Don’t let the title fool you, this is just a chapter from a book I’ll never finish. This particular piece is based in the universe of one of my favorite games of all time; Bioshock.

The wrench is slick, and heavy in my right hand. Dangling by the threads that used to be my fingers it catches the ground. Scraping, jarring the eerie silence into subtle awareness. I can’t remember how long I’ve been walking, or in what direction. All I know is that if I don’t stop the bleeding, I’m not making it much further.

My muscles ache, and pull against my skin, raging against the torment of open wounds. Most of my right arm is intact but there is something, almost certainly broken. Can’t say the same for my left, torn off near the shoulder where the beast clipped me. My belt turned tourniquet hangs loosely there, unsure of it’s true purpose. Wondering when it traded belt loops for blood vessels. My pants are sagging a bit but that doesn’t seem to be a priority at this moment. Oh, wonderful. I’m missing a boot. My revelation punctuated by the broken glass cracking against linoleum, and the uncalloused bottom of my foot. This has been one hell of a morning.

“Orion log, ship time 17:34 pm,” My voice catches as the recorder clicks on. I’ve been at sea for 13 days now. Food ran out three days ago, and I can’t fish for shit. Water 14 hours ago as my ability to ration matches my ability to rationalize what kind of jobs I take. What can I say? I need the money more than anything.

“Ship functionality is uhhh, ship shape. Just following the coordinates provided and as far as I can tell, I am in the middle-of-fucking-nowhere, without any sense of where I should be. Granted I should have asked for some clarification but that’s not part of the job. Typically, I just kill someone and get paid afterwards. Straightforward, no details, makes it easier.”

My log sounds more confessional with each passing day.

“The distress beacon has been on since the crew jumped ship two days out of port and I guess you guys left it on here as some sort of sick joke. No one’s coming, radio is full of static, and I can’t make heads or tails of how to steer this thing. I expected it to be more like a pirate ship as I’ve been playing with the wheel at times. No matter which way I turn it, the ship soldiers forward full of purpose. Destined, determined, and destitute, headed towards the horizon.”

Purpose, the word echoes back to me. Bouncing off the walls of my skull ringing with a hollow sound.

“Not to sound religious but this feels like punishment. Atonement. You could certainly make the argument that I deserve this, that I am reaping what I sowed. If you don’t take the job, you don’t get sent here. Wherever here is. If you don’t get sent here, you could stay in New York, and find a decent job. A decent job.”

A sick chuckle escapes my throat. They wouldn’t have asked me to do this if I wasn’t good at what I do. Fixers, mobsters, and politicians have all used my services. I can be had for a price, just make sure you’re willing to pay it. I’ll bear the burden of their death as long as the money makes it into my account.

“Sorry, I’m dawdling,” I apologize to the empty reaches of the control room.   

“It would seem that I am starting to succumb to the lack of nourishment. This doesn’t feel like a psychotic break but how would I know, you know? I’m talking to a recorder, an empty ship, an ever-expanding ocean, a desolate kitchen, the horizon, and to the birds, sky, and wind.”

There are worse ways to go.

“One of the few things I can actually decipher here in the control room is that the fuel is dangerously low. Soon the ship and I will be adrift in the swallowing blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. Which isn’t so bad, all things considered. Only have a few more choices left to make in my life, and they will all be easy. Should I starve or drown?”

Making bad choices has always been the paramount of my character.

“Should this record ever reach you, just know that I have always been selfish. Even after your Mother left, I chose myself and continued, and continued, and continued, and now I’m here. It was never anyone else, always just me.”

Let’s be completely honest with ourselves, in the face of oblivion. He won’t ever hear this. That’s half the reason I’m recording it. I can say the things I’ve always wanted to without seeing your face, without shouldering your disgust, and contempt. I can escape the consequences of my life as I always have. Well, almost always.

“I’ve made my decision; I’m going to die by starvation!” Is that triumph in the corners of my voices? “The struggling of drowning seems like such a hassle, plus I’m already sitting down.” No, just off-brand humor laced with self-disgust. “Orion log, signing off.” The recorder clicks. The ship groans, and I am thrown from my perch, through the front facing windows and out onto the deck. I feel wet, as my conscious slips from my grasp. Swallowed in the cold, dark ocean waters.

Death doesn’t feel the way I expected it to. The void is not so crushing as it is engulfing, the throes of oblivion more like giant hands wafting, and waving me in unknown directions. It’s cold here. I feel weak, unable to control my body, unable to process or perceive my surroundings. Something glances my fingers and I fight the urge to grab at it. “Just let go,” I hear myself say. But ever the asshole, I clasp my fingers around the object. Slick, I pull myself on top of it.

Something like time passes and I shutter awake to the coughs, and spurts of my throat as water is expunged. Death feels very much like life. I gasp, as I desperately suck for air. My body convulsing, hands tightening, my lungs fight for purchase as the shock of life stutters back into my body. I feel fear. And temptation, to open my eyes. I drift alone at sea, clutched to a piece of the ship. The night sky, and all of its beautiful stars look down to greet me. A sliver of sunlight starts to unfurl the horizon, and something like a tower eclipses my view.

It is morning, I am abandoned at sea, and I’m staring at a lighthouse.  

The unbearable pain of being alive is rivaled by the indescribability of the structure standing before me. My legs start to kick and my wreckage turned savior pulses towards the shore, yearning for relief, for solid ground. My hands make a slapping sound as they struggle to break my fall, I ignore it as I start to come to terms with the last few hours of my second chance at life. Before I catch my breath, my feet steady and provide support. Step by step, I am walking towards the base of the building, unknowingly compelled, my hands dragging along the soft, weather-beaten stone. My mind and my body, clearly at odds, grapple with our new surroundings. Before I realize I’ve passed it, the distinct feel of metal graces my left hand. A door. Large, imposing, made for men four, no five, times the size of me. Rust tinges the edges, the turn wheel set in the center, beckoning.   

I try to speak but sea water residue coats my throat, and it comes out as a gurgle, and then cough.

“What is this place?” An empty question, with no one to answer it. No birds, no wind, no signs of life anywhere. Just the soft lapping of sea against rocks, hewn by hands and by sea. My hands slowly grip the turn wheel, it sticks, groans, and slowly turns to the side. The sound of pressure breaking meets the air, and the large door slides open smoothly, easily, revealing an empty, pitch-black room. The air is stale.  

Before I realize my feet have moved, I’m heading downstairs. Ever-forward into the darkness, the fresh morning sunlight dying in the doorway behind me. I reach a landing and suddenly, electric lights greet me, illuminating the room and a small vessel resting in too-still water. Some sort of submersible, it’s door punctuated by an eye shaped window, slowly it opens towards me.

“You know this is a bad idea, right?” I ask no one in particular. I pull the door shut as the vessel shifts with my weight. I pull the lever on the wall opposite of the door, and a series of clicks ring through the vessel. I lose my footing, and the submersible drops into the water, onwards to some unknown destination. Placing my back against one of the walls, my legs buckle, and I sit. An almost unwilling passenger. 

“I guess I should be happy I’m alive, but fuck am I hungry.” My stomach gurgles in agreement, my mouth suddenly dry, painfully aware of my dehydration. “Let’s hope wherever this thing is headed, there’s something to eat.” I smile at my distorted reflection in the window across from me. Why do I look so sad?