NN2: Another Fish in the Tank

March 8, 2011.  Hardly any worlds in this "Disney-verse" (as he had heard it called) even acknowledged the presence of booze, and those that did provided only medieval mockeries to the drafts he enjoyed.  To Naxitoon, they might as well have been sewer waste.  This dissatisfaction he voiced to Machelix, the one who knew these universes like the back of his hand.  If anyone needed anything, he was the man to go to.  The fact that he was also the boss smoothed the process.

Of course, the Mage had been looking for someone to scout out a new world he discovered in the game-verse.  Lucky that he came forward with his request right when he had "the perfect world in mind".  With Tommy gun in one hand and his last bottle in the other, he set out to restock his supply (and explore; that was kind of important, too).

The world in question was mainly an aquatic one, so Scarnfix was sent as an escort.  Yeah, like he needed his hand held, especially by some underage punk who couldn't even appreciate a good brew.  Still, even with all of his experience with smuggling, the pirate had him beat in naval navigational skills.  Finding the island lighthouse on his own would have been almost like finding a needle in a haystack.

Still, Scarnfix worked efficiently to get him through the worlds to the universe two sets over.  (It was ironic that he was being smuggled to obtain what in his day amounted to contraband.)  The ocean voyage was also prolonged for little, the lighthouse coming into view in less than an hour.  Whether this lack of fooling around was because he believed this mission should be accomplished ASAP or because the Privateer couldn't stand Naxitoon's cigars had yet to be seen.

Apparently the tiny island was built mostly to handle crafts about the size of the dinghy in which they arrived.  Scarnfix's four-mast ship was probably longer than this literal spit of land.  There were no buildings, not even an outhouse apart from the lighthouse.  Machelix couldn't have been serious about this mission, let alone about the booze.  Still, once Scarnfix disappeared behind him, there was no going back, nowhere to go but forward.

Little time was spent outside after that, even in the noonday sun.  Business needed tending to, and answers were needed fast.  The lighthouse seemed to be the answer.  Once inside, the Smoking Gun laid his Tommy gun on his shoulder and cautiously advanced into the darkness.

Every step into this place was a dodged bullet, an assassination attempt that wasn't.  Then again, why should he have been fearful?  Supposedly this place was as empty as a discarded bottle from his stock.  Speaking of such, he took a swig from his remaining bottle and steadied his nerves.  One of his cigars also found its way from his pocket, as did his lighter.  Even such a small light as the one at the end of his cigar was enough to bolster his bravery and allow him to continue.

He wasn't left in the dark for long.  As he continued, a series of electric sparks shot out from the ceiling.  Both of the Mafioso's hands went to his firearm and pointed the weapon into the conceived attack.  Instead of an enemy, it was merely the lights coming back on.  This mission wouldn't be good for his nerves (or his reserves) if he kept jumping at every small detail.

Electricity, though…  Whatever purpose this lighthouse served was most definitely a recent one, within the last half-century.  Curiosity replaced his initial unease.

Revealed in the light was the lobby to a presumed museum.  A banner in the eaves boldly proclaimed, "No kings or gods, just men."  An illuminated portrait of a short-haired man in a brown suit hung at the back of the chamber, beyond a set of descending stairs that rounded the walls.  Naxitoon quickly progressed through the lit hall to these stairs.  Within the alcove where hung the picture, a diorama was being displayed.  "Rapture, 1950," a small plaque along the table's side read.

Even though his mission was to explore, he quickly lost interest in the model.  "What kind o' mousetrap is 'dis?  It looks more like scrap parts than art, see?"  In disgust he turned from the diorama.  Was this really all there was here, a few bits of a forgotten history in this run-down—

"Great Gatsby…"  Behind him, surrounded by the circular staircases was a large metal diving sphere.  By the rig it was situated in, it wasn't just another relic in this museum.  Naxitoon walked towards this vessel's door, his Tommy gun trained on the singular window facing him.  A few more sparks from within signaled the machine's circuits returning to life.  The door swung open soon after this to allow access inside.  Hesitantly the Smoking Gun accepted the invitation.  Perhaps there was some sunken treasure in this otherwise empty world.  He closed the door, took a spot on the posh seating provided (away from the exposed wiring), and started his descent.

Eerie it was at first, gently falling from the light of the surface.  If he had ever known the feeling, he probably would have compared this ride to a first-class elevator into a coal mine.  Naxitoon could only hope that there was an even more precious material to be unearthed.

The darkness was interrupted by a projector built into the craft.  An image of a man, easily the same man pictured from before, seated in a chair as he smoked a pipe came on.  From the text of "From the desk of Andrew Ryan", the man's identity was figured out.  The picture quality was that of a monochrome slide.  (Naxitoon was actually quite comfortable with this.)  Another mechanism, a tape player by the sound of it, started playing to accompany the initial picture as well as the set that followed:  "I am Andrew Ryan, and I'm 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—" The tape stopped, and the image went white.

Yellow curls (or their black-and-white equivalent) appeared next.  This was obviously a woman.  She didn't sound happy when the sound returned (this time from the onboard radio):  "For every choice, there is an echo.  With each act, we change the world.  One man chose a city, free of law and God.  But others chose corruption.  And so the city fell.  If the world were reborn in your image, would it be paradise, or perdition?"

Once the second message ceased, the projection turned off as well.  The darkness remained at bay, though.  Just beyond the window, an ocean-blue glow illuminated a whole new world below him.  It held the colors of Las Vegas, the sheer magnitude of New York, and the mysterious underwater nature of Atlantis!  Naxitoon could already imagine the scads of treasure in a place like this.  The alcohol would just be icing on the cake.

Upon arriving in his vessel's docking station, the Smoking Gun propped his weapon on his shoulder and tried the door.  It didn't open.  "Faulty wirin'," he muttered to himself.  Undeterred, he pointed his gun at the window.  If it didn't open, he'd find a way to—

Right against the glass came the sharp rap of a thrown weapon.  "'Dat was no bullet," figured the Mafioso.  Moving away from the intact glass panel, he retained his gaze through it to the world beyond.  Someone else was here, no doubt about that.

Coming down in front of the wall of window at the far end of his sight, Naxitoon beheld his assailant's silhouette.  In her hands ("her" being identified by his eye for dames) was a pair of hook-like sickles.  A crazy look shone in her eyes from the black shadow.  Slowly she advanced on the submersible before suddenly leaping and lodging her hooks in the door!  With inhuman strength she pried open the door, revealing her hideous form to Naxitoon in full.  "Give me your Adam!" she shouted, reaching in with one of her grizzled weapons.

"I have no idea what you're talkin' about," answered the Mafioso, backing out of the mutant's reach.  "All I got is a Tommy, see?"  Naxitoon brought up his weapon and opened fire.

"GRAGH!"  The arm retreated from the storm of bullets; on the other hand, the woman wasn't out of the doorway.  She was a tough bitch, alright.  With her hooks still in the door, she widened the gap enough to stick her face into the chamber.  Even in the dim light she wasn't much to look at, this plastic surgery nightmare.

An idea came to Naxitoon to permanently fix her face, and it was sticking out of his own.  "Have a smoke on my big fat one, doll!"  As he said this, he took the cigar from his mouth, stuck the lit end in hers, and kicked her out.  The sickle slasher wasn't able to cope with the unexpected assault and tumbled backwards off the dock.  A splash sounded but not before a loud 'bang'.  Naxitoon hesitated on bringing out another one until he completely shoved open the door and stepped onto the plank boards.  "She might not have been much to look at," he mused, looking down on her floating, bloody corpse, "but at least she had a use."

Rickety was the only word he could use to describe the dock.  Rotted from low maintenance, a good deal of salt water had left the edges and some central parts soft and eroded away.  Swiftly he made his way to the tile floor just beyond and deeper into the complex.

Everything he had figured about the submerged city on his trip down was confirmed by the grandeur he beheld next:  neon lights, posh leather furniture, silk curtains, and a design fit for the finest New York (or almost anywhere) had to offer.  Naxitoon couldn't help but smile as he strode through the finery.  Finally he felt like he had made it big.

The damage to this place, though, was lost on him.  The fires, the displaced trash cans, the water dripping from cracks in the ceilings and sometimes from the walls… the Smoking Gun took no notice of any of it.  Only when he crossed through a scenic, oceanic tube partially comprised of the back half of an airplane did he sense something amiss.  Namely, the small spurts of water at the crack were seemingly attacking his lit cigar.  Fed up by these leaks, he doused his cigar by stuffing it in one of the cracks.  "If ya want it so bad, ya can have it," he spat.

Traveling further into the aquatic complex, Naxitoon began to lose his initial feelings of being star struck.  He was also beginning to feel lonely despite the grandeur around him.  People had to have been here if that crazy hook woman was, so where was everyone else?  Hell, he'd even take another psycho to allow his Tommy gun a bit of fun.

Eventually his wanderings brought him to a large and relatively intact neon sign:  Medical Pavilion, effectively the hospital wing.  Naxitoon turned away from it with a scowl.  "Nothin' but dead people in 'dere, probably."  His mind began to recall his real mission as well, further deterrent to the supposedly clean and sterile environment.  That got him thinking, though:  where was all the booze in a place like this?

Soon after taking a side route away from the hospital, the Mafioso came across another of the spherical diving crafts.  Considering that this one was an inter-complex one (given the lack of other lighthouse islands around), most likely this one wouldn't have an in-transit movie.  Still, with no other options, he stepped inside.  What would it hurt to explore a little, anyway?  That was Machelix's objective for him.  A few options had been provided for a destination this time ranging from the Medical Pavilion to Neptune's Bounty to Fort Frolic to Olympus Heights.  More choices were legible, but others were scratched off or removed from the circuitry entirely.  From the given options he chose Neptune's Bounty.  It seemed as good a place as any to begin his search anew.

A quick descent brought him to another dock, but this one smelled even worse of low tide and death.  The death part was easy to discern:  a corpse was hung up on a wall like a Crucifix in front of him!  Written above his head in blood was what the crime was most likely:  smuggling.  Naxitoon tugged at his collar; this place had just made him uncomfortable.

"No problem," he said to himself.  "'Dere ain't anyone here, let alone anyone to uphold the law, see?"  Bypassing all of the debris cluttering up this dock, he advanced beyond the entrance tunnel into the main dockyard.  Now he felt at home, in his own element.  Crates were piled all around him when he first walked through the mechanical door.  All of them seemed to either be full of fish or empty and awaiting fish.  This definitely wasn't the cargo shipyard.

Deeper in the complex was where he would find the goods, perhaps in the wharf master's office.  Only the creak of deck boards beneath his feet did he hear as he crossed the wharf to the far alcove on his right.  (The first one was the fishery building lobby and would have only yielded more fish.)  Advancing up the stairs he found, he came to another level littered with stacked wooden boxes.  This one offered a view of the wharf below, an excellent surveillance spot.  A directional sign pointed out the way to the head office, his destination.  A short stroll and a quick ascent up the second flight of stairs saw him in this destination.

Looking around the third level, he got a picture much different than his initial one.  The scene was a demolished version of the one he had hoped he'd never have to see:  a jail.  Even with all of the cells open, it was still foreboding to be walking through an apparent makeshift police station.  His Tommy gun was nestled in its natural position like a teddy bear as he advanced into the destruction, bypassing a few broken turrets.  Obviously they took their security seriously here.

In a hallway off to the side, Naxitoon noticed more boxes. On the side of these was the black image of a hand branded on the wood:  a Mafia symbol!  At last!  The crate had been opened already (most likely by the police… a shudder ran up his spine) but still contained its cargo.  Inside were stacks upon stacks of Bibles.  "Bibles?  Geez, I know we use 'em for blood oaths; but 'dis is goin' a little too far to call 'em contraband."  Disgustedly turning from this false prophet crate and its Catholic prophet contents, he clambered through the nearby hole blown through the wall into what he took to be the true wharf master's office.

"Quite the odd duck eccentricity," he said when he beheld the office's more unique feature:  a vending machine bathed in neon pink with two life-size little girls on either side of its old resting place.  Currently the machine was on its side and partially through the opposite wall.  Overhangs at the "doorway's" base seemed to provide a stairwell to the wharf's second level.  Naxitoon pocketed a sample of the vending machine's wares before making to escape down the progression.

"Up where I can see ya!"  The Smoking Gun stood up immediately, holding his hands and his gun above his head.  He recognized the authoritative tone; a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.  "Now turn around slowly."  Cringing, Naxitoon turned to face the man behind him.  He was stocky and of average height, nothing special.  However, the Tommy gun pointed at him as well as the Brooklyn accent with which he was addressed spoke of a kindred spirit.  Such seemed to ring true with the other man as well.  "Geez, I haven't seen anyone with a face that clean since the anniversary of the New Year raids," he said, lowering his firearm.  "It's a good thing you weren't one of those damn splicers."  Naxitoon calmed down and lowered his weapon.  All that this man seemed to be interested in at the moment was talk:  the evidence was in his eyes.  "I've had to deal with those bastards for as long as Ryan and Atlas were at each other's throats.  I'm ready to leave all 'dis shit behind."

Out onto the overhangs he went until he stood firm on the second level.  Naxitoon followed closely behind.  This man, this cop seemed to know a lot about this place.  Following him would definitely yield the results he wanted.  "The name's Sullivan by the way," the cop continued once Naxitoon and he were back on the first level.  "I used to be police chief, making sure things stayed in order around here.  Once Fontaine and Ryan brought the Adam and them plasmids into the mix…"  Sullivan clapped his hands to simulate an explosion and said, "Rapture went to hell in a handbag, and peace became a luxury even we couldn't have."  The more he went on, the longer Naxitoon listened.  It was more for his own security than charity to keep the cop talking.

Relatively quickly, though, they reached the submersible that had brought him here.  Once inside, Naxitoon asked about the supposed alcohol reservoir.  "If you're stickin' around, good luck," Sullivan replied.  "Rumor has it that Rapture's changed hands again, this time to a lady called Sofia Lamb.  Sure, the splicers have been quiet recently, the psychotic freaks; but I see a bad day in Rapture for us sane people if she rallies those greedy bastards to whatever her cause is.  Not to mention the behemoths that might be roamin' the halls…  If you're lookin' for the good stuff of Rapture, though, look in the Farmer's Market in Arcadia.  Worley's Winery has enough alcohol to burn the city in one big Molotov Cocktail."  He had already pressed the proper button, both men taking their seats as they enjoyed the ride in comfort and (at last) silence.

Forest opened up before the Smoking Gun's eyes as the submersible arrived at Arcadia.  Trees stretched to a ceiling almost out of sight!  Sullivan could see the Mafioso's hesitation due to wonder and answered the burning question:  "All the oxygen down here had to come from somewhere, right?"  These were the cop's last words before the submersible door closed and he was transported to the surface.

It wasn't exactly a walk in the park for Naxitoon to make his way through Arcadia.  Walking from the mausoleum entrance to the main concourse revealed multiple paths through the garden.  Often he had to backtrack after choosing a dead-end path past abandoned supplies and bloodied plant life.  On one occasion he even found a body buried in a mulch pile with only its feet sticking out.  Wandering this multi-level hedge maze was definitely more challenging than the straightforward paths taken so far.

Naxitoon only found the access to the Farmer's Market by relying on the numerous signs as well as a map he happened upon.  Traversing the wide hallway and passing the posted propaganda saw him in another box transit to the market.  After passing through a considerably more constricted hallway (and finding another map) he entered the Farmer's Market main concourse at last.  The Mafioso mother load was at hand.  If the new map proved correct, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump until he reached his personal objective, the alcoholic's paradise.

Easing his way through the main market, though, he grew more concerned at the condition of the winery:  half of the stalls here were still on fire!  Caution was necessary, lest he indeed found himself walking through the tunnel walkways beyond into an actual life-size Molotov cocktail.  He would see once he saw the purple neon lights over the door and entered the winery.

Seeing no orange glow made him retain his good feelings about this venue.  Only yellow lights blinked above him as much as the tangible taste of Grade A alcohol in the air.  Every cask remained intact, bottles scattered about the floor but none broken.  Whatever these splicers wanted (that Adam or whatever) obviously wasn't here.  Naxitoon smirked to himself at their loss.  

The Mafioso summoned forth Benny, his Nobody minion, with his free left hand.  He needed all the help he could get to clean out the stock of this place.  Vodka bottle after whisky bottle after beer bottle he picked up and handed to his faithful assistant.  This place would keep him stocked and happy for at least a year if the second level was as well-supplied as he believed it was.

It only kept getting better.  On the second floor below, he found a sort of vending machine constructed with rifles and mounted into the wall.  "Power to the People, eh?"  Studying it closer, he realized the machine to be built to add upgrades to weaponry!  Opening the hatch and placing his Tommy gun inside, he accessed the menu and selected the acceleration framework system for some additional power.

Nothing happened.  That's when he noticed the bill intake slot.  Naxitoon snapped his fingers to call Benny to his side.  "Work your magic on this machine; I'm a little strapped for cash, see?"  Silently Benny hovered over, depositing the pilfered alcohol into a series of portals as he came.  One of his stiletto fingers was unsheathed as he began "working" on the machine.  A few clicks later, and the machine started to work with the noise of a body shop.  Hardly any time at all passed before the drone ceased and Naxitoon lifted the hatch like a grill cover off of a T-bone steak.  The gun was prepped to perfection, looking more intimidating with the guarantee of more power.

Reclaiming his weapon, Naxitoon made his way through the rest of the winery.  Not a bottle was spared that crossed his vision, and this even included some of the kegs around.  The variety was excellent, enough for one brand a week and then some.  Coming here was well worth it for him.  Ascending the stairs and leaving the winery, the Smoking Gun took out his map and made his way back through the Farmer's Market.  All the while he whistled a tune to himself with his Tommy gun on his shoulder.

A hollow groan sounded in the hallway once Naxitoon and Benny stepped (or floated) from the Arcadia transport.  Both the Mafioso minion and master looked around to figure out the source.  Nothing seemed amiss, everything as structurally stable as it had been the last time he had passed this way.  Speaking of passing that way, heavy footprints crossed into their view in the form of a heavy diving suit.  This one was a little more menacing, though, what with the large drill serving as its right hand.  Yellow lights shone out from the numerous portholes in its round helmet.

Probably it would attack when provoked, but Naxitoon's trigger finger on his upgraded gun was awfully itchy.  Even so, he resolved to follow the behemoth until a better opportunity presented itself or an interesting feature in the flora was discovered; whichever came first.  Part of his route through Arcadia was backtracked; progress was impeded mostly by the behemoth's sluggish pace.  Places to hide were plentiful along the diver's route, so that wasn't cause for complaint.  Only the tight quarters of the many hallways proved troublesome to the prolonged ambush necessary to defeat the behemoth.  Why was it roaming these corridors, anyway?  What was its mission…?

The answer became clear at the top of the rolling hills area.  A metal vent with an open hole just above the behemoth's helmet made up much of the wall to the right just inside the door.  Before this vent the behemoth stopped, and on the vent it banged its five-fingered fist.  Naxitoon and Benny snuck around to bring a tree between them and the preoccupied brute.  From this vantage point they could clearly see a young girl with dark hair, a purple dress nighty, and unhealthily ashen skin clamber from the vent and into the behemoth's hands.  "I can hear angels," she sleepily murmured as she was placed on the ground, and she turned to her "step-ladder" after and said, "Thanks, Mr. Bubbles."  The Smoking Gun pulled a double-take when the girl turned and started walking down the slope:  this little one looked almost exactly like the Gatherer's Garden girls!  Only the weapon that this one held and her eyes were different, the ones before him shining brightly like unnatural yellow fires.  This girl was surely a secret worthy of being captured and studied.

Unloading a bullet barrage on this "Mr. Bubbles", Naxitoon started the fight.  The diver's portholes turned red with rage before he roared and rushed the Mafiosos.  "Tear him into little bits!" the little girl shouted.  With her free hand she gripped the cage around her guardian's helmet and from there climbed onto his back.  Naxitoon was already fleeing further down the hills, down the stairs, and into the open concourse he had come across his first time through Arcadia.  Mr. Bubbles had barely but noticeably gained on them.

Racking his brain quickly before the iron-clad battering ram was upon them, Naxitoon directed Benny to the base of a tree in one of the corners.  He used his minion as a quick step into the boughs before Benny was dispelled.  Mr. Bubbles' drill passed right through the spot where Benny once was before sinking itself into Naxitoon's tree.

Even Mother Nature's defenses left the attack unhindered, for the behemoth activated his drill and began boring through the tree trunk!  The Mafioso countered by unleashing the rest of his Tommy gun's clip into Mr. Bubbles' helmet.  This assault drove the behemoth away, but still the portholes remained red.

Spying this detail meant that the fight was still on.  A second clip appeared in his hand as he removed and discarded the empty one.  There proved little need for this second set of bullets, as the first had put Mr. Bubbles on his last legs.  The discarded clip thrown at his helmet sent him on his back with neutral yellow port lights.  He was out cold, even if he wasn't dead.

Easing himself out of the tree, Naxitoon rounded the body to claim his prize.  Strangely, she was bent over the unconscious diver, crying with her face in her hands.  "Get up, Mr. Bubbles, please!"  The Mafioso had no time for her tantrums and picked her up bodily in his free arm.  He took extra care to pin her weapon and the arm holding it to his side, lest he lose that important piece.  Machelix would definitely be happy with this souvenir.  Satisfied with himself, he made his way down the adjoining hall leading to the remaining submersible.

Everything he had seen and collected in this undersea city he could tell only scratched the surface of what this city had to offer.  The history, the conflict, the "citizens", and the treasures yet to be discovered were reason enough for him to return.  Here he felt like a Mafioso again, like a celebrity, and (unfortunately) like a babysitter.  Perhaps he could bring Xanecirge down here next time to take care of the kids while he took care of more "adult" matters.

The End