Ishiah

Had someone asked Ishiah that evening what had compelled him to venture further into the caverns than his patrol required, the peri wouldn't have been able to answer. To call it a feeling in his gut did not seem to do the sensation justice; to say that he'd heard something in the echoes that bounced off the walls would have been presumptuous. Nevertheless, as Ishiah had the evening off from his shifts at the Hub, he'd decided to follow the caverns, hoping to find their end, a bag of food and water slung over his back and a long ball of twine unraveling with every step he took.

Having no measure of time, Ishiah wasn't sure precisely sure how long he'd walked, only that the air was growing dank and thin by the time he noticed anything different. Specifically, a glow and the distinct splash of water. Brows immediately furrowing in confusion, Ishiah picked up the pace, a hand dropping to the hilt of the sword at his hip. He kept to the walls, to the shadows cast by stalactites and stalagmites alike, before shutting off the flashlight he'd carried with him and carefully padding closer.

There, in the depths of the caverns, was a stairwell. Wide, cast in hues of burnished gold, a few cracks in the slate and mold lining the walls, Ishiah stared wordlessly in wonder. And while it was small, the possibility that he had found the exit off the island and a way to return to Robin, perhaps to bring Niko back in turn, was compelling enough that, without making the trek back to alert the others, Ishiah quickly took the stairs down, the glowing light cast by what almost resembled a lighthouse lamp growing dimmer as he ventured further.

At the bottom of the stairwell was a submersible, its surface smoothed over with use, the space inside slightly cramped and stained. In the space between the structure and the tower floor, Ishiah stared at the black surface of water, the area beneath too dark to make out anything specific. Stepping aside, then pulling the door shut and hearing it latch, Ishiah stared around at the controls of the device, then pulled the main lever, starting a descent.

Silently, with his hand gripping his sword more tightly than ever, Ishiah watched as pillars and statues seemed to slip by just outside of the small window installed in the sphere. Signs marked the depth of the water. Twenty fathoms. Forty. But before the progress of the sphere stopped, a screen dropped in front of the window, and music began to play.

From the Desk of Ryan, the screen read.

"I am Andrew Ryan and I am here to ask you a question," a voice scratched from speakers strategically placed around the sphere. Ishiah looked about, wary, taking a step back from the screen and dropping his pack to facilitate movement, were it to become necessary. "Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?"

The image flickered, showing a man wiping perspiration from his temple. Each passing still made the age of the sphere increasingly clear, the pictures discolored, the pitch of the music rising and falling in a way that it wouldn't have normally in the digital age. "No, says the man in Washington; it belongs to the poor," the man named Ryan continued, speaking in time with the images. "No, says the man in the Vatican; it belongs to God. No, says the man in Moscow; it belongs to everyone."

Ishiah's eyes narrowed further; no longer did it seem as though this was an exit of any sort.

"I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose... Rapture."

The poorly chosen name already grated on Ishiah's nerves, but he found that he couldn't spare too much time to linger on the thought. The screen on the window lifted, and Ishiah realized then that he was being pulled through the depths of the water and towards an underground city, the likes of which he'd never seen. Tall buildings could be seen in every direction, each the height of skyscrapers, with lights shining from the windows and filtering into the ocean.

"A city where the artist would not fear the censor," Ryan added, words only vaguely registering to his audience. "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."

Backing to the rear of the sphere, Ishiah continued to silently watch as the sphere was pulled into a building, and his hand gripped the copper wall as it came to a screeching halt. Before his eyes could even adjust to the newfound darkness, or his ears distinguish more than the scrape of metal against metal, static sounded from the side of the sphere door.

"I don't know how you arrived, but I've never been one to question Providence," a heavy Irish accent sounded from a small radio transceiver. "I'm Atlas, and I aim to keep you alive."