CHAPTER SUMMARY
Subject Delta hates the theater. Too bad he's the star attraction.
CONTENT WARNINGS
Extreme violence, swearing, non-consensual drug use, non-consensual body modification, non-consensual medical testing, physical and psychological abuse.
NOTES
Uprising is an epfic that I have worked on in one form or another since 2010. As of the writing of this note, it stands at 482,000 words, nine parts, and over 140 chapters. My current goal as of this NaNoWriMo is to complete Dr. Sofia Lamb's section so that I can drawer and then submit it properly. It will most likely hit 550,000 or even 600,000 words—and that's just if I count Part III, the BioShock 2 prequel.
However, attention whore that I am, I am sick for want of sharing said fanfiction. Given Uprising's size, it isn't uncommon that a chapter's use is outlived, whether because the story has evolved in a different direction or the material has simply aged poorly. In this chapter's case, I have rewritten and transformed it into a far better form—which means that its older version may now be shared without fear.
I did a lot of worldbuilding that I need to give you context for. There is a "justice" system in Rapture according to libertarian ideals; a plot point in previous chapters was that Protectors were "evolving"; and there are miniature cattle, hence the steak. And if it's not from one of the miniature cattle, it is absolutely from smugglers. There are wealthy folks in the audience and you bet your buttons they're eating beef.
(I listened to a lot of "Kids These Days" and "I'm Only Joking" by the Kongos while editing this, and they seem appropriate for this chapter's mood, if you're the kind of person who likes music with their reading.)
From Uprising Part III: Only Man
SOMEONE ELSE'S DREAM
The first thing Delta saw was the stage, and the second was the woman standing in a spotlight. A nice wooden dinner table set for four stood beside her; cheap ceramic plates ringed a basket of wax fruit. She wore a bright red dress and heels and a yellow apron. She waggled a slab of raw steak around as though she were tempting a dog while jabbering about… shit, he didn't know, preservation or something.
He was distracted by a creaking floorboard, then by a man's cough. He heard the click of a lighter and looked up: past the spotlight, there were walls of glass, through which human shapes shifted. Someone was lighting a cigarette, the trembling flame gilding his cheeks.
Oh, I get it, Delta thought. It's a dream.
Then the woman said, "Instant refrigeration!"
She flung the steak up toward the ceiling and snapped her fingers. Blue light flashed like a firework; a weird halo hazed her hair in neon blue. The steak spun down and she snatched it out of midair, then rapped the meat on the table.
Hard as a rock.
The crowd clapped.
"Food can be stored indefinitely," she said, striding across the stage. "But what about last-minute guests?"
I'd tell them to get out of my house.
Spinning on her heel, she flung the steak at the table, whisking her hands back and snapping two fingers. This time, Delta could see her whole face light up. Her eyes flashed like twin torches, her fingers blazed up from her knuckles to her fingertips…
A burst of flame and smoke. With a sizzling hiss, the steak splattered on a plate. Pink spots splashed across the white tablecloth.
The crowd oohed.
She strode back to the table, arms thrown out as though to challenge the whole theater.
"With Incinerate, your meal is thawed, or even thoroughly cooked, in seconds." She jammed a fork into the steak, sliced it with two neat sawing motions, and held it up to the light. It had been perfectly seared. She took a bite and hummed her approval.
"Truly," she said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin, "what would life be without Fontaine Futuristics?"
"Not much, Mrs. Wright! Not much!" said a disembodied announcer in a peppy voice. "Give it up for Mrs. Wright, housewife extraordinaire, will you, folks?"
Mrs. Wright curtsied with a wink. The music swelled up; the crowd clapped, and somewhere, someone whistled. A couple of guys in uniforms walked out of the shadows, grabbed the table, and ran off stage. She followed them at a trot, breezing by Delta without looking at him.
I'll bet I'm naked. God, I hate naked dreams.
"And without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for!" said the announcer. "I am most pleased to produce for you… Subject Delta of the Protector line!"
Applause exploded out of the darkness. Voices whooped. Someone started shouting: "DEL-TA! DEL-TA!", and soon the whole crowd had picked up the refrain.
A man in a white coat stood next to Delta with his hand on his arm.
Where'd you come from?
"Delta," he said, "would you please stand in the middle of the stage?"
Well, it was a dream, after all; dreams had dream logic. Delta lumbered out underneath the lights. So fucking heavy. He felt like his thoughts and feet were encased in cement and he couldn't move his head very far from side to side. He glanced down.
Not naked. Just wearing deep-sea diving gear.
Oh, this was great. Too bad he couldn't remember any Shakespeare.
The spotlights zipped across the room and focused on him. He swayed. The edges of the room disappeared in a wash of light, and he could no longer see the audience through the window. He was suddenly aware of how hot it was. He was fucking sweltering.
A voice grated through a speaker in his helmet.
"Steady, Delta," said the man. "Steady."
Shut up. I'm not a fucking dog.
"As all of you know," the announcer said, "these are uncertain times."
A door clanged open on Delta's right.
Delta whirled around. A man in prisoner's fatigues sprang out of the darkness. His face was horribly distorted, riddled with tumors and scars and sores; his eyebrow drooped over one eye like stretched-out chewing gum.
He whipped out a rusty crowbar.
Holy fucking shit!
The announcer spoke on, his voice bizarrely upbeat. "Police are expensive. Spend hundreds per month just to visit your factory down in Neptune's Bounty? Not anymore!"
Delta raised his arms and took a step back. He opened his mouth to say, "Get away from me!"
Instead, he woofed.
He woofed!
The fuck!
The prisoner gonged the crowbar against Delta's helm. With a scream so inhuman he frightened himself, Delta punched. But when he swung his fist, it was like swinging a battering ram. He cracked the prisoner across the room and into a tangle of curtains.
The crowd howled with delight.
The announcer's voice blazed out of the speakers.
"Protectors are cheap to maintain and nearly impossible to kill. The secret is twofold: their sturdy armored diving suits, which repel most ammunition, and Fontaine Futuristics' Plasmid technology."
It took Delta this long to realize that there was a huge drill on his arm—wait, when did they start putting drills on the arms of the suits? He didn't remember ever training to use the thing, just seeing some guys in the field using it. When had they ever strapped the thing to their arms, anyway? It was hard enough to handle with two hands, goddamn!
The man lay sprawled on the stage not far away, blood pooling underneath him. The crowbar lay only a few feet away. He stretched out, coughing up red foam. His fingers grazed the weapon.
"Delta, would you please drill the prisoner?" said the voice on the radio.
Delta clenched down on the lever. Gears kicked and the drill roared to life.
He couldn't stop his hand.
He couldn't stop his hand!
The announcer spoke on, his voice chipper. He might have been advertising potato chips or introducing the latest teen pop wonder.
"When wounded, they regenerate within minutes to hours. With proper upkeep, they do not sleep. An added benefit: no speaking! This lot can't tell your secrets to the little woman."
Lazy laughter from the crowd.
Delta had started striding and he couldn't stop. He wrapped his hand around the prisoner's skull and lifted him effortlessly. Weakly-kicking legs dangled beneath him.
He had just lifted a whole man by his head. A whole fucking man!
Wake up! Wake up! Please!
For a moment, the two were face to face. The prisoner's eyes rolled, white and rheumy. It was a face Delta knew from somewhere, he knew he knew it, fuck, what was his name, he had a name…
"Please, god, no!" said the man.
Wake up!
Delta punched the drill through the man's ribcage. He couldn't stop it. Oh, god! He couldn't stop it! There was a horrible scream, a grinding sound, blood all over him… Christ, what was that on his face? His spleen? A liver chunk? A kidney?
The drill kicked like a mule and snapped the body in half.
Wait! Wait a minute! He was holding the drill with one hand! How was he holding it with one hand like that? He'd have to be some kind of superman!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
He dropped the torso and it hit the ground with a wet thud. His fingers were numb. There was a sound coming out of his throat, deep and gravelly and nonsensical. He tried to form a word, but his tongue wouldn't touch his teeth.
He had no tongue.
Oh, Jesus Christ, he had no tongue!
He whirled, screaming.
"Delta, would you please calm down."
Wake up! Please, god, wake up!
But as though someone had hit a button, he wobbled to a stop and his throat closed up. Another door popped open, and another man in prisoners' attire limped out, dragging an axe. His eyes were huge.
The announcer, cheerfully: "Protectors come with the latest in Plasmid technology, including Electro Bolt 3…"
Over the radio: "Would you please use Electro Bolt 3, Delta?"
Delta's left hand rose mechanically—he could feel an electrical charge building up through his shoulder, down his arm, to his wrist—
He flung his hand up toward the ceiling. The shockwave blasted the curtains back and showered the stage with plaster. For a moment he stood there shivering with the power of Zeus on his palm, asbestos floating down like snow. Then he closed his hand into a fist, light crackling around his fingers, and backed across the stage.
The crowd roared.
"DEL-TA! DEL-TA! DEL-TA!"
"Look at that power!" said the announcer. "All in one convenient package. Other Plasmids include Incinerate 3, Winter Blast 3, and Telekinesis, all prepared with special attention to combat scenarios."
Radio-man groaned. "Would you please use Electro Bolt 3 on the prisoner, Delta. God, he's off today."
"That's not good," someone said. Their voice was faint. "Who has his dailies? Give it here."
"Either someone fucked up or he's building resistance again."
Delta jabbed his finger at the prisoner and shocked him—just one long thin lance of light that zapped him and made all his hair stand up. The prisoner yipped and jumped back. A dark stain spread on his pants.
The audience laughed.
The radio crackled. "Oh, dear. He's thinking again. Last time he started he killed ten people. We'd better dose him."
"Now? But the investors…"
"Exactly, the investors. Don't worry about it. It'll only take one."
One what? Who are you? Where is this?
The announcer's voice burst out. "A special surprise! Here's Dr. Alexander, lead developer on the Protector Program, and…" A pause. "His coworker!"
Dr. Alexander? Delta hated that name. Why did he hate that name?
A round-faced man in a white coat trotted onto the stage, accompanied by a young man who had tucked a sawed-off shotgun beneath his arm. The man with the axe hesitated on the edge of the stage, hugging the weapon like a life preserver.
Dr. Alexander—the white coat—had a mike in one hand and a syringe in the other. The needle caught the light like a silver thread.
"Today, we'd like to give you an extra little demonstration," said Dr. Alexander. "We'll show you how easy it is to modify your Protector. They have a small cap on the inside of the arm, which can be removed. Every Protector has a special tube inserted into a vein so that it's easy to give him Plasmids and Gene Tonics. Remember that your Protector will need weekly doses to stay fit. Delta, would you please stand down? John, you take that convict over there. Just a convicted murderer, ladies and gentlemen, no harm done."
Axe-man backed away as Shotgun-man lifted his weapon.
Delta stepped back.
"Delta, would you please hold still? Would you please hold your arm out for me?"
Delta wavered, but like clockwork, he raised his arm. Dr. Alexander only came up to his elbow. It didn't seem right. He didn't remember being so fucking big.
"As you can see," Dr. Alexander said, "all you have to do is unscrew, remove the pad, and…" He raised the needle.
Another clicking sound—someone firing up a lighter. Delta twitched, glancing out into the crowd.
A man lit his cigarette. All Delta could see was his face, three quarters view. Crinkled eyes, a sardonic smile, glossy black hair swept back… he could almost hear him laughing.
The rage blinded him, it hit so hard. For a nanosecond, he could only see that man grinning down on him. He felt suddenly that he'd lived a lifetime hating him.
You.
Delta whirled 'round, sending Dr. Alexander sprawling.
"HRRROOO," Delta said, slinging his arm up toward the crowd. "HRRROOOO!"
"Fuck!" said Shotgun-man and Axe-man at the same time.
Delta boomed off of the stage. In four steps, he'd crossed the divide. By the fifth, he'd jerked on the lever in the drill, and with an ungodly scream, he smashed it through the bullet-proof glass. The pane flashed opaque, spidered through with cracks. The audience shrieked, leaping to their feet. All Delta could see for a second was the cigarette man lifting his head, slightly puzzled; then the whole crowd had leaped to its feet and Delta couldn't see the man anymore.
He couldn't be far! He was in there, somewhere, and he couldn't outrun Delta—not here, not now!
Someone had started screaming at him over the radio. Delta's arms intermittently hitched mid-swing, but there was no room for magic words in the depths of his overwhelming rage. Delta smashed into the glass over and over and over. Big chunks crashed out onto the floor, and then he hooked the pane on the drill's helical flighting and yanked the whole thing out of its frame, dashing it into pieces at his feet.
The doors at the far end of the auditorium were plugged up with indistinct human shapes.
He couldn't get far.
Panting, Delta leaned over the divide between theater and auditorium and attempted to push himself up—but his knee wouldn't bend far enough, and the suit was too heavy to lift. He felt a bump on his back, then someone kicking—and realized that Dr. Alexander had crawled up between the tanks. The announcer was saying, "Everyone file into the corridor, please, stay calm… everyone stay calm…"
Delta spun around. Needed something to stand on. Where was that fucking table?
He was halfway across the stage when he saw one of the big spotlights. He wrenched it out of the stage floor. His right hand was useless with the drill, but he could use it to hold the light steady.
"Distract him, distract him!" Dr. Alexander shouted.
"With what, Einstein?" said Shotgun-man.
Delta threw the light down in front of the stands and stepped on it. In a squeal of steel, it crunched underfoot. It still gave him about a foot of clearance. He jammed the drill down into the window-frame and tried to raise his foot again… fuck, too short, too short! And the theater was empty.
Oh, god, he was getting away!
"Delta, would you please stop!" Dr. Alexander shouted. "Delta, would you please stop!"
There was a squeaking sound as he twisted a valve.
Delta raced toward another spotlight. He yanked it out of the floor. The cords snapped. Electricity sizzled. Whirling, he rushed to the wall, stacked the second light on top of the first, then went for a third.
Was he imagining things, or was it getting harder to breathe?
Sucking air, he whirled 'round for his fourth light. This time, it took all his effort to jerk it out of the floor, and then he had to bend over his knees to catch his breath. He panted—his lungs ached—his faceplate fogged—he was seeing spots. He dragged the light to the pile—first in his arms, then finally dropping and dragging it behind him. The man was getting away. But Delta knew where he lived. Delta could find him. Delta just had to get out.
Delta dropped the light against its brethren. He struggled to lift his foot. All he managed was to scrape his boot forward. His vision smeared; his heart thudded in his ears. He slumped to the wall, then down on one knee. Dr. Alexander dropped off of his back and grabbed his arm, flipped it over, jerked the pad on the inside of his elbow, and thrust the syringe there.
"Grab me another vial," he said to Shotgun-man. "I've cut off his oxygen for now, but I can't leave it like that forever. Get the prisoner back into his holding cell! Now! Hurry!"
Cotton crept into Delta's brain. The images faded away. The room was turning upside down. He toppled over slowly—onto his elbow—onto his shoulder—onto his side. He couldn't stand and his head was throbbing. Dr. Alexander was saying something, but he didn't understand it.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, he was getting away, he was getting away.
NOTES
This chapter is number 90- or 100-something somewhere. It is also one of the older chapters of this story. I first began Uprising back in 2010, right after finishing BioShock 2, which I bought at a midnight release and then got unreasonably angry about (as one does). Back then, I wrote Johnny Topside and early Subject Delta fragments for flavor alone because I only intended to write a fix-it of BS2 itself. Hence, when I decided to go overboard and write an entire fucking BS2 prequel, I smoothed out the Topside-to-Delta transition, which means that he's way too coherent here. Updated chapters include him post-stupidification, as is proper. Does Delta count as a himbo...?
One of the elements that pissed me off about BioShock 2 was that it seemed to have no fucking idea what the timeline of BioShock 1 was. Big Daddies were originally created in response to the war, not before it (see the audio diary "Protecting Little Ones," courtesy of Dr. Suchong). Also, keep in mind this was before the novel and BioShock Infinite, so there was no extra context, just me (a canon whore) being easily offended (it is well known that canon whores love to be offended).
In any case, I love "fixing" canon (lol?), so I decided that the Protector Program started as a bodyguard service before inspiring modern Big Daddy designs. Seeee then we work in some Jack Wynand bullshit and we work in a little pre-WYK and we can use it to illustrate the growing unrest in Rapture and ooohhhhh yeayyyhghhha;ajemv fuck me
Also, I can't believe how much this needed to be fixed? I might have jumped too soon; I need to return and do a little more fixing. Didn't realize how much of it was unpleasantly old. Somehow. Despite writing it myself. A million years ago.
There's so much good shit I have to keep back. Is there any torture more keen than not being able to share work you're proud of? jesus christ I just want to fanfic so badly you have no fucking clue. Which is why I share this. This chapter is different enough that it can stand alone, and what's more, I think it might be interesting once it can be compared to its updated form.
Wish me luck bitches
(I debated tagging this Johnny Topside/Augustus Sinclair. Yes, it's happening. Very, very slowly. Slow fucking burn. Then an explosion. Then more burning. So much burning)