BioShock: The Fall of Rapture

Chapter 4 The Battle for New Year's Eve

Rapture, Fontaine Futuristics, January 1959

Michael led his band of prisoners through the laboratories of Fontaine Futuristics, cutting down anyone who stood in their way. It was fortunate for them that Hannah had managed to slip him the cell key that night, since it meant security was light and often ill-prepared.
Finally, they broke down the doors to the , a large room with a glass ceiling, through which they could see the towering buildings of the main city.
"Alright, everyone take five," Michael called out.
Grateful, the prisoners milled around the room, sitting down against the walls or on steps.
"You," Michael said, gesturing to a young man sitting nearby.
The young man turned and pointed at himself, looking puzzled.
"Yeah you, get over here."
He nodded and jogged to his side.

"Head back to the others and tell them to rejoin us," Michael told him, breaking open his revolver to reload it.
"Okay...okay...sir," the young man stuttered.
"And never call me sir again."
"Yes si'...I mean,"
"Never mind," Michael said, not looking up from his pistol, "Just find the others, we can't afford to hang around here."
"Yes... sorry," the young man said, heading up the stairs.
"Honestly," Michael muttered, moving on to reload his Thompson.

"Right," he said a few minutes later, cycling the Thompson's action, "Move out!"
Grumbling, the rest of the group slowly picked up their gear. Michael hoisted the Thompson over his shoulder and headed for the exit.
The Fontaine Futuristics building was linked to the rest of Rapture by a short glass-walled tunnel. Beyond the thick windows, greenish water slowly moved, casting ghostly shapes over the marble floor which the group's footsteps echoed loudly off. At the far end was a square bulkhead door. As they got closer, its central lock began to spin, and the door slid up, revealing the entrance hall...

WHAM!
There was a brief sound of splintering glass and bending steel and Michael was lifted off his feet by a torrent of freezing water. Unable to move or breathe, he was slammed into a staircase as more seawater gushed over him. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the flood subsided.
Michael groaned. His whole body ached. He tried to get to his feet, but was forced back down by an attack of coughs. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw that the others were more or less in the same state.

"What the bloody hell was that!" spluttered a woman with blond hair.
"A bath," said a man standing by the now-closed bulkhead door, ringing water from his hat.
Dragging himself upright, Michael went to the large glass window and peered out into the greenish water. The tunnel linking Fontaine Futuristics to the city was gone. All that was left were the twisted and broken pieces of glass and steel beams, entangled with what looked like a neon advertising sign.

"Looks like something hit the tunnel," he said, backing away from the glass, "It's been destroyed."
"What the hell's happening up there?" one of the group puzzled.
"I don't know what to think," Michael remarked, picking up his Thompson from the foot of the stairs, "But it might help in our escape, so let's not question it."
"What about the others?" asked a man leaning on a shotgun, "There were still people in the foyer."

"They're trapped back there or dead," Michael replied bluntly, "There's nothing we can do for them."
"We can't just leave them."
"What can we do?" Michael said, getting impatient, "Now move it."
"But..."
"I said move it!"
He trudged up the stairs, and slowly the rest of the prisoners followed.
Truthfully, Michael hated leaving so many of the escaped prisoners behind, if only because their fighting force was so reduced, but they did not have a choice. There was no way they could repair the tunnel, and he did not know any other way into Fontaine Futuristics. Their only hope now was to fight through to the bathysphere station and head for the surface.

The city was still buzzing with the sounds of New Year's celebrations as they entered, but here and there it was interrupted by gunfire, screams and even muffled explosions.
Michael was beginning to wonder where all the sounds of battle were coming from, when there was a burst of white light, accompanied by a scream of static discharge. A bolt of lightning streaked down the corridor and struck one of the prisoners, taking him clean off his feet. Without a second thought, Michael let rip with the Thompson, filling the air with lead. There was a yelp, and something black and white fell from an alcove ahead of them.

Edging forward while keeping his gun trained on the bleeding mass, Micheal rolled it over with his boot and did a double take. The mass wasn't some type of security drone or one of Sullivan's guards, it was a portly man dressed in a fine tuxedo. The right-hand sleeve of his jacket had been drawn up to the elbow, but the odd thing was the arm itself. The veins were glowing an electric blue colour, flickering and moving restlessly under the skin.
"What the hell is going on?" he thought, slowly backing away from the corpse as if it were a landmine.

"Keep moving," he said to the others, "Let's see if there's a way out of here."
The group carried on, eventually coming to a large room showing signs of battle. Chairs were smashed and tables were overturned, covered in bullet holes and burn marks. Bodies lay slumped against the walls and floor, surrounded by dark red pools.
Then, as they reached a staircase on the far side of the room, a gunshot rang out, hitting the floor inches from Michael's foot."
"TAKE COVER!" he shouted, diving behind an overturned card table, closely followed by a number of bullets.
On the landing above them was a squad of security guards, all armed with automatic weapons.

Michael's Thompson replied in kind, tearing chunks out of the stairs. The rest of the prisoners joined in, blasting away at the guards. Michael ducked back down, knocking out the machine gun's empty magazine and forcing in a fresh one. He turned to shoot, but was forced back down as a stream of flames came at him. The card table lit up at once as the fire hit it. Holding his breath, Michael crawled away and managed to get behind the remains of a dining table.
Looking around, he saw that only five others were still firing at the guards. A woman with blonde hair was crouched behind a table a few feet away with no weapon in sight. The rest of the prisoners were sprawled across the floor, dead or wounded.

"HERE!" he yelled, throwing the Lugar to the woman, "TAKE THIS AND SHOOT!"
The woman grabbed the gun mid-air and fired off a few rounds. Michael fired a burst, hitting one of the guards in the chest, sending him over the banister in a blur of arms and coat. More lightning bolts were thrown at him, leaving burn marks on the carpet and tables. He turned to fire back. The Thompson let off a few rounds, then stopped with a clunk of metal on metal.

"Damnit, not now!" he cried, trying to unjam the Thompson furiously before throwing it down in anger.
He was outgunned and outmanned. It would not be long before the security team would overwhelm the few prisoners still able to fight.
"Well," he muttered gloomily, drawing his revolver, "At least I'll take a few of them with me." He took a deep breath and leapt out from his bullet-riddled cover, pistol in hand.
His first shot struck home, hitting a guard descending the stairs, while the second sailed harmlessly over another who was quickly put down by a third. The fourth round cut down an officer on the landing, the fifth shot missed its' target and embedded itself in a poster. The sixth hit a guard as he jumped from the upper level to the floor, leaving him sprawled on the carpet.

Out of bullets, Michael lowered the smoking revolver, watching as the remaining guards advanced across the battle-scarred hall, weapons trained on him.
"Drop the gun!" the closest guard barked, aiming his machine gun at Michael's head.
"You may as well shoot me here and now," he said calmly, "I ain't going back to Persephone."
"Very well," the guard said, "Saves us the trouble of taking you back."
He raised his Thompson to Michael's temple, the muzzle still hot.

BANG!
The guard dropped to the floor. More shots rang out and the other guards ran, trying to find cover. Diving behind a table, Michael looked up to where the gunfire was coming from. At least a hundred armed people, wearing overalls and work clothes, were on the hall's mezzanine level, firing down on the guards. With surprise on their side, they cut down the security team in a matter of seconds and were soon hurrying down the stairs.

"Thanks for that," Michael said as the leader of the group reached him.
"Don't mention it," the man said in a thick Irish accent, "Anything for a fellow revolutionary."
"Revolutionary?"
"Aye, the names Atlas, I'm sure you've heard of me."
"Sorry, no."
"Good god, where have you been then?"

"Prison," Michael answered bluntly.
"Ah, I see. You're from Persephone."
"We all are. We managed a breakout tonight, I believe one of your people may have helped."
"Well that's grand, but we'll have to talk about it another time," Atlas said, "I've got a war to win."
"You mind if we tag along?" Michael asked, "We've got wounded that need help."
"Sure, we're heading for Apollo Square anyway. Your people can get patched up there.

Atlas shook Michael's hand and returned to his group. After helping some of the wounded to their feet, he went to follow Atlas, when something moved in the corner of his eye.
The woman with blonde hair and two other prisoners were heading away and down one of the corridors that led off the hall. Curious, he followed them.
The hallway was deathly quiet as Michael tracked the blonde-haired woman and her accomplices. What on earth were they doing? They had only escaped being re-captured through pure luck, and now these three were wandering off into a possible warzone.

Suddenly a scream shattered the silence.
"Give it here you little brat!" a harsh voice cried out in the distance.
An animalistic roar of anger answered.
The blonde-haired woman broke into a run, the other two prisoners following suit. Michael tried to keep up, but his heavy boots made running quietly next to impossible.
Drawing ragged breaths, he rounded a corner and saw what the noise was coming from.

In the middle of a lobby was an enormous figure, perhaps eight feet tall and dressed in a diving suit made from leather and brass, battling three people. A fourth man lay on the floor behind them, his head caved in. One of the people, a woman in green overalls, made a run at the diver, brandishing a length of pipe. The diver smashed a heavy rock drill attached to his arm against the woman, sending her flying across the floor. She landed with a heavy thud against the far wall, her limbs bent at odd angles.

"You'll pay for that!" a man wearing a welding mask yelled, striking at the diver with a wrench.
There was a whirl of metal and the man was thrust into the air by the diver's drill, sending blood and chunks of flesh across the room. Throwing the mangled body aside, the diver rounded on the last person. It knocked him to the floor and raised its drill, when the man rolled to the side, just missing the spinning mass by a few centimetres. The diver went to strike again, when the man threw something that splattered against its helmet like a rotten fruit. For a second the diver was still, then its drill dropped and detached from its arm with a hiss of hydraulics.

"There we are."
The words brought Michael back to earth. The blonde-haired woman was walking across the lobby to where the diver stood.
"He's perfectly safe now," she continued.
As she stepped closer to the diver, Michael noticed a young girl, no more than eight years old, standing nearby, staring up at the towering form of the diver. The blonde woman placed her hands on the girl's shoulders and stepped in front of her.
"This is not your daughter. Do you understand? Her name is Eleanor, and she is mine."
Michael was confused. Why would this giant in a diving suit care for a young child?

"Now," the blonde woman commanded, "Kneel please."
Surprisingly, the diver obeyed, sinking to its knees.
"Remove your helmet," stated the woman.
The diver reached up to the brass helmet that encased its head and gave it a twist. There was a hiss of gas and a cloud of steam gushed from the suit. As it cleared, Michael gasped, taking a step back.

The thing's head was human, but nothing remained that had not been deformed. A small amount of hair clung to the scalp in tuffs, while the face was swollen and stretched, as if it had been stung by countless wasps. Its skin was blotchy and discoloured, looking almost diseased. On either side of a flattened nose were two sea grey eyes, staring out with a mix of pain and confusion, but locked onto the little girl.

The woman removed the Luger from a satchel that hung at her side.
"Now," she said, holding out the gun, "Take the pistol,"
The deformed person took the weapon from her hand.
"Place it against your head."
For a few seconds the diver seemed to fight the woman's control, its arm shaking, but slowly it raised the pistol to what must have been its temple.
The blonde woman then gave her last order.
"Fire."
For a moment Michael thought he saw a tear trickle out of the diver's eye, then it pulled the trigger.

The force of the impact knocked the giant down, leaving a trail of blood, water and brain matter over the polished tiles.
"DADDY!"
The little girl broke free of the blonde woman's grip and ran to the lifeless body, hugging its massive shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Please Daddy! Get up!" she begged, "Please get up!"
"Eleanor," the woman said coldly, "Come here at once."
"No!" Eleanor cried, still hugging the lifeless diver.
The woman grabbed the girl by the forearm and tried to pull her away.
"NO! NO! NO!" she screamed, gripping the body even tighter.

"Stop it!" Michael yelled, no longer able to hold his silence, "For god's sake stop it! You'll hurt her!"
The woman turned, surprised to see him.
"What are you doing here?" she said, her voice even more cold than before.
"That's not important, what's important is Eleanor. Can't you see how distressed she is?"
"You don't understand..."
"No, I don't. How can you treat a child like that?"
"You don't understand," the woman said, her voice breaking for the first time, "Eleanor's been... she's been changed."
"Changed?" Michael asked, "How?"
"I don't have time to explain," she said, trying once again to pull Eleanor away from the diver.
"NO! NO! NO!"

"Here," Michael said, walking over to the girl and crouching beside her.
"Do not interfere!" the woman snapped.
"Eleanor," he whispered gently, choosing to ignore the warning, "You can't help him now."
The girl looked up at him and Michael realised what the woman had meant. Her eyes were a bright yellow, no whites, iris or pupil, just glowing yellowness.
"Please," she begged, tears streaming down her face.
"Sssh, it's going to be alright," he whispered.
Suddenly the woman lunged forward and grabbed Eleanor by the forearm again, this time dragging her away from the body.

"DADDY! DADDY! HELP!" cried the girl.
"Leave her alone!" Michael shouted.
He tried to stand, but one of her accomplices aimed a pistol at him.
"Do not try to follow us," the woman spat.
"Just stay here until we're gone," warned the accomplice, keeping the gun trained on him as he backed out of the lobby.
Powerless, Micheal watched as the woman left with her surviving followers. Eleanor tried to twist free, but the woman kept a firm grip. Before long the sounds of her struggle grew fainter and fainter, until there was nothing.

Alone, Michael turned to the body, lying in a pool of its own blood, the Luger still in its cold hand. Kneeling next to the remains of its head, he refitted the brass diving helmet, covering the damage wrought by the bullet. It was an empty gesture, but it was all he could do for the poor soul now.
There was a crack of gunfire nearby. Knowing it was not safe to linger, he got up and hurried from the lobby, hoping against hope he would find that Atlas fellow before Rapture security found him.