BioShock: Rapture

“they call upon their altruism. ‘Never mind your own needs,’ they say. ‘Think of the needs of…’ of— whomever! Of the state. Of the poor. Of the army. Of the king. Of God. The list goes on and on.”

“Right,” Bill muttered. “And so do you, Mr. Ryan. Go on and on, that is…” He glanced over at Pablo Navarro, working across the room with a clipboard. Might be a mistake, saying that kind of thing out loud. But Pablo seemed focused on writing down heat readings.

From the speakers near the ceiling, almost from the very air, Ryan went inexorably on: “My journey to Rapture was my second exodus. In 1919 I fled a country that had traded despotism for insanity. The Marxist revolution simply traded one lie for another. And so, I came to America, where a man could own his own work—where a man could benefit from the brilliance of his own mind, the strength of his own muscles, the might of his own will.”

Now that view, Bill thought, using a tiny screwdriver to adjust the filter, was something he could appreciate. It was a view that had helped bind him to Andrew Ryan: a man being judged on what he’d achieved, what he could do—not on class, religion, race. Sure they were going through a rough time in Rapture, but he still had faith that Ryan’s grand vision would see them through…

Quiet rage simmered in Andrew Ryan’s voice as he went on, “I thought I’d left the parasites of Moscow behind me. I had thought I had left the Marxist altruists to their collective farms and their five-year plans. But, as the German fools threw themselves on Hitler’s sword for the good of the Reich, the Americans drank deeper and deeper of the Bolshevik poison, spoon-fed to them by Roosevelt and his New Dealers. And so, I asked myself, in what country was there a place for men like me? Men who refused to say yes to the parasites and the doubters. Men who believed that work was sacred and property rights inviolate. And then one day the happy answer came to me, my friends: there was NO country for people like me. And THAT was the moment I decided… to build one. Rapture!” Ryan finished his speech, and the music came back on. Cheerful boogie- woogie played.

“Yeah, he decided to build Rapture,” Navarro said wryly as he came over to write down readings on the meters near Bill. “He built it, and he gave us the come hither, acting like it’d belong to us too. But it’s all his, really, Bill. You ever notice that?”

Bill shrugged, glancing nervously at the door. This was pretty seditious talk, the way things were lately. “Mr. Ryan did use his own money to build Rapture,” he said, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. “My way of thinkin’, we’re all leasin’ space from ’im here, Pablo. Some have bought space. But Mr. Ryan still owns most of Rapture, mate—he has a right to think like Rapture belongs to him…”

“Yipped like a true lap dog,” Navarro muttered, walking away.

Bill stared after him. “Pablo,” Bill called out. “Mind what you say to me. Or I’ll crack you one across the beezer.”

Pablo Navarro turned to him—gave a little twisted smile. And simply walked out of the room…

Frank Fontaine’s Office, Neptune’s Bounty, Rapture 1957

Late night in Rapture. Frank Fontaine sat at his desk in a cone of yellow light, writing busily, chuckling to himself now and then. A forgotten cigarette, going out, spiraled smoke from a seashell ashtray. A pint of bourbon stood beside the ashtray; he’d used it to sweeten the cup of coffee that had long ago gone cold.

Fontaine worked with pen, paper, and an open book, poring over the account by John Reed of the lives of Soviet idealists—a book he’d had to smuggle into Rapture—and he was getting lots of juicy material for his Atlas pamphlets. Just a paraphrase here, a change in terminology there, and presto: he’d soon have the Atlas manifesto.

Of course, he’d borrowed from Sofia Lamb too. She still had her followers. With luck, they’d become his followers. When the time came…

Hearing a soft whistling, Fontaine glanced up nervously toward the door. One of his guards was strolling by the window of his office, tommy gun in hand, whistling a tune to himself.

Getting jumpy. He poured a little more bourbon into the coffee, took in a mouthful, and grimaced.

He set to scribbling again. “Who is Atlas? He is the people! The will of the people in the form of…”

The sound of the door opening prompted him to close the notebook. He didn’t want anybody to know about Atlas who didn’t have to…

It was Reggie, closing the door behind him. “Well boss, we done it. Up in Apollo Square. Three of ’em!”

“Three! They all good and dead? Or just shot up a little?”

Reggie nodded, tapped a cigarette from a pack. “They’re dead, boss. Three dead cops, laying side by side.” He lit the cigarette and flicked the match so that a little trail of smoke arced to the ashtray.

“Cops?” Fontaine snorted. “Those half-assed constables aren’t cops. They’re bums with badges.”

“Far as I’m concerned, all cops are bums with badges. Anyhow, we nailed ’em. They never knew what hit ’em. I shot two of ’em myself.” He blew smoke at the lightbulb. “Boss—I don’t like to question your, uh, strategy— hell, you own a big piece of this wet ol’ town. But are you sure hitting these constables is going to get you what you want?”

Fontaine didn’t respond immediately. He knew what Reggie was really asking: What is the strategy?

Fontaine reached into a drawer, found a tumbler, poured Reggie a drink. “Have a drink. Relax.”

Reggie took the glass, sat in the little chair opposite the desk, raised his drink to Fontaine. “Cheers, boss.” He gulped half of it. “Whew! Needed that drink. I don’t like shooting guys in the back… Don’t sit right with me…”

Fontaine grinned. “Just imagine how Ryan’ll react to it! He’ll know it was me. But he won’t be able to prove it. It’s just enough, though—to give him the excuse he needs. I can almost hear his speech to the council now…”

“You sound like you want Ryan to come after you, boss.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe I want to go out, guns blazing. Because that’ll open up a whole new playground for me. You know me, Reggie—you know I can’t stay Fontaine forever.”

“First time I heard you say it since you been here.”

“I haven’t got the muscle to take over Rapture—without Rapture’s help. Without its people helping me, Reggie.”

“You got some kind of revolution t’ing in mind?”

“Civil war—and revolution. I’m pushing Ryan with the smuggling—rubbing it in his face. I gave him his chance to let me have Rapture my way. He didn’t go for it. Now, we bait the trap. See, people stand by him because he’s the shining example, right? But if he breaks all his own rules, does a corporate takeover… acts like a dictator… that’ll turn people against him. And they’ll need someone to guide them. You get it? I haven’t got the power to hold him off for long any other way. So I dig a hole, cover it up… and let him rush into it.”

“But you could end up getting killed in this little war, boss.”

“I’m counting on it. Frank Fontaine has to die. But… I’ll still be here, Reggie.”

Reggie laughed softly and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, boss. You’re the one! You sure as hell are!”

Apollo Square 1957