Disclaimer: I do not own Bioshock, I only own Garrus.
ooc; Please, please, please review. xD I really want to improve my writing and I also need encouragement to make sure I keep this thing going.
It wasn't the hope of a new life in a new city that attracted Garrus Vogel to Rapture, but rather, it was a place he believed he could be the farthest from that ideal. A new life was not for him, he had hardly come to terms with the old one that was so savagely stripped from him at Auschwitz. But that was a long time ago. He supposed it was because what he would most certainly call his death had so impacted his younger years, and crushed his spirit when he was still less than a decade old... he supposed all this was what made him so bitter. He gritted his teeth and fumbled for the cigarettes in the pocket of his old woolen coat-- it was threadbare, he knew, and the right pocket was full of holes and useless, but the smell of it just reminded him of...
Well, of things he kept promising himself not to think about, and trying not to think about. But any idiot knows that the more you try NOT to think about something, the more you can't help thinking about it until you're consumed by it like an inferno. Garrus had escaped the inferno the first time, though he did not consider himself one of the lucky ones. The world had already ended as far as he was concerned, and as he tucked a wayward strand of bleach blond hair(It was a long story, back when he had nowhere to go and would do anything just to be able to pretend he was someone else and forget that damned number on his arm...
The jet black was growing back in, anyway. He felt incredibly foolish about it, so he avoided mirrors.) behind a delicate ear, he lit his smoke and watched it smolder and glow. He imagined the cigarette as thousands of dead bodies, his brother, his sisters, his mother and father, going up in smoke and choking him and hurting his eyes. It was in this way, and this way only, that he felt close to them all. And so he could not give up smoking for the life of him. But being under the water was not so far from being under the earth, was it not? Here he was dead to everything that had happened in his childhood. He was a man now, he couldn't, he shouldn't waste his time brooding. It didn't suit him. What he needed was a job, what he should get was a job. A job and an apartment and maybe a girlfriend or something.
He just needed to take his mind off everything was what it was, and as he took a drag on his cigarette and looked around in the most fantastic lighthouse he had ever seen, he had a distinct feeling that everything was going to be fine. He was in a long line for the Bathosphere into Rapture, one hand casually tapping the clumsy brass pocketwatch in his trouserpocket, absentmindedly looking at the slimy whispers of light glinting off his two-tone shoes, and he would escape from the outside world forever, as both a Gypsy and a boy, hiding from the nasty people on the outside. If there was one place that could inspire the hopeless, it was Andrew Ryan's city of Rapture. It was November 5th, 1959.