Disclaimer - I own no legal rights to the Bioshock universe or any related characters.

A/N - Usually, I'm not a fan of fics that are proposed sequels or stories of how movie versions of fandoms should be, because inevitably the movie or sequel comes out and the fanfic ends up being not even close. But, let's face it, movies hardly ever get videogames right. They range from being entertaining enough if not held up to the high standards of the games they're based on or complete slaps in the face to fans of the games. From Super Mario Brothers to Max Payne, Hollywood seems unable to walk the tightrope between artistic license and faithfullness to the source material without falling into unpleasant territory.

There have been murmurs of a Bioshock movie since before I actually played the game. But, let's be honest here, Hollywood has its work cut out for it, because, while Bioshock is revolutionary and at times very cinematic, it's made for a very different medium from film. No one's going to be entertained by watching a pair of hands attached to a character with no distinct personality shooting things occassionally and listening to old tape recording for two hours. Liberties will have to be taken.

And I couldn't stop thinking about how I would do it. I'll be taking plenty of creative licenses, but I hope, as a new Bioshock fan, that I'll be true to the characters and spirit of the game. If nothing else, this is a little AU fanfic, so I can share my versions of the characters and story of the first Bioshock game. I hope you enjoy it.

BIOSHOCK

New Year's Eve, 1959.

Kashmir Restaurant.

Diane sat on her bar stool and let her eyes sweep over the dance floor. Fashionable, happy couples danced cheek-to-cheek, without a care in the world, only optimistic about what the new decade would bring. They were dressed in Bella Mia's High Fashion or Sophia Salon, only a few daring individualists brave enough to take the dance floor in clothes they'd brought from the surface. Everyone was the very image of high society, if it weren't for the ridiculous masks. Diane hated the smiles beneath the pig snouts, chicken beaks, and bear muzzles.

The lithe brunette was wearing her favorite yellow dress. The one with the flirtatiously low-cut V-neck, baggy fabric that draped over her thin abdomen, and long slits to show off her often-complimented legs. And in her lap was a set of bunny ears, exactly like the one in the picture on the invitations to the masquerade ball.

A record was playing "Dream a Little Dream of Me" by Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald. Diane sighed and looked from her empty martini glass to the untouched glass of scotch and soda at the empty place beside her. She lifted her olive, studied it for a few seconds, then proceeded to grind it with her teeth.

The song on the record switched to another slow song. "If I Didn't Care" by The Inkspots.

She didn't know she could be more miserable until she heard the lyrics as she watched the couples dance. She sighed again, more angrily this time, and then took her Accu-Vox recorder from her bag.

"Another New Year's. Another night alone. I'm out, and he's stuck in Hephaestus. Working. Imagine my surprise. I think I'll have another drink, Bill."

Bill McDonagh stopped wiping a glass on his apron and looked at her. He was a burly man, just under six feet tall, with a thick mustache that added to his walrus-like appearance. Bartending was McDonagh's hobby. What he did to unwind when he wasn't, almost single-handedly, keeping the entire city from imploding and killing everyone within.

"Ms. McClintock, I think you've had enough," McDonagh said, as soothingly as he could manage with his rough Cockney accent.

"I'll take another martini, Bill," Diane said, more forcefully this time.

McDonagh poured gin and vermouth into a shaker, knowing better than to mess with a woman both scorned and sloshed.

It was a testimony to how laid back the New Year's Eve festivities were for once that McDonagh had been allowed to help bartend the event at Kashmir's. His own tavern catered to an entirely different class, and when he mixed a drink, even the most cosmopolitan potable came out as strong as straight rye whiskey. Which, tonight, suited Diane McClintock just fine.

She raised her martini glass.

"Here's a toast to Diane McClintock, silliest girl in all of Rapture."

The clock was just about to strike twelve. Soon everyone would stop where they were on the dance floor and start singing Auld Lang Syne or trying to steal as many kisses as possible. The very thought gave her a headache. She swallowed her martini whole, let it burn in her esophagus, and then stood up to leave, almost forgetting her Accu-Vox still recording on the bar.

But the opening notes of Auld Lang Syne never came. Instead there were gunshots and screams. Water began spraying through the hull.

Everyone panicked.

The restaurant was filled beyond capacity as the armed men and women stormed in. They were the uninvited. The lower class. The forgotten dregs of the city, broken beneath the links of the Great Chain. The air stunk with their smell. And their faces were more terrifying than anything that could be hid beneath a mask.

One of them shouted, "Long Live . . . !"

But the last word was lost in the screams and gunfire and trampling. McDonagh was loading a shotgun he'd pulled from somewhere beneath the bar. Diane tried to run, but slipped and fell in the water that was beginning to flood the room.

"Look. Over here." One of them said. "It's Ryan's girl."

He pulled a knife off his belt and bent over her.

"Why are you doing this?" Diane demanded. "What's happening? I'm bleeding. Oh, God. What's happening? Oh, God . . ."

The record button popped up on the Accu-Vox. No more room left on that tape.