BioShock: The Fall of Rapture

Chapter 6 Newcomers and Old Friends

Rapture, Bathysphere Station, April 1960

It had been four months since Andrew Ryan had released pheromones into Rapture's air system and effectively won the war, but it had been a hollow victory. Those who had taken to splicing had become little more than slaves to Ryan's will, ending any notion of his city's goals of freedom. Meanwhile, many parts of the city had been wrecked or completely destroyed. As a result of all this, maintenance had all but ended, and Rapture was leaking worse and worse with every day that passed.
Michael was painfully aware of this as he hurriedly tried to patch a broken pipe above his bunkbed.

"Pass me a length of cloth would ya?" he said, holding a hand over the crack, trying to stem the flow of icy water.
A second man nodded and handed him a long piece of grubby cloth from a toolbox.
"Right," Michael grunted, stuffing the greying cloth into the leak, "now pass that waterproof tape."
The other man handed over a wide roll of black tape.
"Thanks, Michael said, tearing off a few strips of the tape and placing it over the cloth, stopping the flow of water. "That should hold for a while, but we need to find something more permanent."

"We could break into the bathysphere repair shop," the other man suggested, placing the toolbox on a metal shelve bolted to the wall, "There must be something in there to properly patch leaks."
"It's a good idea Johnny," Michael said, taking a seat at a desk that was covered in electrical equipment, "But we have the problem of hundreds of crazy splicers between us and the repair bay."
"Guess you're right, but if things carry on like this, we might have to risk it."
Michael nodded, pretending to agree. Truthfully, they could get to the repair shop without having to encounter a single splicer, just by climbing through the air vents, but he was not willing to share that information. As much as he liked Johnny, Michael knew he was still loyal to Atlas.

He drummed his fingers on the desk. Although they had worked closely together for over a year, he found that he trusted Atlas less and less as time passed. There was something about the man he did not like, something he just could not trust. Were it not for their dire situation, he would have stopped working with him a long time ago.
He thought back to the day the pheromones had been released. One moment they had been sitting on the barricades near Apollo Square between battles, the next, their own splicers had set upon them with unrestrained fury. Many, perhaps most of Atlas's non-spliced allies had been lost in those vicious few minutes.

Michael might well have died that day too, had he and a few others not been able to fight their way to a nearby airlock. Now Atlas's forces, which had numbered in the thousands, were less than a hundred people, scattered across the city, trying to survive to the next day.
One had to hand it to Ryan. Few leaders in history could claim to have turned most of their opponents into allies and reduced their remaining enemies to just a few powerless remnants in a single stroke.
Michael had gotten luckier than most, finding the 24-hour maintenance room near the Bathysphere Station, meaning they had plenty of supplies, at least for the time being.

"Well what about..." Johnny began, when a beeping from one of the machines on the desk cut him off.
Michael spun around on the chair to face one of the machines, a radar scanner they had managed to jerry-rig to connect with Rapture's surface systems. Currently, the scanner's green glowing screen showed two shapes. One was a large, elongated blob, that was most likely an ocean liner. The other was much smaller, and heading straight for them.
"We got something heading for the lighthouse," he said, watching the small dark blob, "And getting closer. Must be an aeroplane."

"I'll call Atlas," said Johnny, picking up a battered short-wave radio from the desk.
Just then, the blobby form of the aircraft, which was almost over the lighthouse, vanished.
That could only mean one thing.
"The plane's gone down!" Michael exclaimed, still staring at the radar screen.
"What," Johnny replied, leaning over to see for himself.
"Get Atlas on the radio now!"

"Atlas? Atlas are you there?"
The radio suddenly crackled into life.
"Hey? Johnny? Michael?" Atlas's strong Irish accent answered through the static, "What's goin' on?"
"Atlas," replied Johnny, "We've been trying to reach you. We just got a radar signal. It looks like a plane's gone down right next to the lighthouse."
"What?" Atlas responded, "When did this happen?"
"A few minutes ago."

A sudden ringing cut off the rest of what he was about to say. A sign over the desk lit up, declaring, LIGHTHOUSE BATHYSPHERE IN OPERATION.
"What is it?" Atlas called out, making the two men jump.
"Someone's just activated the 'sphere" Michael answered.
"The bathysphere's just been activated," Johnny repeated into the radio, "Someone's on their way down."
"Money's on it being someone from that plane crash," Atlas said after a few seconds. "You and Michael head down to the Bathysphere Station and meet this newcomer. I'll try and link up with you later."

"Gotcha Atlas," Michael said, grabbing a Thompson submachine gun from a shelf and loading it, "Johnny, grab something and let's go."
"Got it," Johnny said, clipping a shortwave radio to his belt and taking a revolver from the desk.
Michael grabbed a radio for himself, when a thought came to him. He had suggested to Atlas that they just take a bathysphere and head for the surface, but this had been rejected, as Ryan had the network locked to his genetic code. This meant that only Ryan, or a member of his family could be operating the bathysphere.
"A plane crashes over Rapture carrying someone from Ryan's family. That's one hell of a coincidence."
For a second he wondered if they could take whoever it was as a hostage, but dismissed the idea almost at once. Whatever Ryan cared about, it was not family.

"Remember, stay alert," Michael said to Johnny, heading to a steel door in the corner of the room, "We don't know who's in that 'sphere and there's bound to be splicers on the prowl."
Johnny nodded, closing up his revolver.
Turning a wheel in the middle of the door to unlock it, Michael stepped out into the cold dampness of a glass and steel tunnel. For the moment it was silent and still, but it was unlikely to stay that way for long.
Keeping the Thompson raised, Michael headed down the tunnel toward the station, Johnny staying a few steps behind.

A bulkhead door opened ahead of them to another tunnel, littered with abandoned suitcases and bags. When the war had broken out, many had tried to escape the city through the station, only to discover that Ryan's genetic lock had trapped them under the waves.
"If only they'd known how bad things would get."
"Come on, let's not waste time," Michael said, jumping over the mess of suitcases.
He reached another bulkhead door which slid open in a grinding of gears, revealing a glowing neon sign that read, RAPTURE METRO.

"Keep your eyes peeled Johnny," Michael said, "If we noticed that bathysphere, then Ryan definitely did as well..."
He looked around and noticed that Johnny was not beside him. He turned right around, fearing something had happened, only to see him a few steps back, talking into his radio.
"But how? We're at the bottom of the ocean." he said, looking puzzled.
"Johnny, get moving before the splicers wise up!" Michael half shouted.
"Sorry," Johnny said, clipping the radio back on his belt and dashing down the corridor to rejoin him.
"Stay close," Michael warned, "I doubt we're alone here."

They passed through the security door and entered the wrecked lobby of the bathysphere station. At the far end was a flight of stairs that led down to the moon pools where the craft entered the city.
Johnny took the lead, running down the steps. Michael was about to follow when something flew over his head. He threw himself to the ground, just as an explosion ripped through the air, showering him with rubble.
Coughing and spluttering, Michael looked up to see a splicer covered in blood and grime standing behind him, a box of grenades under its arm. He grabbed the Thompson and fired a three round burst, catching the splicer in the chest and sending it to the floor.

Believing he was safe for the moment, Michael looked down the stairs to see what damage had been done. The splicer's bomb had destroyed the doorway that led to the moon pools, blocking it with chunks of concrete and rubble.
"Johnny!" he called, jumping down the steps, "Johnny! you alright!"
"Yeah," Johnny yelled back through the heap of debris, "Just got the wind knocked outta me.
"Thank god," Michael breathed in relief.
There was a clatter of something moving in the lobby.

"Johnny, I can't stay here," he said, checking over his shoulder, "Regroup with me at the maintenance room with the newcomer. If you can't make it, try and find Atlas, alright?"
"Got ya," Johnny replied, "Good luck."
"Same to you."
Michael ran back up the stairs, stepping over the body of the bomb-throwing splicer, which now lay in a growing pool of watery blood.
"Who can blame a lady who craves variety?"
Hearing the voice, Michael raised his Thompson, looking about for its source, his breathing low and shallow. Doubting that whoever was speaking was a friend, he listened for movement, but there was nothing but the drip of water.

Fighting to stay calm, he hurried to the bulkhead door and pushed the switch to open it.
The central lock spun and the door opened to the glass tunnel, just as something landed on the floor behind him.
Whipping around, Michael was confronted by a hideously deformed head. Massive lumps of twisted bleeding flesh covered half of its face. The other half sneered at him with undiluted hatred. In each hand, it clutched a pair of wicked-looking cargo hooks, stained a hideous brown.
He went to aim the Thompson, but the splicer acted first, kicking him in the stomach.
Gasping for air, he toppled back, reflexively pulling the submachine gun's trigger. A stream of bullets cut through the air and there was a flash of electric blue. In an instant the bulkhead door slammed shut, cutting off the splicer.

Drawing desperate breaths, Michael grabbed the radio from his belt and switched it on. "Atlas! Atlas can you hear me!"
"I hear yah!" Atlas replied, "Quit shoutin'!"
"Atlas, I just got jumped by a splicer in the Bathysphere Station!"
"Jesus Christ! What about Johnny and the new guy?"
"They're trapped in the station with it," Michael said, leaning against the cold glass of the tunnel, "The door control got damaged when she kicked me over."
"God damnit," Atlas said fearfully, "I'll try and warn Johnny, you get back to the maintenance room and wait for them."
"Got it."
"I'll radio you when I get news of Johnny and the new guy."
Atlas's transmission ended and Michael ran down the tunnel.

A few minutes later he reached the maintenance room and began to turn the handle to open the door, when the sound of footsteps reached his ears.
Pinning himself against the wall, Michael listened as the footsteps grew louder and louder.
Fearing it was another splicer, he aimed the Thompson down the tunnel, when a woman came into view. She was wearing a crumpled doctor's coat over a set of overalls, her curly brown hair trailing behind her as she ran, hair he would know anywhere.
"Hey!" Michael called, stepping out from cover, "Hey Hannah!"

Hearing his cry, Hannah skidded to a halt and looked at him, eyes wide and filled with fear.
"Oh thank god!" she cried, running to him and throwing herself into his arms, "Please, you've gotta help me! There are hundreds of them!"
"Okay, okay," Michael said, trying to calm her, "You'll be safe in here."
He opened the door to the maintenance room and pushed her inside. The tunnel was empty, but he knew that could change very quickly.
"There," he sighed, closing the door behind them and sliding a heavy bolt across it, "That should do it."
Hannah slummed down in a chair by the desk, shaking uncontrollably.

"I'll get you something to drink."
Placing the Thompson to one side, Michael opened a cupboard next to the bunkbed, taking out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He filled both with the amber liquid and handed her one of the glasses. Hannah snatched it and downed the contents in one gulp.
"Cheers," Michael remarked, rather taken aback.
"I'm sorry to do this to you Michael," Hannah said, looking up at him, her face red and puffy.
"Sorry for what?" he asked, taking a mouthful of whisky from his glass.
"For putting you in danger."
Michael threw back his head and laughed.

"Hannah, I'm a trade unionist and an ally of Atlas. You can't put me in any more danger than I already am."
"You don't understand. Ryan wants me found and killed, I know too much."
"About what?"
"Remember when we first met? I told you I was going to work for Suchong."
"Sure."
"Well, when I got here, Suchong made me his personal assistant to help develop new and better plasmids."
She shuddered and looked at the floor.
"I saw terrible things during the war, but that was nothing compared to what Suchong and the others did."

She stopped speaking and sniffed heavily.
"You don't have to tell me Hannah if you don't want to," Michael said.
"No I need to," she replied defiantly, "If I don't tell someone I'll go mad."
"Well, if you need to," he said, poring two fresh glasses of whisky.
For the next hour, Hannah told him everything she could about the research they had done. From the sea slugs that carried ADAM and how the first Plasmids had been developed. From this came the testing they had done on the prisoners from Persephone to work out any problems. She finished by talking about the development of the Little Sisters and the Big Daddies, born out of a need to produce more ADAM and a means to protect its source.

"We were monsters," Hannah finished, slumping back on the desk chair, completely spent.
Michael looked at her in silence for a time. In many respects, the woman sitting before him was responsible for the horrors that now surrounded them, yet he felt no real anger toward her. There were bigger problems he was facing right now.
"Looks like you need some shut-eye," he stated.
Hannah merely nodded, too tired to say any more.
"Take the bottom bunk, I'll keep watch."

Without a word, Hannah slouched over to the bunk and collapsed onto the mattress, falling asleep almost at once. Michael walked over and pulled the thin blanket over her.
Old memories flashed through his mind. It had been a long time since he put someone to bed. Last time, it had been his sister during the war, not long after both their parents had been killed in an air raid. He had not thought about that time much, he had lost everything in those dark years, indeed it was one of the things that had driven him to come to Rapture.
"What a fool I was."
He placed his head in his hands and sighed, the memories coming at him like a swarm of bats.

After a while, he turned to the desk and checked if the security cameras had picked up anything. Like the radar scanner, he and Johnny had connected a few old televisions to the camera feeds.
One showed a Big Daddy and Little Sister stomping down the corridor near the bathysphere repair shop. Another showed a man in a cream-coloured sweater, slowly making his way into the Kashmir Restaurant, an adjustable spanner in one hand. It was hard to see in the picture, but they did not seem to be a splicer.
"I hope you know what you're doing," Michael thought darkly.
He looked over at the last television and almost fell out of his chair.

The screen showed a picture of the tunnel outside the maintenance room, where dozens, perhaps hundreds of splicers were running along, weapons at the ready.
Knowing they had to be coming for him and Hannah, he jumped up from his chair and ran to the bunk.
"Hannah! Hannah!" he yelled, franticly shaking her.
"Wassup?" she muttered sleepily.
"Splicers, hundreds of them!"
Suddenly the scientist was sitting bolt upright.
"How long till they get here?"
Her question was answered by a loud banging on the door.

"OPEN UP!" a male voice screeched, "WE KNOW YOUR IN THERE! OPEN UP!"
Michael dashed to the door and slid a second heavy bar across.
"That should hold them for a while," he said grabbing the Thompson, "Hannah over here."
He ran over to a corner of the room where a ventilation grill was set into the wall and began pulling it out. The grill squealed in protest, then came free, revealing a tunnel just wide enough for them. He took a pistol from his tool belt and handed it to Hannah.
"I'll go first," he said, grabbing an electric torch from a nearby shelf, "You follow me closely and replace the grill."

"Okay," she said, almost screaming as a loud bang sounded from the door.
Getting on his hands and knees, Michael crawled into the vent, switching the torch on. Hannah followed suit, placing the grill back across the mouth of the vent.
The sounds of banging grew louder and more violent as they shuffled along the cold metal tunnel. After a few meters they came to a crossing. Michael raised the torch and searched the wall, spotting an arrow etched into the dark metal that pointed to the left.

"This way," he said, following the arrow.
"Where are we going?" Hannah asked, sounding fearful.
"Bathysphere repair shop. There should be one we can use to escape the city."
"But Ryan has all the Bathysphere's locked to his genetic code, we won't even be able to launch it."
"We should be able to use a maintenance 'sphere. Those only have manual controls."
"I hope you're right."
They crawled along the left-hand tunnel for several minutes, passing a number of grills before coming to another split. Michael searched the wall and found an arrow, but did not follow it.

"See that curve?" he said, pointing at the mark at the end of the arrow. "If you come across one of those it means the tunnel up ahead is booby-trapped."
He paused for a second, listening. A series of crashes and bangs echoed down the shaft, signalling that the splicers had broken into the maintenance room.
"Hurry, it won't be long before they find the vent," he said, once again setting off down the tunnel.
Crawling as fast as possible, the two made their way down the cold metal tunnel, the bangs and shouts becoming ever more furious.
"How much further?" Hannah breathed.
"There," Michael answered, pointing to a grill just ahead of them.
At that same moment, there was a crash of metal behind them, followed by a frantic scraping sound.
"Down 'ear!" a rasping voice shouted, "They're in the vents!"
"Time to move!" Michael yelled.

Scooting down the vent as the sounds of splicers grew louder, he kicked the grill loose and jumped through the newly made hole. He landed on the floor with a thump and looked at his surroundings.
The room was twenty metres long, with one wall lined with work benches and control panels, and the other by glass windows looking out onto the blue darkness of the Atlantic. In the centre were two bathyspheres, lifted off the floor by a block and tackle. The rest of the room was bare, apart from a few abandoned tools and spare parts.

There was another thud as Hannah crawled out of the vent and landed beside him.
"Where's the maintenance bathyspheres?" she asked on the edge of panic.
Michael scanned the sea windows and spotted a hatchway with the words, MAINTENANCE BATHYSPHERE, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY over the top. On the other side of the glass, the rounded shape of a submarine could be made out.
"There!"
He ran to the hatch and spun the locking wheel. It opened with ease, revealing the bathysphere's cramped interior, just big enough for two people.

"Hannah, get in," Michael ordered, gesturing to her, "I'll program the 'sphere to head straight to the surface.
He ran to a control panel and started entering the necessary commands. Strange to think that he had done this same job countless times before his arrest, and, with luck, this would be the last.
He made the final adjustments, when suddenly a splicer fell from the vent and landed like a cat on the floor. It let out a blood-curdling scream and leapt forward, a cargo hook in hand.

Michael acted fast, firing a burst into the splicer. It yelped and fell, oozing blood over the metal floor. In response, more splicers fell from the vent, armed with pipes, hooks and guns, right between him and the Bathysphere hatch where Hannah watched in terror.
There was only one thing he could do.
"Goodbye Hannah," he whispered, punching a red button marked LAUNCH.
"MICHAEL NO-" Hannah began to shout, before the hatch closed with a hiss of hydraulics, followed by a heavy clunk as the docking clamps released.

As the Bathysphere floated free, Michael fired a second burst from the Thompson into the mob of twisted human beings. He hit a number, but more fell from the vent and closed in on him. The submachine gun's magazine ran dry and he struck out with its stock, smashing the skull of the nearest splicer. A second fired a pistol, missing Michael by millimetres and instead punching through the locked entrance doors behind them. Suddenly a third splicer charged forward and knocked him to the floor, a length of pipe ready to strike.

Michael closed his eyes, waiting for the killing blow, When an inhuman roar shook the room, followed by an almighty smash as the entrance doors were knocked clean off their hinges.
Before anyone could react, a Big Daddy charged into the room, the viewing ports in its helmet glowing a violent red. With another guttered roar, it raised a rivet gun and fired into the horde of splicers.
Screams filled the room as the splicers panicked, not knowing if they should attack or run.
Knowing that to delay was to die, Michael rolled to one side, just missing the Big Daddy's steel boot and scrambled to his feet.
After that he ran, through the destroyed doors and down a ruined corridor, not knowing or caring where he was going.