The first thing I notice is the smell…

Even at three thousand miles underneath the Atlantic Ocean, the familiar smell of the shore finds its way here. I remember the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the feel of the hot sand underneath my feet; for a brief moment I feel like I’m in California again, but once I open my eyes, the peaceful tranquility of the imaginary coast disappears, and the sound grinding machinery and the smell of burnt human flesh replaces my paradise with cold darkness. Rapture: the city of dreams.

I was part of the so-called “second migration.” Most of us were just average Joes, who didn’t know Shakespeare from atmosphere. Hell, we didn’t even know about Rapture before we got the letters…

Dear, Reader

I am Andrew Ryan and I am here to ask you a question:
Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?

No, says the man in Washington; it belongs to the poor.
No, says the man in the Vatican; it belongs to God.
No, says the man in Moscow; it belongs to everyone.

I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something
different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture.

And, with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can be your home as well.

Congratulations! You have been accepted to begin a new life in Rapture. If you choose to accept this offer, please fill out the included forms and bring them to any business or office associated with Ryan Industries.

Be present at the designated location, included with travel instructions within this letter at exactly 12:00 Noon on December 5, of this year.

From, The Desk of Andrew Ryan

Rapture was a city where only the “elite” were allowed to go, so why would Rapture want a bunch of blue collars like us? Because while we weren’t artists, we were the best of the best when it came to grunt work like plumbing, construction and electronics; I guess Ryan didn’t realize that maybe an artist might not want to dump out his own trash, or that a scientist would be too busy to unclog a toilet. Those Oxford graduates are pretty squeamish.

I’m lying on top of a cold wooden floor. God knows where I am. All I can remember is that I was heading back to the medical wing, where I had set up a temporary home in one of the doctor’s offices, when I saw some old broad trying to hide a piece of moldy bread in a blanket underneath her breasts. My mouth began to water, I hadn’t eaten in days. I took out my lead pipe and began to follow her, waiting for my chance to strike. As I got closer I could hear her mumbling, I almost laughed, she was talking to it like a baby, and she kept on apologizing for something. Once I got closer my stomach began to rumble. She turned around at the sound of my hunger and I could see half the flesh had been torn from her face. I swung at her as hard as I could, but she ducked and pinned me to the ground. She scratched at my face with her long nails, and beat me with a shoe until I completely lost consciousness. It was a miracle that I was alive, especially since she was wearing a mask.

I’ll never forget the first time I saw Rapture. An entire city underwater; it was like New York had sunk into the sea and been redecorated by Jules Verne. Boy, would old Jules have gotten a kick out of the place. Inspiring – that’s the only way to describe it. I felt like Dorothy when I came out of the Bathysphere. The whole place looked like five star hotel, with shops, casinos and bars around every corner. Everyone dressed in the latest styles, including some I had never even seen. There were all kinds of contraptions throughout that I thought only existed in magazines, and no shortage of jobs. Best of all, there were no parasites like we had back on the surface. I could tell this was a different class of people, a better class, and best of all: I was one of them.

Masks. That’s how you tell the crazies from the civilized down here. If someone is wearing a mask that means, then they’re completely gone. Don’t show them mercy; just put them out of their misery. But people like me, people who show their faces; we’re completely sane. We know what Rapture has become, what we’ve have become. That’s why we don’t wear masks, because we’re not ashamed of whom we are – Splicers – The last voices of reason. Of course, even we have our quirks. Take Ryan and Atlas for example. Even with Rapture in pieces they’re still fighting over it like two farmers fighting over a dead cow. Same goes for Tenenbaum, Steinman and Sander Cohen – I’ve heard rumors that Cohen started wearing a mask; I wouldn’t be a surprised.

I started out as a fish gutter at Port Neptunep working for a guy named Frank Fontain. Not the most glamorous job, but like Andrew Ryan said, “A man must earn what he wants; only a parasite relies on the charity of others.” Good old Andrew Ryan, he knew how to put people in their place. Still, bad as bad as Ryan was, compared to Fontain, he was saint. Fontain was the kind of guy who measured up every person he met. He always made eye contact with you, even when you weren’t looking at him. Great poker’s face, too. Besides the fishing business, Fontain ran a smuggling ring on the side. Things like The Bible, Magazines and other stuff from the surface world. God knows how he got a hold of the stuff. I heard rumors he had some of his crew raid passing ships, but there are so many rumors and stories floating around about him that it’s hard to tell fact from fiction. He kept his public image positive by setting up a charity called Fontain’s Helping Hands. Everyone loved him, jeez, if only they knew what a ball buster he was. He once cut my face with a knife when he caught me stealing Playboys from the some of the shipments. That’s why I got a bandage wrapped around half my face.

After about an hour, I’m finally able to move again. I pick myself off the floor and begin to survey the area. It’s a small two story room with rounding staircases on each side. I can hear the familiar chime of the Gatherer’s Garden upstairs. I’m somewhere near the Bathysphere arrival station, it’s completely deserted; nobody has used the bathyspheres since Ryan shut the system down two years ago. There are two automatic metal doors on each side f the room, I try to determine which is the fastest to medical; I’ve got to get back to my office-room before that bitch breaks in again. At least she never takes anything, just sits there, waiting for me to come back, then starts crying and calling me her “lost love.” I’ve thought about having a go at her, but she’s pretty fucked up, probably loaded with disease. I should really take care of her some day. But my musings are interrupted. I hear footstep coming from the door behind me.

After Fontain died everything went to hell. Ryan lost his mind and so did everyone else. I can’t completely blame Ryan I guess. Adam is what started this whole war. I’m not so sure how it worked, but I knew it could do some amazing things, like letting you read minds and electric skin. I’d say it was a myth, but I saw it myself, used it myself. Everyone started using it. And when the war started, everyone started using it even more. We had to protect ourselves, right? After all, we didn’t know how addictive it would be, and what it would do to our minds and our bodies. It’s not like you woke up one day and became a Splicer. It was gradual; you started acting a little quirky at first and before you know it, bam, you’re chopping up your husband because you think he took some Adam from you. I don’t know when I became a Splicer, nor do I care. In Rapture, survival is the number one rule. Morals be damned.

The footsteps become louder. I listen carefully to determine the owner’s identity. It’s not a Big Daddy – to light. Not a Spider either – they never walk on the ground. It’s wearing shoes, probably a Thug. I walk closer to the door; it opens to reveal a stair case towards another door. I quickly put together a strategy. I drag one of the nearby couches to the top of the stairs, snap my fingers, and light it on fire. I stand back to avoid the flames, readying my lead pipe. C’mon you mother fucker, I ain’t got all day. I hear the cries of two other Thugs from the next room, the swinging of pipes, electricity bouncing off the walls, silence. Holy shit, the fucker took down two of them? I could hear my heart beating, but I remained vigilant. The door opens, through the darkness I see the outline of a man, I kick the burning couch down the stairs, but he swings his body to the side and it misses.

You know that feeling you get when you think people are watching you? When you’re a Splicer, you feel that way all the time: always looking over your shoulder, muttering things to yourself, and never spending too much time in one place. You’re always on your own, no families or friends, they can’t be trusted. The only time people come together is to take out a Big Daddy so we can get to those Adam stashes they call “Little Sisters.” Tenenbaum wants us to “save them,” tells us they’re just innocent little girls. This is Rapture, nobody can be “saved.” Not you, not them, not even me; mask or no mask. We were all damned from the moment we came here on Charon’s Bathysphere, and arrived at the mouth of Hell. We didn’t know it then, but as we transcended down into the black abyss, we became more and more aware of our surroundings, but it was too late then, it’s too late now. The Devil himself, Andrew Ryan, has us in his mouth, that pheromone he put into the air, it fucks with your mind, makes you dance to his tune. Every time I breathe it feels like his teeth are chewing me up, my mind is ground into mush, I can’t think. I can’t feel. I can’t runaway. I lost my soul long ago, now I’m just an empty husk, crawling through the scum, trying to hang on to a little scrap of life, if only in the hopes of one day reaching the light. I could put on the mask, everything would be alright then. But I won’t lie to myself. I’ve lied and cheated so many others; I won’t do it to myself. I won’t pretend like the rest of them. I won’t smile and nod as a mad men toss me around like a sack of dirt. I am a man, not a slave, I have feelings and will. I just don’t know where I put it.

He reaches the top of the stairs and swings a wrench at me. I jump back and retaliate with a blow to his right side. It hardly shakes him. He raises his hand and shocks me with a bolt of lightning. The wooden floor catches fire. I hit the floor hard, my body tingles, but I get back up. C’mon old man, you can’t die now. The light from the hot flames shows me my foe’s face. A square jaw and well built frame seem to show a man, but his eyes are dead. They hold no expression, no thought. He isn’t a man, more like the replication of a man – an empty husk without a soul. He hits me across my face with his wrench. Blood fills my mouth, the world is upside down. He hits me again. I fall to the floor, for the last time. No… no… not this way. The world around me grows dark, at look up at him again. He wears the most hideous mask I’ve ever seen. A light shines in the distance. I see the beach, feel the warm sun, and smell the salty air again. A woman is next to me, she takes my hand and whispers, “It’s time to go. No more pain. No more hunger. You’re free.” I’m free. For the first time in a long while I smile. I’m free. I’m free. Oh God, thank you, I’m free. Sweet release, my lungs are empty. I’m free.