MAY 24, 1959 — 9:44 PM

Fighting McDonagh's, much less any other part of Neptune's Bounty, was hardly any place for a lady to be found on her lonesome. It was no coincidence then that Diane found herself there that night, as she was in no mood to act her ladylike best.

Her plans for the evening hadn't involved a grubby pub that stank of fish guts and cheap ale. Her plans hadn't involved her being alone, either. She felt no desire to be here, but then again, she felt no desire to spend her night in the company of Rapture's finest and no one else, not by herself, never by herself. She felt no desire whatsoever to be left alone among the wealthy few, left alone against the tide of questions and conversation that were meant not for herself but rather the men who should have accompanied her.

She should have known better. Never count on a Ryan to keep any promises to anyone but himself. Damn Jack, damn Andrew, damn the both of them to hell. Damn herself for believing otherwise. Damn her foolish heart, damn it all. She should have known better than this.

"'Scuse me, miss."

Diane gave the bartender a hard look. Most barmen knew better than to attempt any further conversation when that look was on her face. But then again, Fighting McDonagh's wasn't exactly like most of the bars she frequented.

"You sure you're in the right place?"

"Just get me a whiskey."

The bartender nodded and minded his own business after that.

Diane couldn't put a finger on what it was that drew her to Neptune's Bounty in particular. The place had always had a certain reputation about it, the docks being a haven for roughnecks and rumblers and other sundry fellows, and that reputation had only grown since Fontaine's rise and fall. It wouldn't do for a girl of her status to be seen in the company of working-class fishermen; it would do even less for a Ryan's mistress to be seen in the place where Frank Fontaine had been king.

But she'd been a working-class girl herself once upon a time, long before she'd been swept up by Andrew Ryan's charm—and she wasn't so certain she wanted to be a mistress of any Ryan for even a moment more.

The thought of leaving him—which him, she wasn't sure, but she didn't think the distinction truly mattered anymore—made her heart ache. So did the thought of staying behind while he continued to forget about her. She didn't know which would be more unbearable in the end. She didn't want to think about it. She wished she could know. She wished she could know without feeling, without needing to put herself in any deeper turmoil. But she knew that was beyond her now.

Somewhere deep inside her, though, she wondered if it was really the thought of leaving the Ryans in her life that filled her with such doubt. No man had ever made her feel this way before, so why should they be any different?

She wondered if it wasn't the thought of leaving them, but rather the thought of leaving behind whatever it was they stood for: the promise of a better life, the promise of a brighter future, the promise of carefree days where she knew not a single thing to worry over.

Why couldn't her life just go back to the way it was before—but without them? Why couldn't anything be like before—before Fontaine, before ADAM, before she ever knew the great Andrew Ryan as more than a name in the newspapers? She might even be happy to live here in Rapture for the rest of her days if it meant she wouldn't have to think about the man responsible for its creation, or the man responsible for its continuation, but that didn't seem possible. Nothing that could set her heart and mind at ease seemed even remotely within the realm of possibility now.

"Hey, ain't that Ryan's girl?"

She bristled, then turned. A swarthy, bearded man in slick waders was pointing at her with a fiery look in his eye. He didn't seem to be in a mood for pleasant conversation.

Any other girl might have been afraid to be singled out in such a crowd. There was no room in Diane's heart for fear, but rather anger and despair—and that despair had now left her, filled with indignation in its wake.

"So what if I am?"

Nothing in the man's countenance changed, though he didn't seem as though he was expecting any retort.

"So what?" He snarled and advanced on her. "So what the hell is Ryan's girl doing in a dump like this? He's got you sniffing around down here too?"

Diane tensed, acutely aware of the closing distance between them and just as acutely aware of the weight of the revolver that sat in her handbag. It was supposed to be her protection against splicers. She hadn't ever anticipated needing to use it; she wasn't sure if she could.

"Easy now, Billy. Think about what you're sayin'."

The interruption startled Diane to the point where she very nearly missed its source: another man coming to Billy's side, bracing a hand on his shoulder and standing just enough in his way to keep him from coming any closer to her.

It was enough to get Billy to stop, but he wasn't so easily appeased. "What's there to think about? Those sons of bitches tossed the whole inventory—that's a day or more's wages gone, just gone, you fucking know that—and people like her still get to show her face around here?"

"Easy, easy." The other man now fully impeded Billy's path, having slipped between the two of them so easily that Diane wondered how she had missed it. "That's on Ryan and them, not her. She's got nothing to do with it."

"How do you know?" Billy shouted, suddenly pointing at Diane again. It took her a surprising amount of nerve not to flinch. "How do you know that for sure, huh? Who says Ryan didn't just send some skirt down here to find what Sullivan and his boys couldn't?"

"I say that," said the other man, firmness in his tone, "because there's no reason to believe it. Even Ryan wouldn't do something so foolish as that."

"But—"

"Go home, Billy. If it's a fight you're looking for, you're not going to find it with this lass."

She didn't seriously expect Billy to heed the man's words; if she expected anything at all, it was for him to sock the other man right in the face. So it was to her honest surprise that Billy retreated, defeat written plainly on his face, and slunk away.

The man watched him go before finally turning to Diane. "I'm afraid I'll have to apologize for him, Miss McClintock. It's been a rough few days for us all."

Diane appraised him with a wary eye. He was strong-built, like any other working man she'd expect to find down here, but he didn't share their usual get-up of grubby waders or stained coveralls. His clothes were downright pristine compared to the rest of the crowd, in fact, from the black shine of his boots to the flat cap perched on his head, and Diane found that both odd and striking.

But it wasn't striking enough for her to let down her guard. She'd learned at least a little something from her past mistakes, after all, and one could never afford to be too careful besides.

She let herself raise an eyebrow before she responded to him. "Tell me about it."

He gave her a rakish smile and settled into the stool next to her at the bar. Diane wasn't sure what to think about this progression of events, nor was she sure what to think about the fact that as soon as he sat down the bartender already had a drink for him, slid across the polished wood without a word between them.

"Trust me, Miss McClintock, you don't want to get me started." He drank without taking his eyes off her. "Though I've a feelin' your sort of rough is a bit different from ours."

"So what?" she snapped without thought or hesitation. She hadn't asked for the guy to defend her, and she certainly hadn't asked for him to play the courteous gentleman for her afterward. She was starting to feel fed up with the whole damn thing. "Just because I don't work in the fisheries all day doesn't mean I don't have problems, too."

"Don't get me wrong, I didn't mean anything like that." To his credit, he managed to refrain from copping a defensive tone. "Just that I have a hard time imagining what sort of problems any gal of Ryan's got to worry herself over."

He spoke with a thick, lilting accent, at its heaviest when he drew out the syllables of Ryan's name. The sound of that name alone would have been enough to make her irritation spike, but this was unbearable.

"Well, there's plenty, all right?" She wished she had a cigarette. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't call me that. I don't belong to Ryan, thank you very much." She really wished she had a cigarette. "At this point, I'd be glad if I could be shot of him for good."

She huffed the words out without thinking, but unexpectedly found she didn't regret them. It felt a little good, almost powerful, to finally vent what'd been plaguing her all damn night.

His brow rose at that. "Is that right?" he asked, as though it were difficult to believe. Were she in a more charitable mood, Diane might have sympathized.

"He never takes a single moment to think of anyone but himself—" Only then did it occur to her that she might need to be a bit more specific. "Him and his son, the both of them. Always ready to act like they care, but only as long as it's convenient for them."

It almost startled her how easily her frustrations came tumbling out at only the slightest provocation. It almost startled her just as much to realize how little she cared. But it wasn't startling, not quite—it was thrilling.

"What a shame," the man said, shaking his head. "Ryan junior always seemed like a more agreeable sort than his father."

Diane gave a particularly unladylike snort. "He's no better than Andrew ever was. If anything, he's worse."

Then she found herself given pause. There was a sting in her heart, spurred by the thought of what Jack had once meant to her—what he still meant to her, perhaps, but she was determined now to push that aside.

"He's nicer," she murmured. "But niceness doesn't count for much when he's picking up his father's worst qualities."

"What a shame, what a shame." He shook his head again, somehow seeming genuinely morose. "No man should ever treat his lady with such carelessness, least of all a lady such as yourself."

Oh, no. No, no. Diane was not going to fall for this bit again.

She wasn't sure if a glare or a laugh would do better to discourage him, so she settled for some approximation between the two. "Don't even try it, mister. I don't know what kind of girl you think I am, but I'm not going to go home with you just because you saved me from getting into some trouble."

The man's eyes widened in a look of genuine surprise—somewhat to her own surprise.

"Is that what you think I'm after? Oh, no." His tone was purely apologetic now. "I just thought you could do with some conversation, that's all, what with the long face you had when you came in here and all. Besides..." He leaned in close. "After the scene Billy made, I didn't want anyone else to go on tryin' to start somethin' with you."

At first, Diane wasn't sure just how he could have made a difference in that regard. But as she paused to consider it, she realized that the hum of activity in the pub had quieted somewhat, the other men huddled together and keeping to their own affairs. When she cast a passing glance over the rest of them, only one looked in their direction, then quickly looked away again.

"I'm a man of some sway here, you see." It seemed he had detected her doubt. "Whatever I say goes. But I've still got to keep them in line at times."

Diane didn't know whether to feel reassured or far less than that with this new revelation.

"Well—" Whether she felt reassured or not, however, she knew she had to at least act with some confidence. "That's good to hear. But I'm still not convinced you're not aiming at something with all this."

He sighed deeply, then pulled the cap off his head. His hair was surprisingly fair, framing his face like an odd sort of halo in the tavern's dim light.

"I'm afraid you've got me there, Miss McClintock," he said softly. "I did want one thing... But only to be a friend to you."

"A friend?" Diane very nearly snorted. Did this guy really think she would fall for that? "In that case I don't know what to tell you, because I've already got plenty of friends."

"I'm not so certain you do. Why else would you be here?"

That hadn't fully occurred to her. But now the realization settled over her like an uncomfortable weight.

"Would you like to know what kind of girl I think you are, love?"

She didn't quite know how to respond to that. She only found herself wishing ever more dearly that she had a cigarette.

"I think you're an honest lass, no different from the rest of us honest men and women caught here in Rapture. But like the rest of us, you've been fooled by Ryan and his charms—fooled, taken advantage of, and thrown away when he had no more use for you."

She reached for her glass, but couldn't quite muster the will to make herself drink.

"What... What makes you say that?"

"You said it yourself, didn't you?"

Indeed she did. She felt the edges of something creep into her consciousness, something she couldn't yet fully grasp, like those first soft rays that heralded the dawn to come.

Then something else occurred to her.

"What's your name, anyway?"

MAY 25, 1959 — 10:06 AM

Jack couldn't remember when he had ended up back at his own apartment. He couldn't fully remember all that had transpired the night before. All he knew with certainty was that when he awoke in his own barely-disturbed bed, haphazardly dressed in his clothes from the day before, it was with tinges of regret and little else.

That troubling feeling had faded in the night, lost somewhere between the haze of alcohol and Fitzpatrick's slender hands, but now it echoed in his mind like the beat of a far-off drum. Nothing had been solved. He hadn't faced his doubts. Nothing had changed from before, and even if anything had changed at all, he had a growing suspicion that it was only to make things worse.

The thudding beat gained an acute sharpness in his ears before he realized the sound he heard was real: someone was rapping at his front door. It took some great effort, but he managed to gather himself well enough to stumble his way to the door and answer it.

Diane stood there waiting for him. The time it took him to fully recognize this fact was, as it turned out, just enough for her to slap him across the face.

"I'm through with you, Jack Ryan."

Jack reeled. There was nothing in his conscious memory to indicate that he'd ever been struck before, yet something in the blow rippled back to the deepest corners of his mind, sending waves of inexplicable fear echoing throughout his very bones.

When her words fully sank in, however, that fear took on a more easily definable shape.

"Diane, wait—"

"No, Jack." There was a fire in her eyes, like none he had ever seen before. "Do you have any idea how many times I've waited for you? Well, I'm done. I'm not going to let you waste any more of my time."

His fear took the shape of a great precipice overlooking an interminable abyss, one from which there was no avoidance or return, and his grip on its ledge was slipping further and further with each passing second.

"Please, let me explain—"

"Aren't you listening to me? I've already told you, I'm done."

Sharp words echoed from the recesses of his mind, words meant for him long ago. The fading of his memory had blurred their meaning beyond recognition, but their weight and the feeling they carried remained ever clear.

"You're just like your father, you know that? And in none of the ways that matter. Some prodigal son you turned out to be after all, huh?"

The thudding in his ears had returned. His heart squeezed in his chest.

"In fact, I wouldn't even be here right now if I had my way. But I met somebody last night, somebody who actually gives a damn about how I feel, and wouldn't you know it, the only thing he wanted from me was to give you this."

She thrust something toward his chest. His vision blurred before he could clearly see what it was.

"Jack— You're hurting me— Jack, goddamnit, let go of me!"

He had a viselike grip on Diane's wrist, where a small envelope was clutched in her hand. He couldn't remember when he had taken hold of it.

In that moment of startled realization, his grip loosened enough for Diane to wrench herself away. She glared at Jack with an even greater fury than before.

"I never want to see you again!"

By the time he fully remembered that he was standing on the ground, not falling into an unending abyss, Diane was gone. The envelope she left behind had fluttered to his feet.

His heart was still pounding; his head was still reeling. But somehow he gathered the presence of mind to pick it up and examine it.

His name, JACK RYAN, had been written across the front in small, precise block letters, with no quirks or characteristics of an individual hand to be found. When he opened it, he found the letter inside bore exactly the same style:

I hope this letter finds you safely, as I don't yet know who will be its messenger.

I haven't had the privilege of meeting you in person, but I can tell that you're a man of good character who only wants what is best for the city of Rapture and her people. However, I fear that the Rapture you know may only be a small part of what it has grown to be, and I fear also that this limited view may keep every citizen from having a fair hand on the Great Chain that guides our future.

Would you kindly meet me at the Atlantic Express depot? There are many things I wish to discuss with you, all for the sake of furthering the glory of our fair city.

P.S. You may want to dress down for the occasion. Be sure that you arrive by 11 P.M. sharp.