http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Technology/Pix/pictures/2010/8/20/1282312765741/Bioshock-Infinite-003.jpg Title: Bucking Bronco He was a man of faith. And it was not without faith that he handed over the keys to his place of work- his life and income- to the three stoic men that stood before him. Each of them armed, their eyes were pools of hostility, shimmering with the threat of violence. The threat, however, was unwarranted. To him, the Founders had earned his trust. The man was a voter. And the man was proud. * * * He had come to Columbia five years earlier, along with his wife. Already a wealthy and affluent couple, his wife was attracted by Columbia's promise of free market. The self-proclaimed 'debutant bourgeoisie' of New England, she bought her own diamond rings. And she laughed at his inadequacies. She knew who she was now and rejected the purported peasantries of her childhood. To him, however, Columbia was a beacon of moral worth. It would be a place where he could grow as an individual and bask in the pride of an untempered but ultimately chaste existence; God not having to gaze far to catch his shining image. She had never been able to conceive and, in a way, he was glad. The thought of her spawn chilled him. Their values were primarily opposed and the very sight of her filled him with the dull pain of regret. She had been the one to invest in the Salts. Ever the marketeer, ever the mastermind, she saw in the Salts a future for themselves; a grand stake in Columbia's idiosyncratic heart. What started as an investment soon became a business and they flourished under the ambient sun. Once the prosperous dust had settled, she again suggested they try for a child. This time under the smile of Columbia's good fortune. He often wondered if her preoccupation with children derived from her greed; that the child would become another object she could call her own. She had frequently claimed it was his virility, or lack thereof, that had failed them in past attempts. He had claimed she was cursed, as a witch, to sterility. And so she suggested the Vigor. Her face was a visage of mirth and crafty fervour as she produced for him the vial. 'Bucking Bronco'. Too abashed to enquire about it's properties, she had purchased the tonic quickly, without enquiring about it's effects. She assumed, from it's suggestive labelling, that it would serve their purpose. While it was against the man's vestal ideals to consume such a substance, he knew that if he didn't it would be yet another subject for his wife to ridicule him with. And so down it went. The man was overcome. Not with lust or primal desires but with an uncontrollable surge. His wife, their bed and table-side books bounced into the air. And there they remained for some time. After eventually returning to the ground, his wife loudly berated him before clamorously storming out of their home. They were not to produce a child that day. * * * The tallest of the three men grunted him a word of thanks before entering and claiming his business. He knew that it was necessary for them to take it; they would need the Salt in the coming days. For months now, the people spoke of revolution; they spoke of violence. He prayed that the founders would return his home to normality. Walking the streets of Columbia, taking the long route home, the man shuddered as he noticed yet another poster for the Vox Populi. The minister of his church spoke often about these men; a band of rapists and scoundrels that would stop at nothing until Columbia had fallen into degradation. While principally mild-mannered, the man couldn't help but curse at their image of rebellion. The thought of them boiled his blood. He shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he turned the final corner to his house, noticing a vial of Salt he had placed there earlier. No matter; the Founders could make do without one bottle. Approaching the steps to his door, a noise stopped him in his tracks. His wife. Her voice. She was speaking to someone in a tone he was unaccustomed to. A loud, raspy, desperate sound. Entering the house, he quickly paced up the stairs, tracing her voice to the bedroom. There stood a man, his wife caught in his firm embrace. His bare arm was emblazoned with the fearful mark of the Vox Populi; a minacious red band, contrastive to the colour of his pale flesh. A nightmare come true. They both turned to look at him with curious eyes. At first, he thought his wife was being attacked; the sorry victim of a Vox Populi deviant. But eventually, after glancing again at the two of them, he realized the truth. An affair, a perverse liaison; her face was a grin. His eyes moving from his wife to the rebel, he didn't know whether to weep or shout. She began to approach him as he lifted the vial of Salt from his pocket. Her unapologetic face prompting him further, he drank the substance in one swift gulp. He hurled them into the air. And there they remained for some time. After much deliberation, he retrieved a large wrench from his tool cupboard. Flexing his arm, becoming accustomed to the weight of the blunt object, he returned to the bedroom. His violence was an explosion and his fury, unrestrained; his wife and the rebel begged for mercy. It was to be another testament to the ensuing madness; a prophetic glimpse of the insanity to be. This short story is for the Bioshock Infinite creative writing contest.