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He found her in Fighting McDonagh’s, holed up in one of the rooms. She was slung across a worn out mattress, hiding behind a shitty barricade of leather suitcases and hat boxes. A girl, a woman, whatever. A splicer.
They scared each other. She jumped up, reached for her wrench. He pushed the weight of his body into her, slammed her against the wall. She swung her weapon. It didn’t connect. He was punishing, too big to fight, but seemed too tired to finish the blow. They slumped back into the mattress.
“Who the fuck are you?” She shrieked.
He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t seem like Rapture’s, just a child of the ocean, a man with blue eyes and sandy hair and a nice jumper on that was sodden and covered in dirt and soot and blood. Besides that—and the pistol in his waistband, the gun on his back, the grenades looped into his belt—he looked like a guy from the beforetimes. The kind of guy who’d come to Rapture and work in Fontaine’s Fishery or trim Arcadia’s hedges.
He panted against the mattress, blood coursing down his sleeves. She yanked the wool of his sweater above his elbow and saw the moon-shaped wounds of a spider splicer's sickle sliced into his flesh.
His blood was strong, she felt it, ADAM flowing deep inside him, an untapped well. It had a smell, ADAM, like jasmine. Indolic and heavy and moist like dirt. She breathed the heady fragrance of his changing, rearranging DNA.
Instead of sucking out the genetic gold, she bandaged up his wrists and needled him a thin shot of EVE. He scrunched his face in pain and pleasure, head tilted back against the wood-paneled wall, Adam’s apple bobbing. Electricity crackled along his left hand; the room glowed a quiet blue. He traced an angry path up her thigh, squeezing hard, hard into her flesh, volts of charge following higher into the crux of thighs. She whined, crawled back on her palms, searching for something sharp. It wasn’t often she had a lot of brain power to spare—between the plasmids and the terror and the fucking drugs—and she didn’t want to send it all away for a pretty stranger, no matter how smooth and unrecombinant he seemed.
That’s when the Electro Bolt reached between her legs, right on her clit, at first a violent jolt that disabled her entire body and then a tickle. She keened, pushed her knees apart, opening up her dress. Her mask was still on, her hair ratty and matted. She’d never seen someone use a plasmid with such control, like it was a magic wand, a toy.
“You wanna fuck, that’s it? Want the last taste of Rapture? Well, it’s all you’re gonna get…”
She found herself out of breath and her muscles weak. The stranger was unbuckling his belt and coming towards her, flattening her on the mattress. He smelled like seawater and metal. His cock was hard against her flesh, left hand flickering blue and shocking the inside of her thigh as he opened her up. It was one, two, three thrusts until he had her, stuffed her good like she hadn’t been in years, she couldn’t remember. Between then and now and the splicing, time had no pathway; it was carved by something else entirely.
She let him fuck her raw, let him split her open like a bag of treasure while her body flickered to life with ADAM. She ran her index finger along the sweaty front of his stomach up to his chest and the skin bloomed with the petals of a shallow burn. She’d been addicted to a lot of plasmids—in the early days, she’d loved hypnosis, or telekinesis, those little party tricks that’d make the big wigs think they loved you, easy—but now that she was alone and fighting for her life she liked to keep her genes boiling with fire.
She mewled loud enough to call up another spider. Blood was soaking through the bandages, but the stranger didn’t care. He fucked her harder, tearing through the front of her dress like it was paper. She clawed at his back, burning the skin, and he cried out. His hand gripped the fat left on her ass to anchor himself as he filled her. He was uncomfortably deep, like he was trying to break her apart from the inside. It wasn’t him, but his body that seemed to electrify itself, and she recognized the newness of the plasmids in him. The road to losing your mind was a short one. It had no detours, no potholes, no winding curves. It was all about power. The power to freeze, to burn, to shock, to kill. That alone was enough to make a person crazy, beyond the relentless bodily assault of ADAM.
The stranger grunted on top of her. She could tell by the way he was moving his hips he was about to come. He stuttered inside her, the deep thrusts lost to tiny plunges into her pliant pussy. It wasn’t the first time she’d let a man come inside her. Before, in Rapture, she’d tried to fuck her way to the top, become one of Ryan’s many girls, or at least fuck someone who meant something. It gave way to lots of allowance and a healthy dose of shame. Luckily, never a baby, as years of splicing had wrung her body out to dry. In this twilight time after the world fell apart, it happened that she’d get taken advantage of in the night when she was too high off the EVE to know, or that she’d trade herself for a hit. This was different. It felt like offering herself up to the end.
“Come for me, would you, baby?” She cooed. Her tone was mocking, she realized. Silky smooth with a bite, like the girl in Rapture’s radio ads.
She was like a broken doll, pummelled into the ground by the stranger’s big body and his thick white sweater and the smell of napalm on him. As he came, a current ran through his body into hers, making her cunt twitch hard around his length. He came forever, seed pooling hot and fast out of her hole before he ever pulled out.
“Does that make you feel better about the end of the world, sweet thing?” The splicer sang, scratched the soft skin behind his ear. “Are you scared? Is that why you came to rape me?”
Then she laughed, and the sound was ugly and formless, and the aching between her legs was just another sign of how much she’d lost, or worse, how little she had to begin with.