Snippet #5970

"I... I've got a pistol in the back... I-" I slammed my fist down on the end recording button before I could finish. 'Suicide... that's the only thing left' I told myself. With a great ache in my head and my bones, I struggled to my feet. I took one last fleeting look at the leaking halls of the Farmers market before retreating into the remains of my broken corner store. The sign above had always had a shine due to the oh so attentive owner, me. But now the sign was in small bits in a large radius from the first grenade that hit it so long ago. I stepped on the cracked bits of candy strewn about. I recounted the names as my shoes crushed them. 'Malt's malt ball, the slamme bar, two-ton toffee, and of course the Malt bar' I smiled to myself, reliving the making of candy, and all the little details. I walked heavily into the storeroom door, and shook my head, before remembering my dark errand. I lay my hand on the doorknob and lightly caressed the cured gold. "My livelihood, gone." I sobbed. I pressed on inside, and almost jogged to my ancient rusty safe, clicking in the combination and throwing it open. I was almost afraid to look at the ebony handled revolver, but I forced myself. I was surprised to find, not my pistol, but an audio recording. I roughly pulled it out and examed the bright silver finish, as though it was put in yesterday. After warily considering this oddity, I pushed play.

An unknown womans voice rushed through the speakers, and began. "To Janus, I want you to know, that what happened to the people here was not your fault. You were being used by Andrew Ryan, and his sick lackies. I want you to go to Apollo square, and find the body of your dearest friend, and he will tell you what to do next. Your gun is under the safe, in the floorboards, along with a present from me." With that final note, the recording clicked off.

I stared at the fancy recording box, trying to sort out its riddle. How could the dead speak? I shook it off and pushed the heavy safe onto its side, and sure enough, a missing floorboard hole held my gun, a jar of red liquid, and a syringe. I picked them up immediately and looked at the gun, polished. 'Who was this person' I asked myself. I read the label on the jar of red liquid, which read Winter blast, then extra writing said, 'take me, you can't go it alone'. I finally looked at the syringe, looking neww as the day it was manufactured. I weighed my options, and figured there was no way to Apollo square without a plasmid. With great shakiness, I withdrew a draw of winter blast with the syringe to it's fullest. I stuck the rim of my hat into my mouth, and clenched my eyes shut tight. With a shuddering breath, I pushed the needle into my arm, and pushed the stopper down.