Accu-Vox, Diary of Protagonist: Would you kindly play this again?
Pray tell, you might say, I hardly speak at all. But this may be my last chance. By the time you have a hold on this recordin’, I’m either floatin’ dead in the sea or swimmin’ free on the surface. At least I’m out of this here Rapture, got nothin’ to complain about there. It’s as purty as a hellhole can get, so unless you’re a junkie who fancies them thrills o’ a lifetime, I suggest you get your legs movin’ before some splicer gives you a hungry eye. Even faster if you ain’t a Big Daddy, like yours truly.
[image1]Now, I ain’t your workin’ stiff Big Daddy. Delta, they call me, a bona-fide prototype. Don’t got the size so I don’t feel so big o’ a daddy. Splicers ain’t scared at all, whackin’ pipes on my iron suit an’ gunnin’ me down like some walkin’ can o’ sea meat. But I’m swift like the bees against Lamb’s butterflies, an’ I can walk underwater. I’m shellin’ out plasmids, packin’ my guns with a whole lot o’ bullets, so I don’t even have’ta swing my drill. The beast within the man got nothin’ on the man within the beast.
But Rapture pisses on everyone, even on the thinkin’ man. Sofia Lamb stole my Little Sister Eleanor away, says she’s hers. Ten years have gone by with me chained to the dead, ’til I found myself slippin’ out a Vita-Chamber, rilin’ me out from the salt o’ the earth. Born again an’ ready for a reckonin’.
Lamb still rambles on about the Family, denyin’ the tyranny o’ the self, usin’ Andrew Ryan as the devil in her cockeyed religion. I reckon that Ryan would say that his Objectivist rational self-interest has become the sacrificial lamb to her utilitarian Bolshevik fever dreams. Lots o’ big words, I know. It’s all high-grade bunk talkin’ to itself, if you ask me. No one’s gonna change my mind about savin’ my little girl. No cage around the head o’ this tin daddy.
Doesn’t really matter what I think, though, when she’s got her cronies around every damn corner, divin’ at me like a flock o’ sick ducks wearin’ monkey suits: bushwackin’ through run-down streets, buzzin’ about A Circus o’ Values, stumblin’ down rotten tunnels flooded with saltwater an’ advertisements, scratchin’ an itch ’round every flophouse an’ needle. All while Bessie Smith is spinnin’ on a record nearby. In cahoots they are, an’ mad like a March hare.
[image2]But let me tell you a secret, some hope to ease your mind: Be like Jack. Against all manner o’ unkindness, he tore Rapture down eight years ago with a nine iron to its head besides. An’ it can be done again, in much the same way.
With a gun in one hand an’ a plasmid in the other, we’ll be a one-man wreckin’ crew. Shock ’em, burn ’em, hell, hypnotize ’em if you want. Then give ’em a good knockin’ to the head, or let ’em have a mouthful o’ speargun with a helpin’ o’ grenade launcher. Don’t need film for the camera anymore, so their weakpoints will be easy to spot. If you’ve got nerve, not even a Brute Splicer or Big Sister can quit that grin off your face.
Be on guard, though. Jiggy-rig those cameras, whirlybirds, an’ turrets before they pin your ears back. Much faster an’ simpler than it was eight years ago. Don’t gotta stop everythin’ just to play Pipe Dream. Don’t even gotta be close anymore, too. Find yourself a nice remote hack gun an’ that’d letcha turn those machines friendly from afar. Whisper a bit an’ they’ll listen.
Now, they’ll be loot everywhere, in safes an’ on shelves an’ just lyin’ around next to a corpse we’ve just made. But we’ve gotta find some ADAM for plasmids an’ gene tonics, an’ if you’re a Big Daddy, those Little Sisters are the golden ticket. Let ’em ride on your shoulder, find a corpse full o’ ADAM, an’ guard ’em until they can suck it all out. Plenty o’ reusable trap ammo just sittin’ around as well, so I trust’ya to know what to do with ’em.
[image3]Once them’re done gatherin’, you can harvest ’em or be their saint an’ save ’em. Doesn’t matter much either way, ’cause you’ll snag enough o’ that wonderdrug to get whatcha want by the end. Same goes for anyone who’s thick enough to stand in your way. Save ’em if you want, just a matter o’ conscience really. Doesn’t change what you’ll do, only what you’ll become.
O’ course, you might not wanna leave ol’ Rapture. You’re free to stroll into town like a crazy bugger from before the city fell, which makes me wish I was there to see it happen. You can take the field against your fellow man as a test subject for Ryan Industries in death-defyin’ matches, just like those in any shooter set in either one o’ those World Wars. All ‘cept plasmids are now powers, an’ tonics are now perks. Doesn’t botch the job at all, so nobody should complain about you longin’ for that dog-eat-dog lifestyle.
Rapture’s got a plan for everyone, an’ if you’re still listenin’, you know it’s got one for you. Your journey won’t be as legendary as Jack’s, not sure anythin’ can be, though you’ll learn much about him as you do yourself. They’ll be twists an’ turns, for sure, but the endin’ still won’t have that oomph, and anyone you meet at the beginnin’ might become loose ends. Fodder for download later, perhaps, but it do leave a sour aftertaste.
Don’t misunderstand me, now. This here adventure might sound like Rapture has become the go-see destination for another money-grubbin’ franchise hawkin’ fantastic cruises an’ wondrous sights. No worries there, though. Up yonder is a city where the great chain o’ progress will always be twisted, an’ where hell has put on the ritz. No place for a vacation unless you’re fixin’ to find the great hereafter. But if you’re lookin’ for a show and you’re stuck here anyways, Rapture is gooder’n grits.