FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

This story came to fruition once I played BioShock, an excellently well-written game by the under appreciated writing staff at 2K Games. As I was running through the crumbling halls of Rapture, I marveled at the structure of it, the tapestry of artistry that was woven to give us, the gaming public, such an immersive utopia to experience. I, for one, deem this game one of my top ten of all time, not just for the story, but for the characters and enemies as well as the scenery and playability. I have long blasted my way through the European Theater and killed my fair share of Nazis, but this game gave me reason to actually stop and consider my actions. But, this game also has given rise to the well of ideas I have for this game soon to become series. It also, at least in my mind, raises questions I hope that I can attempt to answer and explain to you, the reader, through my writing and my ideas. Questions such as: What if there were another person running through Rapture, mucking up the works and struggling to find out why they were there? What if this person was to have some bigger part of the underwater utopia than they, or anyone else, realizes?

That is what I want to convey, but, as my fellow writer, Roughlandin, so eloquently put it, the muse is a fickle bitch, tantalizing your heart and mind with promises of greatness and wonderful ideas, only to pull them away from you at the last second and laugh insultingly as you stand like an idiot, mouth agape in shock and hurt.

*sighs*

I hope you understand what I mean when I say that. I hope to entice some new readers into my ever-growing fanbase, but ultimately it is up to you if you click that little heart at the top of the page or not. Don't get the wrong idea, I don't want to try and force you to favorite this story with this little insert, far from it.

Now, on with the arbitrary and annoying copywrited stuff: I do not own Rapture, Andrew Ryan, Frank Fontaine, Atlas, Sander Cohen, Big Daddies, or the Little Sisters or anything that can be found in the game. What I do own, however, are the ideas that I shall put forth to flesh out this story that my mind has churned out with painstaking slowness and annoyance. This prologue, for what good story is complete without a little back-story, is of completely my own ideas, with a sprinkling of the elements already strewn by 2K Games. It contains a sequence of graphic violence and may contain coarse language. Reader discretion is advised if you do not like this sort of thing and, above all else, I have to ask that you enjoy the story of Rapture's decline as much as I have. Now, Would You Kindly step into Rapture and experience its bounties for yourself?

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.

A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well. â€"From The Desk of Andrew Ryan

Rapture. A right utopia of the smartest and the brightest, where everyone could become the best they could be and experience the pleasures of being as near as gods as they could. At least, that's what it used to be. Now... Now it's just a hollowed out husk of what it once was. But it wasn't always this bad, with spliced up freaks running around looking for their next fix of Adam and adorable little girls walking around with giant harvesting needles in their dainty little hands, their eyes aglow with an almost demonic golden hue.

No. Once it was the greatest place on Earth, where nothing was off limits and everything was at your fingertips. You wanted exotic cuisine? Go to the Farmers Market. Wanted a good show, the Fleet Hall was the place to find it. Yes... Rapture truly was a Garden of Eden, a diamond in the rough if you will.

Then the Adam was found.

Adam was the lifeblood of the scientific community, paving the way for every new discovery, be it cosmetic or militant. It was found in a deep sea slug on the bottom of the ocean and the fact was that it could reproduce pure stem cells from the destroyed cells of its host. It was amazing, the thought of just being able to modify whatever you wanted, to do nearly anything you wanted. Your race, your gender, your height, anything; it could all be changed. Electricity brimming from your fingertips, fires ignited with the snap of your fingers, subzero flash freezes with a flick of your wrist. But then someone had a seemingly strange idea. What if you could change someone's species? At first, the idea was scoffed at and somewhat ostracized, but as the knowledge of Adam grew, the idea started to become more and more plausible.

There were numerous pet shops scattered around Rapture and no one noticed the odd pet getting ‘misplaced' here and there, though the fare at the pet shops were ranging from the domesticated house cat to the ferocious lion and even foxes and wolves. The scientists started testing almost immediately, eager to see the fruits of the experimentation and to see if they could actually play God in creating new species from these lowly animals. The first few experiments turned out terrible, with the animals being mutated beyond recognition and dying shortly afterwards, much to the disappointment of the scientists. They continued their research, however, determined to do what they had set out to do. They soon found the right dosage of Adam to distribute to each animal depending on species and size and they were given their first actual success, an upright walking Black Labrador that had even gained the ability of speech and coherent thought.

The scientists were thrilled and immediately set out to educate the beast while continuing their research on the others, creating more and more of the anthropomorphic beings with increasing efficiency and higher success rates. Some became smarter than their human counterparts and were working along side the scientists before long, helping them solve complex equations about the animal's genome and finding different uses for Adam that none of the other scientists dreamed of. Others, or more specifically the females of some of the canine and feline variety, became subservient and brought into various house keeping businesses and exotic dance clubs to prove as a very effective work force.

But the vast majority of the successful test subjects were educated and let out amongst the public, intermingling with them and getting along rather well with them. No one suspected their origins and quite frankly, no one cared, as long as they could retain their paradise. And that's how it stayed for many a year, until the Adam became seized by a man by the name of Frank Fontaine. He saw Adam as a major business asset and jumped to the chance to do his own experiments on the already evolved populace of furs established in Rapture. He took a select few, about a group of twenty or thirty assorted species, and brought them to his place of business, Fontaine Futuristics. There, he started injecting them with Plasmid after Plasmid, trying to find a perfect balance to create a bigger, stronger Big Daddy than those of Andrew Ryan's design.

Some of the furs took up resistance to the torturous experience, but died from the strain on their bodies. Others grew accustomed to the genetic onslaught and resigned to their fates, becoming a next generation sort of being that would be used for terrible and horrible things. The rest, however, were used for something else.

Target Practice.

The rest of the population, both human and fur alike, were finally starting to feel the effects of the behind the scenes war between Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine. The appearance of more and more security cameras around Rapture, the nearly constant moan of Big Daddies ringing throughout the vastness of the utopia as they guarded their diminutive charges, the Little Sisters. Before the furs had been introduced, the Little Sisters were rarely ever seen, showing up only when there was an ‘angel', as they refer to corpses, to be harvested of its Adam. But, their appearances had become more and more frequent as the war began to escalate to encompass the public as well.

That was how the splicers came to be. Fontaine's personal army of citizens who abused Plasmids and Gene Tonics to the point that their bodies have become dependent on them to keep them living. Some of them had simply used them to make themselves look beautiful but that hunt for perfection led some to madness; just ask Dr. Steinman. Others, like Sander Cohen, simply went mad with power and locked themselves up in parts of Rapture, killing anyone or anything that passed through his territory and making them into grotesque pieces of art.

But... I'm letting myself get caught up in events gone pass. You came here for a story and I mean to give you one. This story is about a vixen that, unfortunately, got mixed up in this war. She wasn't even supposed to be in the damned city when he got there, but she had to come back and save her family. Why anyone would want to go back to a hell hole like that is beyond me, but...

I'm sorry it's just... I knew her and she was such a sweet girl. So naïve and so trusting... God, why? Why did she have to back for that little one? Why? She was a goner anyway but... Damn you Fontaine... I hope you burn in the worst pits Hell has for you and even then that isn't good enough for the scum you are.

Ugh... pass that bottle of Chechnya Vodka my way, would you? If I'm going to tell you this story, then I might as well do it when I can't feel anything.

She ran hard, her breathing labored slightly as she ran through the stretch of Rapture she always ran through, the bathysphere station in Apollo Square to her townhouse in Olympus Heights. She caught the habitual greetings of her fellow citizens as she ran passed them and replied in kind, her mind basically on auto pilot, as it usually became when she got into the easy sprinting motion her slender yet powerful legs moved her in.

She was a young vixen, of twenty or so years of age with the build of a runway model yet none of the pompous attitude or the anorexic tendencies. She had shoulder length copper hair that was streaked in places with black, though you couldn't really tell unless she showed you. Her ears, which poked out the corners of her head, were more or less black furred and complimented her auburn fur and cream white belly and chest. Her eyes were a strange shade of blue, which shimmered and refracted the light whenever it was shone on them and also changed to a slightly greenish color from time to time. Her hands, which were clad in a pair of fingerless gloves she had made, were colored in the same color as the rest of her body and her palms were colored a creamy white as well.

She had been running for a while, nearly forty minutes, and she was barely feeling the effects of it on her body. She lowered her head a little and sped up until she was running at a dead sprint, pushing herself hard to reach the last leg of the race with herself, mentally keeping track of her old record as she pounded hard against the metal flooring.

She saw the little girl a split second before she would have tripped over her. She did a side skip to avoid her and slammed into a heavy hand that had seemingly materialized infront of her. The blow knocked her for a loop and she hit the ground hard, stars exploding infront of her eyes and a loud ringing in her ears as her mind tried to catch up with what just happened. The little girl crouched over the dazed vixen and gave her an innocent smile, her bright, glowing yellow eyes piercing her through her soul and making every inch of flesh under her fur crawl with sudden, nervous energy.

"Look Mr. Bubbles," The Little Sister whispered giddily before brushing some of her unkempt and matted black hair out of her eyes as the vixen's eyes slid over to the harvesting needle in the young girl's left hand. "A pretty little fox. She isn't an angel yet, though." The Little Sister straightened up and quickly scrambled up onto the monstrosity's shoulder to sit against the giant scuba tank welded to its back. The Big Daddy moaned loudly in assent and began to stomp off in the opposite direction when a shrill screech filled the air, making the vixen cover her ears with her hands to block out the noise that made her whimper in pain. The giant turned its head in the direction that the screech had come from and the portholes on its diving suit's helmet turned from a bright yellow green to a dangerous red, the drill on its right arm groaning to life as it spun, congealed blood on the weapon making it look like some demonic dentist's tool.

"I NEED ADAM!!!" The screeching voice howled, the declaration rebounding around the small hallway as the lights started flickering before completely going out. The vixen, thanks in part to the amount of Adam coursing through her veins, could still see perfectly and was frightened at what she saw. On the ceiling crawling towards them was a splicer, their hooks glowing every now and then with a soft orange hue. Their face was covered by a masquerade ball mask that looked to be in the shape of a bunny's face while their clothing was ripped in places and splattered with blood. She scrambled to her feet and started to back away from both the Big Daddy and the splicer, feeling that she would get killed in the crossfire, but she couldn't look away. The splicer dropped down from the ceiling silently and launched himself at the hulking behemoth, hooks flailing wildly in an attempt to reach the Little Sister.

But he never got close. The Big Daddy's massive gloved hand, which was easily bigger than the splicer's chest, reached up quicker than something of its size should have been able to move and grabbed the splicer by the throat. The drill, which had been idling quietly, slammed into the splicer's stomach and tore the flesh and clothing to shreds, the heavy metal tool tearing the organs, muscle and bone apart as if they were paper. The splicer clawed wildly at the Little Sister in a dying attempt to kill her but the drill continued its journey until it neatly ripped the spinal cord in half with a wet sounding snap that made her throw up a little in her mouth.

He instantly seized up and went limp in the Big Daddy's hand, the mask slipping from his face to show the heavily scarred and bandaged face beneath, blood mixed with drool spilling out of his mouth to drip onto the floor. The vixen put her hand over her mouth in horror and was about to turn and run when the lights flickered back on and she could see the full extent of what had happened.

There was blood everywhere, coating the ceiling and the walls around the Big Daddy, staining the plaster a permanent red and bathing them in a sort of sickly pink glow from where the blood had coated the light. She watched as the Little Sister raised her harvesting needle and stuck it unceremoniously into the dead man's neck, humming to herself quietly as she pulled the trigger and began sucking the Adam from his body, the bright red liquid sloshing around in the container as it filled to the brim. She then took the needle from the body, which the Big Daddy threw away afterwards, and brought the devices to her lips before squeezing the trigger again, sending the fluid down into her mouth as if it were a life preserving drink.

The vixen's eyes went wide in disgust and she had to fight down the urge to vomit violently so she wouldn't suffer the same fate as the unfortunate splicer. She turned away from the scene and sprinted down the hall as quietly and as quickly as she could, determined to find something or someone to help her forget what had just happened.

She ran home to her townhouse and slammed the door locked behind her, her breath labored heavily and her hands holding the sides of her head, as if to squeeze the horrid memories out of her mind. She slid to the ground and cried silently, her tail wrapped around her legs and her hands still pressed against her head.

"Welcome home, vixen." A slightly Irish accented voice chided. She looked up and felt a sharp electric shock run through her body. Her maw opened wide in a silent scream before she blacked out and slumped to the ground on her side, her eyes still open as if they were recording something for her mind to remember later. A man stepped out of the shadows with his left hand aglow with a soft blue hue and every now and then, a random spark would pop off his fingers. He was dressed in a nice suit and there was a cynical sneer on his features, his eyes alight with an eager fire. He walked over to her and brushed some of her hair out from infront of her face and sighed a little as he let his imagination run wild at the possibilities she could provide for his cause. "Yes... you and Jack'll make a fine pair."

The End... for now or until I think people will like the way this is written.