Dying in the Water - Chapter 1: The Job

      With a sharp gasp, I sat up in my bed, sweating bullets from the nightmare I had been having for weeks on end now.  I peered out the window next to my bed into the wavy, watery city lights of Rapture.  I made a mental note to set up an appointment at the Medical Pavilion tomorrow to get some kind of prescription for sleeping pills.  The late-night glasses of gin weren't holding back the dreams as much as they used to, and this one was far more vivid than the others.  I stared at my disheveled face in the mirror.  My square jawline and chin were accentuated by a deep five o'clock shadow.  My eyes sported bags underneath them and were slightly bloodshot, the light pink of my scleroses providing a weary-looking contrast to my blue irises and my larger-than-normal pupils.  My medium-length dark brown hair was messy and all out of sorts from the constant tossing and turning I had just endured in my sleep.  The alcohol mixed with the recurring nightmares always left me disoriented when I woke the next morning.  It was always making me forget things, to the point where I had to write myself a note to leave on my dresser that I trained myself to pick it up and read it on mornings like these.  I began to murmur the words out loud as I peeled off my sweaty underclothes and started digging around for something nice to wear.
      “My name is Anthony Vincente.  I've been living in Rapture since April 8th, 1958.  It is now December 1st, 1958.  I am thirty-two years old.  I am a freelance investigator who was invited to this underwater city by a postcard sent by someone who calls himself 'Hazel Bite'.  I have never met this individual.  I-” My next thought was cut off by an odd creaking coming from the living room.  I only heard this sound whenever I pressed my foot to the squeaky floorboard by the lamp.  I lived alone and I always kept my door locked tightly when I slept, like any sensible man would, which meant that I was not alone in my apartment.  Carefully and quietly, without finishing the buttons on my shirt, I reached under my bed for the revolver I always kept with me.  I heard the creaking noise again as I inched closer and closer to the threshold to the living room, my back pressed to the wall.  The sudden clacking of shoes on the wooden floor echoed through my apartment flat.  I pulled back the hammer of my revolver as I spun around to face the living room, catching only a glimpse of a black high-heel and an ankle in fishnet stockings in the entry door as it slammed shut.  I darted forward to the door and pulled it open, pointing my gun out into the hallway before I stuck my head out to look up and down the passage.  It was devoid of people.  No footsteps or panting except for my own could be heard.  Wiping the sweat from my brow for the second time in the last ten minutes, I retreated back into my room, closing the door behind me.  I ran a quick check around the apartment to ensure nothing had been stolen or planted before I finished dressing myself and started making breakfast.

      I downed the rest of my coffee just as I heard a few knocks at my door.  Setting down the mug on the newspaper laid out on the desk before me, I pushed myself to my feet and called out.
      “Yeah?  Who's there?”
      “Someone who needs a job done, Mr. Vincente,” answered a low-toned male voice on the other side of the door.  My eyes lit up immediately.  My first case in weeks.  I was actually preparing to close the business down and find a way back to the surface because I was struggling to make ends meet.  There were other reasons why I was contemplating escaping from Rapture before the end of the year, but if someone needed work, I was ready to stay and listen.  I twisted the knob and opened the door.  The man before me stood at my height with slightly pale skin.  His jet-black hair was cropped and slicked back with gel, showing off his very high and slightly wrinkled forehead.  He wore a very dark green, almost black suit and a matching set of pants.  There was a white, button-up shirt underneath his jacket and a black tie around his collar.  He looked almost like some kind of FBI agent from the surface, and even carried that kind of air with him whenever he spoke, enunciating every syllable in his low, gravelly voice.
      “So, what do you need me to do, mister...?” I started.
      “Aaronson.  I am going to keep this very brief.  There is someone in Rapture we need you to apprehend and bring to us,” the man who called himself Aaronson explained as he pulled a photograph out of his shirt pocket and passed it to me.  I unfolded the picture, which revealed to me the visage of a young woman.  Despite the fact that the picture was in black and white and all shades of gray in-between, I could see that she wore some kind of thick, but not overdone lipstick.  She had also accentuated her rather large eyes with a few layers of eyeshadow.  Her hair was mostly straight until it came down to the sides of her head where it formed thick, silky-looking curls.  There was a rose planted in her hair above her left ear.  She sported a dark-colored, strapless dress and a pair of black, forearm-length gloves.  But what caught my attention the most was the brooch she had around her neck.  It was a little bird etched into what looked like an opulent stone of some kind, perhaps obsidian or a black opal.  Every time my eyes were drawn to the brooch, I could feel an odd tingling at the back of my head.  I faintly recalled something from my nightmare, but it was gone as quickly as it came.  I shook myself out of this daze and looked up at Mr. Aaronson again.
      “Who is she and what has she done?” I asked as I folded up the picture and slid it into my breast pocket.
      “Our reasons are our own.  Her name is Elizabeth,” Aaronson responded curtly.  The name brought back the same tingling feeling and images from my dream flashed by again, stronger this time.  The brooch, the name, it felt all too familiar.
      “I... I don't know.  Why can't you do it on your own?” I managed to ask as I forced these strange thoughts to the back of my mind.  I couldn't explain what I was feeling or why I was feeling it.
      “We have tried, but she is very elusive.  She also knows all of us by face – sending in someone unaffiliated with us would be much easier,” Mr. Aaronson continued.
      “'Us'?  Who do you work for?  It's my job to know these details, after all,” I said, changing the subject momentarily.
      “I am afraid I cannot disclose that information, Mr. Vincente.”
      “Oh, really?  Well I'm sorry, buddy, but I don't do business that way.  You can see yourself out,” I quickly retorted as I spun around to return to my desk.
      “Just one last thing, Mr. Vincente.  Before you outright reject my offer, you should check your bank account balance,” Mr. Aaronson interjected with an air of mystery as I took my seat.  I eyeballed him for a moment while he opened the front door and stepped out into the hallway, closing it quietly behind him.  Picking up the telephone at my desk, I slid the metallic dial across the numbers and pressed the receiver to my ear as it began to buzz.  Moments later, there was a click and a nasally, feminine voice piped up.
      “First National Bank of Rapture, how may I be of service?”
      “Yes, I'd like to check my account balance.  Name's Anthony Vincente, number is 6079,” I said in a low voice.  The apartment walls were rather thin, and I was always careful with sensitive information.
      “One moment please, Mr. Vincente... 6079... Ah, here we are.  Your current balance is seventy-five thousand dollars.  Would you like to make a deposit or a withdrawal today?” she asked.  I was absolutely dumbfounded.  Money, and not to mention loads of it, had appeared in my account in the blink of an eye.  Just yesterday morning I had checked it before heading out to buy bread and milk, and I only had $64 left.  Was this Mr. Aaronson's doing?  Was this his way of persuading me to capture this woman?
      “N-No, that will be all.  Thank you,” I mumbled as I hung up the phone and pushed myself to my feet.  Collecting my thoughts again, I opened the front door to see Mr. Aaronson with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, which was curled into a smug grin.
      “Do we have a deal, Mr. Vincente?” he asked.  Wordlessly, I extended my hand and he took it in a firm handshake.  “Good.  She is never in one place for too long, but last we heard, she was lurking around Siren Alley.  Do whatever it takes to get her to come with you, whether it be violence or clever persuasion.  And do not fall for her lies,” Mr. Aaronson explained sternly, “When you have apprehended her, take her to the boiler room in Hestia Chambers.  Alive.”