Raising Rapture: Part One
#1 of Raising Rapture
Raising Rapture: Part One
[Raising Rapture: Part Two](%5C)
[Raising Rapture: Part Three](%5C)
_ BioShock _
_ Raising Rapture _
It's a very comforting ritual; slide back the cool iron bolt, thumb the hard metal shape in, and snap it back. It's visceral, it's concrete, and it's rote. I could do it with my eyes closed, which I was. I did it over and over again, very careful not to lose the bullet. I didn't think I could find it again, because I was sitting at a 30 degree angle, and if I did drop it, it'd roll into the bowels of the U.S.S. Nielson and never be seen again. I have to admit, I don't trust subs myself; once a ground-pounder, always one... But I wasn't in the least bit concerned. Why? That's very simple. I was in the presence of the three things I trusted most in the world; My uber-trusty C-23 rifle, my fellow squad of marines and...
Something warm brushed against my leg.
And my beautiful Elly. I opened my eyes and smiled at her. Sitting next to me in the cramped Go Room of the Nielson was my freshly-minted wife, Ellena DeVries. She too racked the slide of her See-Twenty-Three, and gave me a toothy smile. I often wondered when I was going wake up; Ellena was way too beautiful to have married a former Army grunt like me.
She wasn't tall, about 5"8, but she gave the impression of being tall. Luscious brown hair would have hung down to her waist if we hadn't been in the Go Room. Instead, it was tied in a pert ponytail. And even in this age of e-tech, her face was the kind you write home about. It was absolutely smooth, except for a tiny scar right below her lips. She had always talked about having something done about it, but I always said the same thing... "Don't change a thing; it's just a second smile!" Then she'd laugh and throw something at me, but it was worth it. Her facial features were so (well) arranged so that she always looked like she was going to make some kind of smart-ass remark. Which, in fairness, she usually was. She jabbed me in the side with her elbow, and muttered "Ready to get your feet wet, Alpha?"
I smirked and whispered back. "Babe, have you heard what this missions about? The only way I'll get wet is if this damned soda can springs a leak. Besides, a great big Komodo shouldn't have to worry like an old maid."
Perhaps I sold myself short earlier; in all fairness, I'm not that bad. The writing on my birth certificate reads Daniel Travis, so I guess that's my name. Unlike my petite little Komodo, I am tall; about 6'2. I'm constantly having to push back spiky blond hair so I don't try to shoot at something that's less of a charging insurgent and more of an interloping follicle. Normally, I keep myself clean-shaven, but I've been terrified to stand up straight on this carnival ride for the past three days, so I've got plenty of black grizzle. On top of all this, I'm a Marine, and damn proud of it. That means that I am in top physical condition, 24/7/365/2012. I pry one of her hands loose from her gun, and squeeze it tightly. The two new bands of gold fit snugly.
"Oh, for the love of God, if you two don't get a room, I'm going to have to be sick in a submarine."
I casually tossed a grenade (with the pin still in, of course) that bounced with a hollow sound of the head of my best buddy, Chuck Adams, a.k.a. Reigndown. He'd acquired his nickname in Iraq, where he piloted a Black Hawk like nobody's business. He could put a 50 millimeter RPG into a doorknob hole, and conducted battlefield symphonies with Hellfire dumb rockets. He loved explosives of all kinds, which probably explained why he was completely bald and beat-up. Sure, he claims he's "shaven", and "rugged", but that's just Chuck-speak for "What does a blinking red light mean?"
The grenade bounced once, and was snatched out of the air by a black-gloved hand. A figure with a face-mask painted like a rotting skull thrust the grenade into my hands, and tapped my forehead with two fingers. He sat back down, and resumed staring down at his hands. To be truthful, Ghoul still scared me a little. When I was new to the team, I thought he was mute, but the truth is that he slides through life (and lives) with little to no noise. A double-barreled Ithaca pump gun hung from his shoulders, and more than a baker's dozen of knives jostled softly against his torso. Ghoul had no service record, no official kills, no real name, and no past. I had known him for five years, and he had spoken a grand total of 23 words to me over all of it.
I glance over at Senior. The middle-aged man was doing inventory, and muttering to himself under his breath. "32 M17 clips, 21 C-23 mags, 15 grenades, 5 flash-bangs, two C4 pads, two M17's..." I liked Senior, real name Jefferson Romero. He was, by far, the oldest in the squad, pushing 50. The reason he wasn't gone is that he is, by far, the most dogged son-of-a-bitch this side of Hades. His steel was forged in that hell Vietnam, where he'd had to survive in the woods alone for a year with 5 clips of pistol ammo and a jamming pistol. Now, whenever he went anywhere, it was with enough ammo to overthrow a small country. I was always afraid his hands would slip once, and blow us all clear to Kingdom Come.
I found myself tapping my feet to the rhythm from another teammate's I-pod. I looked over at Downbeat, who hated to be called by his birth name, Tyrone Owens. His I-pod was always in, and now his eyes were closed. He has most of his head shaved, with only one small stripe running straight along the top of his head. I could clearly hear the filthy lyrics to his song, and he was sitting three seats down and one across. I don't know how he isn't deaf yet; quite the opposite. Downbeat is our sniper. For some reason, whenever his eyes gaze down that starlight scope, its cyborg time.
Suddenly, his eyes popped wide open. "Huh?"
One of his earpieces was dangling from the hand of the only other female member of the team, Mean Bitch. Kelsey Pfeiffer lived up to her nickname. She looked all nice and sweet; Barbie Doll face, perfect blond hair, and a complexion to rival my Komodo. However, somewhere along the line, she had acquired the personality of a particularly violent sociopath. She promptly bit clean through the cord, and threw the bud over her shoulder, almost catching the belt that fed her T20 rifle. Downbeat could not believe his eyes. "Bitch! That was 25 goddamn dollars!"
Mean Bitch lay back against the wall, and closed her eyes. "Ear buds are five bucks a pop. Spend twenty on some decent tunes."
Downbeat put his ruined earpieces in his pocket, and stood up. "You, lady, have no taste in music. In fact, if you had even the slightest..."
He broke off. I didn't blame him. Mean Bitch opened one hazel eye, and dared him silently.
Next to Mean Bitch sat the newest member of the team, Byte. His shaking hands caught the ear bud. The young man's boyish face, twisted with worry, softened a bit as he quickly opened up the bitten end, and re-rolled wires tightly. After a few seconds, he opened his hand, and handed the bud back to Downbeat. "H-here sir. If you splice in the wires and tape it together, it should still work." Byte was green, had never seen combat. In fact, the only reason he was on our squad is that Treadmill, our mortar expert, was suffering from heart trouble. Byte was kind of an odd fit; a cryptanalyst by training, he had only entered the Marines in order to avoid getting drafted. He didn't like combat; he much preferred electronics. But you never know, sometimes you need a computer geek.
Downbeat plucked the ear bud from Byte's hand. "Thanks, man. I would, but I knew she was comin', so I was prepared this time. Fool a brother once, shame on you, but fool a brother twice..." He smiled, and pulled out another pair of earphones.
These were promptly slapped out of his hands by D.O.B., our sergeant. D.O.B., if you can't tell, stands for Dirty Old Bastard, because he was one. He's the kind of sergeant you see in movies that convince you not to join the army. His entire regimen was based around tearing down everything about you, then building you back up in his own way. If you failed, you got the boot. If you succeeded, you were one of the toughest bastards in the armed services. D.O.B was, I swear to God, carved out of petrified wood. He stood at all of 5 feet, but if he wanted to, he could bring you down to his level very quickly, and your voice up a few octaves too.
"Can it, Deadbeat. Briefin' time. Alright, listen up, jarheads!" he shouted, standing up in what little space was afforded us. "Now, I'd bet that you're just beating your brains out trying to figure out why we're in a submarine under the Atlantic. Well, here's why. Two weeks ago, the Deep Fathom, a NUMA survey ship, was mapping the seafloor. Command told me that we're widening SOSUS, so we need to know every nook and cranny of our ocean. So! What does the Fathom find, but a twenty-mile long formation on the dead bottom of the sea. Imagine their surprise when their instruments detected that the entire thing was made of metal, and extended three miles into the seafloor. Obviously, we're dealing with some kind of Atlantis shit here. So, the Fathom sends down their submersible. Evidently, NUMA doesn't operate with the same steel as the Marines, as they left only a skeleton crew on their ship. So, what do you think happens?"
I digested this information, and ignored the cold pit in my stomach. "They vanish, without any transmissions."
D.O.B. smacked me on the head with his camo baseball hat. "That's why we pay you to shoot, not think. Well, you got the vanish part right, but they did give a transmission. It's spotty, but we got it." He tapped on the steel door to the control room. "Hey, squids! Play that transmission we got, would you?"
There was a moment, and then a speaker crackled. "Dear dirtheads, fuck you. From, the Navy." A moment later, a staticy transmission came over the speakers. It was a male voice, obviously in awe.
"My... My God... it's beautiful. It's a city... I mean, a city! It has buildings, and lights, and windows, and roads... Well kind of, but it's a city! Johnson, what's our position?"
Another voice chimed in. "35 North, 23 East, sir."
"Mmm.... No wonder it's been undiscovered for so long. Alright, Matt, take her in."
Over the next five minutes, there was little conversation. Eventually, the leader spoke again. "There! Look, what's that? It's something near the rock..."
"It... It looks like a window, sir!"
"No... No. That's not a window. Take it in. That's a dock!"
Another two minutes, and suddenly the transmission got worse. Only the occasional word could be heard. The rest was white noise. "My God... People in here... weapons... atomic... glowing... so beautiful..."
The rest was lost. There was silence in the Go Room. I thought Byte was going to be sick. Finally, Reigndown spoke up. "Well, glad to know it's something, you know, sinister or anything."
Komodo laughed, and I thrilled inside; it was the most beautiful noise in the world. "Ooh! Is big bad Black Hawk scared?"
Reigndown casually tossed a C4 pack up and down. "Just 'cause you're fuckin' my buddy doesn't mean that you get to tangle with me."
D.O.B. gnarled mouth twisted into a smirk. "Nice to see you're not concerned. Well, soldiers, you're going into the belly of the beast. The Secretary of Defense wants to know what's lurking down here, and we got the call. Luckily for us, the Nielson just happened to be in for restock. She was out of torpedoes, which is just fine. That's how we'll be getting into this tuna can."
I gave a thumbs-up. "Alright! Scuba mission!"
Komodo just pressed a hand into my side. "You just want to see what I look like in a wetsuit."
Downbeat put his hand to his chin. "Well, now, that's an idea. Paint me a picture, girl."
D.O.B. whistled through his teeth. In the enclosed space, it was goddawful. "Can it, Marines! I want you in full scuba gear, double-time! We hit the anomaly in 20 minutes."
The team began to suit up, and D.O.B. turned to us. In a low voice, he said "It's not too late, you know. You can stay on the Nielson; hell, I wouldn't report you."
I entwined fingers with my mate, and smiled. "Sorry, sir, I must decline. If we wanted to spend our honeymoon somewhere safe, we'd have played civvy at the Fort."
My wife smiled a fanged smile. "You know how it is, Sarge; live by the sword, die by demon sea-beast."
D.O.B. sighed, and cupped his forehead in his hand. "Well, Lord, I tried. May you have mercy on their souls." He started to get into his rig, as did I and Komodo.
I didn't step out of my combat fatigues, but merely pulled the suit up around it. After zipping what I could, I turned my back on Komodo. "Honey, do me a favor and zip me, would you?"
I felt the zipper go up, but before she gave me a playful slap on my rear. I turned around, and zipped her up, teasing her with my fingers, running them along her hips.
Suddenly, I heard something that made me snort; Downbeat had taken out his ear bud, and flipped his I-pod to what I surmised was a porn soundtrack. I kicked him behind my back. It's true what they say; you're married to your squad. And even if in my case, that's a little true, it holds water most of the time. Suddenly, I felt something. The sub had stopped moving. D.O.B. clapped loudly. "Alright, everyone! Man the torpedoes! Empty the bilges! Commence sodomy, and whatever else the wets do!"
The speaker crackled again. "We can hear you, fuckers! You want us to vent the reactor when you get out? 'Cause we most certainly can!"
"Yeah, yeah. Talk big, squid. The echoes' will make you feel like a man."
The sub captain choked off a laugh, and said "Torpedo doors open. Feel free to exit at any time, hopefully soon."
We knew what to do. At D.O.B.'s signal, we exited the Go Room in single file, and lined up in the torpedo room. Each person got into a torpedo pod. As instructed, I slipped on my mask and rebreather, and waited. After a few seconds, the door slid open, and freezing seawater slid in. I gasped, and almost lost the mouthpiece. I swam out, and looked around for my teammates. When I saw it, I did lose the mouthpiece. After scrabbling after my lifeline, I stared in awe at what lay before me.
Imagine a very urban city. It's got buildings, of course, very large ones. Skyscrapers and spaceclimbers, what-have-you. Now plunk that city onto the ocean floor. That's what stretched before us. Lights shone out of windows, tubes pulsed with small vehicles, and searchlights speared the darkness. A few lit on us, and I was able to make out my teammates. I swam over to them, and pointed. Mean Bitch made a face, and slapped her arm over her chest three times. What, you think we're retarded, she seemed to be asking. D.O.B. gave us the ok signal, and we started swimming toward the city. The Nielson had got us pretty close to the city, and we only had to swim for five minutes. As we approached, all the searchlights started to dim. Finally, they winked out. Just then, a huge crack of light appeared in the rock below the city. The seafloor shook and rumbled, we could hear it through the water. It parted, and light shot forth from it.
How could we resist an invitation like that? We went towards the light, and swam inside. We swam in light as empty of sensation as blackness, before we felt something very odd. Suddenly, I was upside down. I righted myself without thinking. Wait a minute... How was I upside down? What just happened? Suddenly, something presses against my feet. I gasped, and sucked in seawater. My mind froze; I'd lost my rebreather again. I started to swim "up", wherever that was. Suddenly, I broke surface. Gasping for breath, I closed my eyes, and enjoyed oxygen again. Something pressed my feet again, and I looked down. Suddenly, I was standing. When I saw what I was standing on, and what I was standing in, I stopped breathing. Have you ever seen one of those movies that represents the afterlife as a white nothingness? Imagine that. I could see my other Marines, black spaces in white meaninglessness. I closed my eyes, and knelt down. Beneath my hands, I could feel... Plastic? Wet plastic. I stood again. Komodo was standing in front of me, and for the first time that I could remember she looked scared.
"Danny, where are we?"
I wanted to hold her, but I needed to act professional. "I... I don't know. As if in answer to our question, a black rectangle appeared at an arbitrary point before us. We stood staring dumbly at it for a while. D.O.B. whistled again, and yelled "What's the matter? You want to live forever? Forward!"
Senior, the closest Marine other than Komodo, twitched. "Sir, you never go into an enemies' territory unprepared! My buddy Alvarez did that, and you know where he is?"
Mean Bitch stepped out of her wetsuit, and started walking towards the door. "Yeah, dead. And in case you haven't noticed, we are in enemy territory, so shut it and go."
I shrugged. "What's the worst that could happen?" I too, tugged off my suit, which set off everyone else. I began to walk towards the portal. Bitch disappeared first, and I second. The black was as featureless as the white, and continued for what felt like a quarter of a mile. Eventually, we emptied out into a large antechamber. I gaped. Although the walls were lined with heavily riveted metal, there were white crème couches scattered around, as well as potted palms and a signboard that must have been meant for us.
"Welcome, Marines! Please, sit for a moment. This will take less than a minute," Downbeat read. He smiled, and flopped down on one of the sofas. "Now, this is what I call service. Just what the doc ordered..."
Senior laughed, and went to the other side of the chamber, where a heavy airlock rested. "Yeah, you rest, boy. When you get ventilated, I'll laugh." He knelt next to the door, and unshouldered his rifle. Mean Bitch joined him. D.O.B. whistled, and said "Marines! Flank position!"
At the order, Downbeat grumbled, but we all obeyed instinctively. I knelt down next to a couch, shielding myself from lines of fire. Komodo twisted behind a palm. Byte shimmied under a sofa, and Downbeat lay flat on the floor. Ghoul was already invisible. D.O.B. himself stood exposed.
After maybe thirty seconds, the airlock hissed, and bolts rotated and receded. We tensed. But the door did not open. Suddenly, as though it were speaking in our ear, an aristocratic British voice spoke. "I say! Good to see you chaps at last! If you would be so kind, would Masters Romero and Pfeiffer step back from the door? It would be most appreciated!"
Senior jerked, and threw himself back, combat-rolling behind a loveseat. Mean Bitch just stood and holstered her rifle. She took three steps back, and glared at the door. It hissed open the rest of the way.
What happened next was brutally fast. Two lines of white figures rushed forward, from either side of the door. They snapped to a halt, and I got a good look at one. It was a person, all right, but one encased in a suit of white armor. It had servos and wires sluicing through it, and he(? I could not tell) held a gleaming white rifle. I caught a gleam of yellow on it, and saw the international sign of Radioactive materials on it. My guts solidified. I remembered some of the last words of the NUMA men. After a moment, a man in a steel grey suit walked between the ranks of the soldiers. He walked with a white plastic cane, and his steps clacked with military precision. He had a fluffy Mark Twain mustache, and glittering eyes. All his hair was white. He reached D.O.B. and shook the man's hand warmly. "Deucedly good to see you chap! How was your journey, not too hard, I hope?"
D.O.B.'s gaze never wavered. "Who are you?"
The man drew back a step, and adjusted his lapels. "Of course, of course, where are my manners? You are my guests, after all! I am Winston Teabing, administrator of Rapture!"
"Rapture?"
"Quite right, all in good time. But first, I must ask for your weapons, and communication equipment. It pains me to say it, but I am afraid that you shall never leave Rapture alive."
I heard Ghoul speak just then, for the first time in a year. He was very perceptive. "Oh, shit."