next to this stall is another loud salesman on another soapbox.
"Those Dirty Vox' are at it again! See those villains zipping around spreading their lies and dissent?! Fear not: I got just the cure! Grab a shotgun and go to work. You there," he says pointing at me, "you got what it takes to keep our city safe? Yeah, now take aim and blast those evil Vox out of the sky. Hit enough and I'll get you a prize."
I do not know who the Vox he is referring to are, what their beliefs may be, or why they are dissenting. I can reasonably guess that they dislike one or more of Comstock's policies, but for the here-and-now all they mean to me is that I can get money for shooting wooden cutouts of them.
When I pick up the shotgun, it feels familiar in my hands. Bars along the wall pull wooden caricatures from one side of the wall to the other, and every time I pull the trigger they explode into splinters. After mowing down throngs upon throngs of splicers in Rapture, using a gun to shoot targets no longer gives me a feeling of power. Now I feel nothing at all, as though placing my finger on a trigger causes me to enter automatic mode.
But I am getting all of the Vox Carvings, and the soapbox guy is cheering me on. Afterwards, he too gives me some coins as a prize.
The stall that I win coins at is called "Hunt Down the Vox". Like the previous shooting game, this essentially boils down to shooting wooden Vox caricatures.
"Who will take arms against the monstrous heathens? Save the day and win a prize!"
The promise of money, and the opportunity to practice with a firearm after being rusty for half a year, is enough to drag me in. I walk over to the counter and pick up an empty rifle.
The salesman for this stall supports my decision. "And here's a brave fellow! Shoot the Vox as they appear! Bag enough and you'll win a prize. I'll even throw in a bonus if you bag the anarchist, Daisy Fitzroy!"
I still have no idea who either Daizy Fitzroy or the Vox Populi are, and right now I do not care. I am here to rescue Elizabeth; once I have her we'll head to New York and leave this flying Rapture behind forever.
BANG! BANG! BANG BANG BANG! BANG!
After a few well-placed shots, all the targets have been hit. True to his word, the stall manager gives me money for hitting more than anyone else. He even gives me a few extra coins for hitting the one shaped like Fitzroy.
"A magnificent display of Marksmanship! The Vox defeated, Daizy Fitzroy slain; you sir shall be richly rewarded."
These coins will come in handy should I ever come across a "Circus of Value" or similar vending machine.
In the fair, there are also displays for the technological advancements of this city. The Sky-Line cart and the Electric Horses I skip over, as I have already seen them and can understand the gist of how they work. However, there are two more technological oddities that I am less familiar with.
The first is something that looks like a record player. The booth-keeper sees that my attention has been caught and proceeds to draw me in further. "Voxophones! Voxophones! Hear your voice from the past in the present!"
I walk over to the Voxophone on the booth's table, looking at it. On closer examination, I can see it looks very little like a record player. This - this voxophone- has a more lopsided disposition. I whistle, and hear the record play back that whistle.
"There you have it! A personal record of voice!"
Evidence that technology can go in reverse.
"Like a tape-recorder?" It is an honest inquiry on my part, but the booth-manager looks at me as though I was a drunk.
"A what?"
Shaking my head, I mutter "never-mind" and leave this stall. I do not have time to explain what a tape-recorder is, especially since he might not even know they exist.
All throughout this fair can be heard the twangy song that the band is singing. It is kinda jarring to hear singing that isn't a recording of a dead man's voice. Nice, but kinda jarring too.
The next thing I see disturbs me.
A body of metal with a human's head on top, three times the size of a regular man and at least twice as tall as a Big Daddy, stands on a stage while on-lookers gawk on for their own amusement. This metal man is cowering in terror in spite of his size, making it clear he does not want to be here. If this metal fellow is anything like a Big Daddy, then it is a safe bet that he was turned into this against his will.
Wanting to be anywhere else, I head over to the green booth in the shaded corner of the fairgrounds. There a woman is holding a basket with green bottles in them.
"Dear friend," she says, addressing me, "have you ever lost a penny in a vending machine?"
I nod yes, as I distinctly remember that Rapture's Vending Machines were notoriously unreliable and priced at extortionate rates.
"Has a pay phone ever refused to connect you with a beloved spouse?"
None of the payphones in Rapture ever worked, but even if they did I am not sure who I would have called.
"Well, it's time to take back control from the men of metal."
I already know how to hack machines, but either way I am intrigued. If there's a faster or easier way to go about it than I'm all ears.
"With Possession, YOU are the master. You will bend any machine to your will."
Ah ... so it's a Plasmid. Or a Gene Tonic.
Either way, I grab a free sample from the basket and down the bottle. The liquid tastes horrible, and I hallucinate for a few seconds, but both of those are expected side effects. I do not even pay attention to the hallucinations anymore: they kinda loose their shock after the first plasmid.
I down a complimentary vial of "Salts" (EVE) to keep my Plasmids charged, nod thanks to the lady for the free Vigor (Plasmid), then head over to the gate to enter the raffle area.
The ticket teller is a mechanical man. He is one of those robots who appears just enough like a human to be creepy while falling well short of being convincing. Still not as ugly as a Splicer though.
When I approach him, he shakes his metal head. "Sorry pal, The Raffle is all sold out."
Time to see if my newest Plasmid works. I shoot a green cloud out of my arm and it fills the machine up. It immediately opens up one of the gate doors and waves me in with a whirl of the arm.
"Well, if it isn't Assemblyman Buford! Your spot at the raffle awaits. Don't know why I didn't recognize you before. How odd? Always good to have a gentleman of your caliber at our fine fairgrounds."
With Possession, I am the master.
Now to get past the raffle, reach Monument Island, find Elizabeth, then get her back to New York and away from her captors ... somehow.
I stop in my tracks as soon as I pass the gate's threshold, stanced for defense.
Standing in front of me are my two employers.