Okay, so I know I've been abusing you and haven't been updating on this story…but I went brain-dead on my stories. I've actually been thinking about my Longest Yard story. Maybe re-write it.

Also, my fingers are going DERP, so I may have a couple of spelling mistakes or grammatical errors.

…Sorry for taking your time!

Bioshock does not belong to me, it belongs to its rightful owners.

And thank you Microsoft Word for being smart and catching me.

Enjoy!

Smart Mouth

I pulled the switch.

The sub-marine ball thing gave a lurch which sent me to the floor, sending the gift from my hand to the floor to my left and my iPod stabbed into my thigh from the inside of my right front pocket of my jeans.

It took me a minute before I realized that we were MOVING. The door had apparently shut on its own and the metal ball of doom descended into what looked like a tunnel that went vertical. I turned around to look through the way I came in and saw a light blue wall with a darker blue stripe going through the middle. What came next…surprised me.

A sign was placed on the dark blue strip. It read, "18 fathoms" right before a yellowed screen popped up, kinda like those things you pull down from the ceiling in your class room before you turn on the overhead to go over something.

A silhouette of what appeared to be the lighthouse flashed onto the screen without warning. Where was the projector?

Then what appeared to be an advertisement appeared. This one had a man on the left of the picture and a woman on the right, The woman smiling while holding a cigarette while the man looked to have fire spread along the length of his index finger, lighting the woman's cancer stick.

"Fire at your fingertips!" the words read at the top. "Incinerate was underlined in retro letters near the bottom, with words that read in thinner print "Plasmids by Ryan Industries".

What the hell is a plasmid?

Something along the lines of cheap elevator music was on. I hadn't noticed it when the advertisement first appeared. It stayed on for about a minute before the picture had suddenly changed to a man sitting in a chair with his own cancer stick handled carefully between his index finger and middle finger.

Before I could read the words beside the picture of the man, a voice came on, scaring the shit out of me.

"I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm here to ask you a question." Go ahead. Got nothing else better to do now.

"Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?" Depends. Who's he working for?

"'No' says the man in Washington. 'It belongs to the poor.'" Well…No comment.

"'No' says the man in the Vatican. 'It belongs to God.'" God's a greedy bastard then, isn't he? (AN! I have NOTHING against God. This is just meant as a joke. No hate mail or flames plzkthks.)

"'No' says the man in Moscow. 'It belongs to everyone.'" Well too bad I've never really been one to share.

"I rejected those answers." I would too if someone told me that.

"Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible." Hmm…My motto's always been that nothing's impossible. It just hasn't been done yet. YET.

"I chose…" At this the picture turned off and the screen went down, to reveal something beautiful and marvelous. We were under water!

A city came into view right as Andrew spoke again.

"Rapture…" By definition, Rapture is a state of being carried away by overwhelming emotion.

We continued on, it was as if the ball had known where to go, and in which order, as if it knew where all the glorious building were and was steering on its own.

He continued. "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."

We were still cruising by the huge, bright buildings while he was giving his personal speech.

"And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city, as well."

And with this, he ceased talking.