Disclaimer - I own no rights to the titles, characters, and trademarks herein.
A/N – Yikes! Another chapter that I meant to sit down and write a long time ago. I've had several reminders: an awesome Bioshock shirt from ShirtPunch, finally getting to play the LP of the first game's soundtrack, the heart-crushing announcement that "Bioshock Infinite" was going to be delayed another four months . . . but the new job has just kept me too busy to properly make time for this, until now.
CaliforniaStop – I remember what it's like to read certain stories on this site when you get to certain scenes and you realize you can't have everyone reading over your shoulder. Hope you're still reading this after my long break.
"Here we are," Atlas' voice crackled over the radio. "The engine city. The heart an' soul o' Rapture."
Jack looked at the intimidating gate in front of him, the word "Hephaestus" hedged in it. Beyond that was what looked like several rust-colored factory buildings, glowing with a malignant orange light.
"Now all you gotta do is head to the penthouse of the Ryan Industries building an' shoot that bloody son of a bitch dead."
"How do we get in?" Jack asked.
He ran his fingers across the bars, grabbing and trying to shake each one, but the fence remained solid. Finally, in the center, his hand slid across a box. A panel dropped opened, exposing a sharp needle.
"Ge—ge—genetic s—s—s—sample required."
The voice, cold and inhuman, emanated from the box in the gate.
Jack slowly extended his arm, then pierced the tip of his finger on the needle.
A drop of blood fell to the ground, and as Jack brought the finger to his mouth, the needle disappeared into the box with a loud humming sound.
A clean needle slid out where the other had disappeared, and the panel closed itself.
"Id—d—dent—t—tity c—c—conf—f—firmed—d. W—w—wel—c—come b—b—back, Mr. Andr—r—r—rew Rya—a—a—an."
The gate slid open. Jack took a deep breath and stepped through.
As he turned back to Evelyn, the gate slid shut again with a loud slam.
He tried to find the spot where the gate slid open, but again the tall gate seemed impervious.
"It's no use," Evelyn said, grabbing Jack's hand in hers. "The only reason you got in was because it thinks you're Andrew Ryan. Here. Take this."
She opened his hand and shoved the radio into it.
"Atlas'll guide you through if you need it. When you make it to Ryan's office, find the control panel for the gate an' let us in."
She took his other hand and held it lovingly against her soft cheek.
"Be careful."
Jack nodded, reluctant to let go, and then turned and walked to the tallest building in sight, the one with the glowing neon sign bearing the name of Rapture's founder.
There was a herd of splicers waiting by the door to the building, drool running down their chins. As they drew their weapons, Jack aimed his revolver. He waived the barrel back and forth, holding his breath while trying to pick his first target.
"Employeesh of Ryan Indushtrriesh," a voice boomed over the loudspeakers, visible on the side of the building, "we have a vishitorr. Behave yourrshelves. I'm exshpecting to shee him in my offish."
The splicers lowered their guns and stood back, chuckling among themselves.
The door opened itself and Jack stepped inside.
It was almost pitch black inside. Jack found himself surrounded by evidence of abandoned experiments. Blueprints were scattered across tables and pinned to boards next to half-finished models.
Somewhere, a jaunty tune played, a few notes riffing on "Beyond the Sea", and Jack's eyes were drawn to a canvas screen in front of a projector. The title of the film was "Becoming a Daddy." The sound of the narrator's cheerful voice was warped to the point that the sound dropped out entirely a few seconds in. Jack was left with only the visuals. A simple, cheerful cartoon character of a doctor was sawing into the head of a similarly drawn man in a striped prison jumpsuit. Then a crane was extracting the crude drawing of his brain and lowering it into a diving suit . . .
Jack shuddered and stepped between the projector and the canvas. He heard a haunting voice nearby.
"The man in the moon is a girl, Mr. B."
He quickly hid behind a pillar as the Big Daddy and his Little Sister plodded by.
When they had disappeared from sight, Jack wiped the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead and began backing away from the pillar.
He cut his scream short when he backed into something, biting his tongue hard.
It had one big, red eye and a long, sharp spear. As Jack backed away it collapsed.
He saw several suits and helmets nearby, similar to the one he had just knocked down. According to the blueprints nearby, they were prototypes of the armor for something called a "Big Sister" , by Y. Suchong and G. Alexander.
As he stepped away, his leg caught on a wire, and an Accu-Vox on a table by the Big Sisters began playing.
"Audio diary of Yi Suchong. New client: Andrew Ryan," the voice was sinister and, to Jack, strangely familiar. "Ryan sent over new shipment of weapons. He wants armed escorts for all the Little Sisters. Too many taken by Atlas' men and harvested for their ADAM. Of course, this will all be unnecessary when I have finished work on the Big Daddy. No one crosses the Big Daddy."
The tape began rewinding itself, and as Jack listened to the sound, he had an eerie image of a little boy with a toy submarine, running through a laboratory like this one.
"Client: Fontaine Futuristics," the voice spoke again. "Subject WYK developing exactly as planned. Has been two days and already resembles a perfectly healthy boy of five or six years. Should reach target maturity within one week."
The tape jumped forward. When it started again, there was another voice on the tape. Again, Jack saw the eerie image in his mind of the boy with the toy submarine.
"Good kitty. Pretty kitty," a soft voice cooed.
"Are you having fun playing with your kitty?" the sinister voice asked.
"Yes, Papa Suchong. Schrodinger is a good cat. Aren't you, Schrodinger?"
"Good," Suchong's voice said. Jack could see the unpleasant smile in his mind's eye. "And you would never do anything to harm such a good kitty?"
"No."
"Break its neck."
There was a sob.
"No. No, I can't." Louder sobs. "Please. Please. Don't make me do it."
"Break its neck. Would you kindly."
There was a terrified meow and a loud crack, and then crying.
"Excellent," Suchong said.
The tape stopped, and there was a crackling over the loudspeaker.
"Come to my offish, boy," Ryan's voice said. "You have many questionsh rright now, and I'm afrraid you won't like the ansherrsh I have to give you. But the trruth is shomething that musht be known."
Ryan waited in the surveillance room Sullivan was usually stationed at, watching the security camera footage of the man from the surface climbing the stairs to his office. Ryan had sent Sullivan away. He'd reviewed footage of this strange visitor carefully, he'd listened intently to the clipping audio. And then he concentrated hard enough to find all the answers he was looking for. The entire key to his opponent's strategy, wrapped up in three words.
He moved a pawn on the chessboard beside him and walked to his putting green to wait.
As Jack made his way up the winding staircase towards the penthouse, armed splicers stepped back and stood at attention.
"You find yourrshelf in a terrrifying predicament," Ryan continued over the loudspeakers. "You'rre shurrounded by shtrange shights and shoundsh. Barrely human creatshurresh arre trying to harm you. And yet, you like it here. You can't put yourr fingerr on it, but afterr yearrsh shpent chashing cheap thrrillsh, you finally feel like you belong herre. Like you finally have purrposhe. Admit it. Searrch yourr feelingsh, and the word will come to you."
He paused. Jack's legs felt numb as he continued up the stairs, straining his ears even though the voice over the loudspeakers was hardly whispering.
"You're . . . home."
Jack pushed through the door at the top of the stairs.
Nothing could prepare Jack for the sight of Andrew Ryan in the flesh. He was obviously a few years older than the statue in the lighthouse or the man on the projector in the Bathysphere. They'd been hard years, and it was hard to hide their toll. But he looked even more intense and imposing than he had in the film. His suit barely looked dirty. His figure barely looked unhealthy. And he was even smiling as he practiced putting in his office.
Like Nero fiddling while Rome burns, Jack thought.
"I'll be with you in a moment," Andrew Ryan said, not taking his eyes away from his golf ball. "Therre'sh a frresh drrink I just made for you on the deshk. Scotch and soda."
Jack eyed the glass next to the bottles on the desk warily.
"It'sh not poishoned, if that'sh what you'rre thinking. Now, take a sheat, would you kindly, and enjoy the drink."
Jack moved to the chair at the desk.
"Scotch and soda. That's . . . that's my drink."
His hand trembled as he lifted the glass to his lips.
Ryan put his putter back in its bag and took his own seat behind the desk.
"Call me a hypocrrite, but I brrought a few cashes of Lacan Scotch with me frrom the shhurface. I called for a total embargo, inshishting that we maintain a closhed-off econonmy with only objects taken frrom the bottom of the sea, but scotch just ishn't scotch unless it's blended in Scotland."
He dropped some ice cubes into an empty glass, then poured the contents of the bottles into it, stirred them together with a long spoon, and took a sip.
He put the glass down and then, suddenly, his hands darted out and caught Jack's wrists. Jack could feel his pulse beating beneath the other man's fingertips.
"Nice tattoos," Ryan said. He let go and stood up. "I had one myshelf, in my more reckless youth, in a dirrty little shop in Glascow."
With that, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and began unbuttoning his shirt. Then, turning around, he dropped the jacket and shirt down his shoulders until Jack could read the Olde English lettering inked into Ryan's back.
A man chooses, a slave obeys.
"That's the difference between a man and a shlave," Ryan said, pulling the shirt back up and buttoning himself up again. "Not wealth. Not power. Not privilege. A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."
He turned around and tightened his tie back up.
"And which are you?"
Jack opened his mouth to shoot back a quick reply, but Ryan stuck out a finger to stop him.
"Think before you anshwerr. A man has memories. What do you rremember? Basic schooling, but no memory of where exactly you werre schooled. A plashe you shpent your childhood, but no favorrite childhood memories. A farm. A swimming hole. A few choice words of wisdom frrom your mother and fatherr, maybe a brrotherr orr coushin. No painfull lessohnsh learrned. No frriends. No loverrsh. No heartbreak. No favorrite or mosht tragic moment. Nothing to rreally shape you."
He stopped to take another swallow of his scotch and soda.
"Yourr plane crrashesh, and you find yourrshelf here, thousands of feet below the shurrfash of the ocean. Having no idea before wherre this city was. Some would call it fate, or a mirracle. But I find that harrd to believe. What if, inshtead of fate or God or destiny, the plane was brought down by shomething . . . not quite a man."
And then, Jack saw it all, as if it was a nightmare he'd been repressing until this moment.
He had turned his attention to the neatly printed tag on the giftwrapped package.
"To Jack, With Love, From Mom and Dad. Would you kindly not open until . . ."
And then an exact length of time into the flight. Jack tore off the wrapping and tossed aside the lid to pull out a loaded revolver. Then he turned back to his instructions.
He stormed into the cockpit.
"Jack!" the pretty flight attendant, Vivienne, said. "You're not supposed to be up here."
He fired into her chest. As she fell back, blood running down her navy blue blazer, Jack swung his gun into the co-pilot's face. There was a look of panic before the bullet caught the co-pilot right between his eyes.
The pilot raised his hands in surrender as Jack grabbed the yoke of the plane and pushed it into a nosedive towards the Atlantic. He heard passengers screaming and then the water . . .
Jack felt an icier blast now than he had when he first crashed into the ocean. He stepped up from the desk, stumbled back. That wasn't him. That wasn't true.
Was it?
"Would you kindly leave my offish?" Ryan said.
Jack walked towards the door.
"Would you kindly come back?"
He turned and walked back towards his glass of scotch.
"Would you kindly sit down?"
He sat down and reached for the glass.
"Would you kindly shtand?"
Jack sprung to his feet again.
Ryan smiled beneath his white mustache.
"'Would you kindly.' It'sh more than jusht good mannerrs, you know. It'sh a powerful phrashe. A familiar phrashe?"
Then a series of scenes flashed before Jack's eyes.
First, the neatly printed tag on the package.
Then, a sign, decorated with a 1930's style cartoon of a man pulling with all of his might on a lever, and the words, "Pull, would you kindly?"
Then Jack handing Evelyn back her revolver. "Hand me back the pistol you took from me, would you?"
Atlas' voice in the medical pavilion. "Right next to that, you should see a big red bottle. Now would you kindly grab hold of it?"
Shortly afterwards, with everyone huddled in a bathysphere. "Would you kindly press the button for Neptune's Bounty on the control panel?"
Twitch reaching for his tool bag on board the Atlantic Express. "Would you kindly hand me my screwdriver?" And then chuckling at some private joke.
The recording of Dr. Suchong's voice. "Break its neck. Would you kindly."
The writing in blood on the window to Professor Langford's laboratory. Jack could now see it as if she'd written the whole phrase out. "Would you kindly."
And then, echoing over and over in his mind, Atlas' words:
"Now, would you kindly head to Ryan's office and kill that son of a bitch?"
"No," Jack moaned beneath his breath. "No. It . . . it can't be."
Ryan laughed again.
"Sit back down, would you kindly?"
Jack sat.
"Stand back up, would you kindly?"
Jack stood.
"Sit, would you kindly. Stand, would you kindly. Leave, would you kindly. Come back, would you kindly. A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."
Jack's legs seemed to have a mind of their own. He felt the pain of exhaustion as he kept carrying out Ryan's orders.
Andrew Ryan's laugh was bitter.
"All the shacrrifishes I made to crreate paradishe on earth, and they didn't shend a man to kill me. They shent a puppet."
"What's takin' you so long, boyo?" the voice on the radio said. "Flip the switch on the panel an' get out o' there."
"Leave here now, would you kindly," Ryan said.
"Flip the switch, would you kindly," Atlas said.
Jack found himself moving towards the panel by the wall.
"Stop, would you kindly."
"Get a move on, would you kindly."
"A man chooshes, a shlave obeysh."
Jack was almost at the panel now.
"Turn around, would you kindly."
"Pull that switch, would you kindly."
Jack pricked his finger on a needle like the one outside the gate. The machine began humming as it read his genetic code.
"Do it now!"
He flipped the switch.
When he turned around, Andrew Ryan was pointing a crossbow at him.
The weapon trembled in the old man's hands.
"I can't do it," he said, lowering the crossbow. "It would be too much like . . . killing myself."
There were fast, thundering footsteps up the stairs.
Evelyn burst into the room, grabbed the nine-iron from Ryan's golf bag, and connected the club with Ryan's temple.
Ryan fell to his knees, blood dripping on the carpet, and began crawling to Jack.
"A man chooshes . . ."
Evelyn brought the club down on Ryan's head again.
"A shlave . . . obeysh."
He crawled closer. Evelyn swung the club again.
Ryan managed to grab a hold of Jack's pant leg. He looked up, blood dripping down his chin.
"A . . . man . . . chooshes!"
His teeth were scarlet and his voice was gargled from the blood in his throat.
"A . . . shlave . . . obeysh!"
Evelyn stepped closer and swung the golf club hard at Ryan's head again, knocking him to the side.
Ryan managed to bring himself back to his knees and tug at Jack's leg again.
"Obeysh!"
This time, when Evelyn brought the golf club down, she managed to split Ryan's skull, spraying Jack with blood.
She took a few panting breaths and then threw the bloody nine-iron to the side.
Jack looked at the leering faces of Evelyn and Mr. Touch and, behind them, the heavily scarred face of Twitch.
"We can just go ahead and flip those switches now," Touch said.
"There'll be no need for that. Not when Jackie boy'll do it for us, right?" Jack shook his head. Evelyn batted her eye lashes. "Come on, Jackie. Do it for me." Then she laughed. "Would you kindly?"
Then Jack saw his hand pulling different levers. Bathyspheres, Vita-Chambers, Security Bots, gates…
As the room filled with maniacal laughter, Jack bolted toward the stairs. He ran into Twitch, getting a good look at the burns across his face and neck.
"Didn't think I'd made it, did you, old man?"
More laughter as he pushed past Twitch and ran all the way down the stairs, no longer caring about the exhaustion in his legs. He pushed through the armed splicers waiting along the stairs. He pushed through the crowd of splicers outside the doors to Ryan Industries.
Outside Hephaestus, he picked a direction and didn't stop running, not even noticing the street sign reading "Olympus Heights."
When he didn't feel like he could run any further, he ducked into the nearest apartment.
He found himself in an expensively furnished room, a phonograph playing on a table.
Oh Danny Boy/The pipes the pipes are calling . . .
Then he heard a slow clap and a hearty laugh. He turned and saw someone seated at a desk by the wall, his back facing Jack.
"Nice work, boyo."
A/N – To be continued . . .