[audio:http://ready-up.net/blogassets/kirsten/rapture.mp3]
I had, until now, managed to avoid the discussions and debates about Bioshock 2. Having loved the first game I didn’t want to spoil the next one with over-analysing and worrying about whether they could really pull off a game with such imagination and style again. But if I was not willing to dive into Rapture, Rapture was going to come to me. There was a knock at my door. I tucked my nighty into an old pair of jeans I pulled on that had been lying by the bed. I opened the front door the tiniest of cracks and grunted. The postman grinned in the crack and pushed a large thin, brown paper covered package at me. I snatched it through the tiny space and slammed the door shut. It was a package from Mr M. Meltzer of New York. It was a record, a 45. I changed the nighty for a t shirt and headed out into the streets of Glasgow in search of a Dancette, lifting dusty gramaphones and typewriters out of my way in a memorabilia shop, down a lane.
I listened to ‘Rise, Rapture Rise!’ while leafing through images, newspaper cuttings, drawings and the scribbled notes of Mr. M. Meltzer. As the tinny song drew to a close it warbled and cut out and I listened to the haunting message calling out to me.
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