BioShock: Rapture

“A man builds,” came Andrew Ryan’s recorded voice. “A parasite asks, ‘Where is my share?’ A man creates. A parasite says, ‘What will the neighbors think?’ A man invents. A parasite says, ‘Watch out or you might tread on the toes of God.’”

Bill was beginning to think the “parasite” might be right about that last one.

He knocked on the apartment door, and Sullivan himself opened it. The security chief glanced past him to make sure he was alone, then nodded. “Come on in.”

Bill could smell the booze on Sullivan’s breath, and the chief of security’s gait was unsteady as he walked away from the door. Bill followed him in and closed the door. Sullivan’s place was laid out pretty much like his own, but it was sparer—bachelor furnishings. And there was another feature, a good many “dead soldiers,” empty bottles on tables and desks, even the carpet.

Sullivan sat on the sofa, shoving an empty bottle out of the way to put a tape recorder down on the coffee table. Bill sat beside him. To their left was a big picture window into the undersea-scape. The building creaked in the current. A school of yellow-finned fish cruised by and suddenly changed direction, all of them at once darting away from the building’s lights with that mysterious unanimity they had.

“Drink?” Sullivan asked, his voice lifeless. His eyes were red-rimmed. It looked like he hadn’t slept in a while.

It was early for Bill, not yet five, but he didn’t want to seem like he was judging Sullivan. “Just a finger or two of whatever’s in that bottle there, mate.”

Sullivan poured it into a glass that hadn’t been clean in a long while, and Bill picked it up. “What’s all the rush and worry, Chief? Urgent notes from you popping out of the pneumo and all. I had to cut work early to get here on time.”

Sullivan turned to look at an unfinished red-and-black knitted blanket folded beside him on the sofa. He reached out with his free hand and caressed it, lips trembling. Then he tossed off his drink and put the glass down on the coffee table with a clack. “Ryan’s starting his little propaganda campaign, to make the Little Sisters thing seem all hunky-dory. Using kids to farm plasmids. That going to be hunky-dory with you, Bill?”

“Christ no. I don’t like plasmids—don’t like ’em double when they get ’em that way. Ryan says it’s only temporary, and what do you do with the orphans anyway, but…” He shook his head. “It can’t go on forever. Things are falling apart—the city and… the people. The whole place will come apart at the seams if we don’t…”

He broke off, wondering, suddenly, if he was being a fool, talking something close to sedition to Ryan’s chief of security. Was all this a setup? But Sullivan had been unhappy with his job for a long time, and he’d made Bill a kind of confidante. You had to trust someone sometime. And he knew Chief Sullivan, after all these years. Sullivan wasn’t much of an actor. Especially when he was drunk. This was for real.

“It’s already come apart at the seams, Bill,” Sullivan said slurringly. “I’ve got some recordings here—I’ve put them all on one tape. But they came from different times, different people…” He pressed the Play button on the tape recorder. “I want your opinion about this, Bill. You’re the only son of a bitch I trust in this waterlogged city…”

The tape recorder played a guitar strumming a mocking little tune, someone whistling along in the background. A gentle drumbeat led the way to singing that Bill recognized as Anna Culpepper’s voice.

“Ryan drew us in, Ryan locked us in
And Sander Cohen kept us hypnotized—
Andrew kept us thin, all for a whim,
And Sander Cohen kept us mesmerized—
With silly songs and watered drinks
And dance-dance-dancing
With silly blonds and makeup winks
All flounce-flounce-flouncing…”

It went on in that vein, in Culpepper’s languid, teasing voice. When Sullivan hit Pause, Bill shrugged and said, “Well, what about it, Chief? I’ve heard this kind of daft thing before. She’s swanned out of Ryan Industries and been hanging around McDonagh’s, if truth be told, drinking and trying to be clever with her friends, sniping at Ryan. Songs like that are right popular with some about Rapture, but they don’t sing ’em too loud.”

Sullivan snorted. “You don’t think it deserves… punishment?”

“Why? Just a song, innit?”

“’Kay, how about this?” Sullivan started the tape again. This time it was Anna Culpepper just talking. “Cohen’s not a musician, he’s Ryan’s stable boy. Ryan’s corrupt policies crap all over the place, and Cohen flutters around, clearing it up. But instead of using a shovel, like you would with a proper mule, Cohen tidies with a catchy melody and a clever turn of phrase. But no matter how nicely it sounds, he can’t really do anything about the smell.”

He paused it again, poured himself another drink, and, voice slurring even more, asked, “Whuh yuh think about that one, eh?”

“Hmm, well… got to admit it’s pretty inflammatory, like, Chief. But them arty types will talk and talk—and talk. Don’t mean much.”

“You know what—listen to this… This is one of the guys we had to raid recently. He ducked us, and I’m glad of it, ’tween you and me, Bill… It’s from before Fontaine went down…” He hit Play, and Bill heard a voice he thought was Peach Wilkins.

“We all come down here, figured we’d be part of Ryan’s Great Chain. Turns out Ryan’s chain is made of gold, and ours are the sort with the big iron ball around your ankle. He’s up in Fort Frolic banging fashion models… we’re down in this dump yanking guts outta fish. Fontaine’s promising something better.”

“Sounds like that Atlas rabble-rouser,” Bill remarked. “Different voice, same ideas.”

“Now, listen to this, one, Bill,” Sullivan said. “This is the same guy, a bit later on.”

“Fontaine’s putting the screws on us and double. He’s squeezing us out of eighty points of our cut with the threat of turning us in to Ryan if we don’t play ball. Son of a bitch! Sammy G. comes and tells me he’s thinking of going to the constable, and the next day, Sammy G. was found in a sack in the salt pond. We got no choice here.”

He stopped the tape and poured himself another drink, swaying in his seat. “You see, Bill? Do you see?”

“Not exactly, Chief…”

“See, first they get pulled into Rapture. Like you did—like I did. Then they find out it’s not all it’s cracked up to be if you’re not one of the big shots. Then Fontaine drags them into his own little ‘chain.’ They want out when that turns bad too—and what happens? Some of ’em start turning up dead. So what can they do? They got stuck working for Fontaine! And what happens? Ryan sends us in to catch them. Hang them for smuggling! For something they were trapped into!”

“I don’t know if that was their only choice, Chief. But I see what you mean.”

“And then there’s that Persephone.”

Bill winced. “Hate the thought of that place. Been afraid I’d end up there myself.”

“Lamb’s taken over that whole part of Rapture—made Persephone her base. Who gave her that base? Ryan, is who. Torturing people to find Lamb’s followers… that just created more followers for Lamb.”

“Torture? I never knew about that…”

“He didn’t want you to know, Bill. To catch some of ’em—the Persephone Reds, the smugglers—Ryan not only used torture, he personally supervised at least one session I know of, with Pat Cavendish doing the dirty work.”

“Torture!” Bill’s stomach twisted at the thought. “You sure, Chief?”

“Oh yeah! I had to clean up the mesh… the mess. Well—maybe they had it comin’. Maybe. But this girl, this Culpepper, all she did was bitch ’n’ moan. Or sing if you wanta