[ There'd been times when he'd thought the whole thing was a dream.
It sounds ridiculous even to him, after all - ridiculous enough that he hadn't dared tell anyone what he'd seen. A city in the sky. Another version of himself. A girl with impossible powers.
And twenty years that - now - he hadn't yet lived.
He'd woken up younger than he had been, but he'd remembered everything. He'd hurried into the nursery and Anna had been there, just as he'd remembered, tiny and burbling happily at him, her finger whole. Booker had spent long nights holding her and gazing at her sleeping face, trying to see in it the young woman she would one day become. And he'd waited, half terrified, half hoping, for the Luteces to show up at his door again.
But they hadn't, and months had passed. He'd stopped waiting. He'd stopped drinking, too, and started working again. The debts were still bad. But it wasn't too late, not yet.
Not this time.
When the Luteces do reappear - both of them, this time - he almost resents it. He has a life now, a real one, maybe for the first time. Anna's growing so quickly. He doesn't want to leave her. Would she remember it, this young, if he left her for too long? Would she grow to hate him for it? But when they explain what they're there for, there's really no choice in the matter. He can't deny Elizabeth anything. Even if she doesn't realize she needs help.
Rapture is the polar opposite of what Columbia had been. Where the latter had all been clean, light colors and brightness, floating in the sunshine, the former is dank and dark, dirty and broken. It's hard to imagine Elizabeth here, and when he does turn a corner and see her, he nearly doesn't recognize her.
She's likely older than him now, he realizes with a start, at least in terms of physical appearance. And it's heartbreaking. Could this really be the same girl who'd danced on the beach in Columbia, happy just to be free? Who'd dreamed only of Paris, her head filled with stories and romance? But it is, he knows that, and he steps forward, his heart in his throat. ]
[ Rapture is a necessary evil. A world that might once have interested her and drawn her sympathy only brings her disdain and apathy now. She can't think about the strange and fascinating lives of the people gathered in the underwater city, can't feel sorry for the way their glittering world slowly falls to pieces. She'd seen it, once, after all, knows that Rapture is destined to be a landmark at the bottom of the ocean and nothing more.
Well, not nothing, but right now she can't seem to remember the endgame. All the matters is her own mission. Recently, it had been to eliminate another Comstock, to remove from play one of the bastards who'd slipped through her fingers. She'd done that, too, had risked and lost more than she'd bargained for in the process. Her life, her powers. Sally. And despite the patient warnings of her... what, friends? No. Her advisers, maybe, the elusive Luteces, had told her plainly that it was nothing short of folly to return to the same universe where she'd died. That it would mean her end.
Why did I do it? She thinks more than once, hating herself. She'd given up a virtual godhood, and for what? ... But she thinks of Sally's screams, of the little, innocent girl in the hot vents, and her anger ebbs away. It's her fault: not entirely, but some. There's a child who needs rescuing and she's the only one who can do it, not because of her skills or powers, but because she seems to be the only one in the whole of Rapture who cares.
Au revorr, Paris. Goodbye to another dream.
Today finds the beautiful young woman known to few as Elizabeth in the Manta Ray Lounge. The splicers had wandered off (or so she hoped) for the day, mumbling to themselves, humming, sometimes yelling at the tops of their lungs. She'd become very good at avoiding attention, only taking lives when necessary. It's a mercy, though, isn't it? They aren't people anymore. Unlike their pursuers in Columbia, though... was a life under Comstock's virtual mind control a better one than a drugged-up, waking nightmare?
Doubtful.
She has a drink in her hand despite the ever-pressing dangers. Elizabeth smokes more than she drinks, but today is especially difficult. Her leads to Sally are few and far between, having to rely on the thug Atlas for any hints. Most of the leg work she does herself, putting tiny pieces together and hoping to stumble across a map to the little girl. She's reflecting on her rotten luck when she hears her name on the tongue of a man long gone.
Elizabeth doesn't say his name, only spares him a fleeting, sideways look. He isn't real, after all; she'd been seeing and hearing visions of a phantom Booker, one produced by her own mind, for a while now. He's her conscience, for as long as she can take his advice. ]
This isn't exactly the best time to chide me, Booker. [ Yes, she's older than he'll remember, much more woman than girl. Her hair is dark, longer than when she'd cut it off. The makeup is heavy, though smudged with her recent misadventures. Her nails atop ten perfectly normal fingers are red, but chipped.
She is, and is not, Elizabeth, the girl from the tower. ]
[ He recognizes her face even with the makeup and the new hairstyle. Yet even so, he would have questioned whether it was really her but for the fact that she says his name.
It's not just the way she looks. It's the way she barely glances at him when he speaks to her. The drink in her hand. The stub of a cigarette still smoking in the ashtray in front of her.
Slowly, he moves to pull out the chair on the other side of the table and sits down heavily. He reaches out to gently extricate the drink from her hand if she lets him - not to take a drink himself; he's done with that now. Just to pull it away. ]
[ There's no point in being anything but curt with him--with herself. There's also no point in fighting him for the drink; once she snaps out of it, she'll be alone, her glass unmoved.
Elizabeth glances at him, her cool composure faltering.
Something is wrong. ]
Why do you look different? [ What is it? He's... younger, she guesses. Her age, or even below that. A number of the lines and scars that she'd come to know for sure across his features are gone.
What am I doing to myself? ]
I don't see how this will help. [ Growing slightly frazzled, she retrieves a fresh cigarette and lights it the old-fashioned way, not herself steeped in the addictive draw of plasmids. ]
[ Booker just looks at her, confused and a little hurt. It would be too much to hope for a joyful reunion, not from this new, colder and more distant Elizabeth, but it's strange how unmoved she seems at his arrival here. Almost as if she'd expected him. Had the Luteces told her he was coming? ]
Well, I was almost twenty years older the last time you saw me.
[ He gives her a tiny smile, but it disappears almost immediately as she pulls out a cigarette and lights it. ] Since when do you smoke?
[ Elizabeth has very keen instincts. She always has, but it's strengthened by her recent need to keep herself alive, to survive on resourcefulness alone. The first thing that he says sends little chills up her spine like insects and she shivers despite herself, face paling.
No. It's impossible that it could be... Well, not impossible, but improbable.]
... Since we decided you shouldn't have a say in my habits. [ The longer they talk, the more unsettled she feels. The more unsettled she feels, the more she feels like smoking. Elizabeth takes a drag, blowing smoke in a steady stream into the stale air of the deadened bar. ] Scram, all right? I need to concentrate.
[ She can't afford to be bickering with herself when a mad-eyed local could hit her over the head at any given moment. ]
[ He scowls, leaning back to prevent the smoke from wafting into his face. The Luteces had warned him that Elizabeth would be different, but he hadn't expected this.
He also doesn't remember 'deciding' anything of the sort, but he's also not about to start trying to dictating what she can and can't do. Not like it would work, anyway.
She can't make him leave her alone, though. ]
What's so important that you need to concentrate on? Your drink?
[ He doesn't approve of her Rapture-speak? She frowns again, thrown off by the tone; it's definitely different, has a certain edge to it that her imaginary DeWitt never really had. He'd been reasonable, but had ultimately left her to her own devices. And vices. ]
You know exactly what we're-- what I'm doing. [ Elizabeth taps a finger against the counter, agitated. ] Until I'm finished running all over Rapture for that criminal, I won't be able to save Sally.
[ What's the point of spelling it out? Is it a hint? Something she's missed in the process? ]
[ He doesn't know what she's doing, in fact. The Luteces hadn't given many details. He doesn't know who Sally is, but he doesn't like the thought of Elizabeth running all over anywhere for a criminal.
Booker frowns, leaning forward and staring at her, trying to figure her out. ]
Working for a criminal doesn't much sound like you, Elizabeth.
[ Elizabeth goes very still. Gone are the days of the wide-eyed optimist who trusts before asking questions. Now, her dark-lined eyes narrow and she turns fully to face him, cigarette forgotten between her fingers. ]
... What-- [ She cuts off, shoulders stiff, eying him like a hawk. ] What did you tell me to say to convince Atlas that I could help?
[ He knows. He has to know because he's her, only her, and not Booker. Why would her phantom father lie to her? Why would be play dumb, act as if he doesn't know about her vendetta, her mission, act as if he's--
It just isn't possible. The faces of the Luteces flash into her mind and she swallows, her throat dry. ]
[ The change is startling. Matured cynicism melts away to be replaced with genuine shock. Her hands at the bar tremble, fingers curling into shaking fists. ]
... Booker? [ He'd been so quick to remind her that he isn't real, but this one... this one, real or otherwise, is different. Different enough to give her pause, to make her wonder.
Again, her expression shifts, melts down into something much softer, younger, more vulnerable. Then, as if remembering herself, a deep grief knits her brows and turns her mouth downward as she struggles to find words. ]
They brought you here, didn't they? [ And she's angry, really very angry, because the point of everything had been to return him to Anna, to start over again. Not to end up, as she was, in a glorified gutter. ]
You shouldn't even remember me, let alone be here.
[ She doesn't answer his questions, he notes. But at least he doesn't feel like they're talking past each other now. It's a start. ]
Well, I do remember.
[ He remembers a girl who'd lived her whole life in a tower, one who'd been eager to embrace the whole world with open arms. This isn't that girl. But he'd seen something, something in the way her expression had momentarily changed, and he softens his own tone, leaning forward. ]
[ If she didn't know for sure that it had worked, that he came from a time before he'd given up his daughter, that the two of them were living a happy, normal life, she would react differently. If she didn't know for sure, she'd be devastated that he remembers, fearful that she'd changed nothing.
But she does know. Only... she hadn't expected to see him again. Not her Booker, anyway.
Hurriedly, embarrassed, Elizabeth puts out the cigarette on the ashtray. She's too aware of the state of her clothes, of tears and scratches and bruises, of how she looks nothing like how she used to look when they met or even when they parted. She slips out of her chair, seemingly afraid to be too close to him, hand curled around its top, gripping hard. ]
Maybe not. [ Not if it helps him to raise Anna, to keep his priorities straight. ] ... But you don't belong here. If anything happens to you-- And I can't keep you safe.
[ The role reversal might surprise or confuse him. Before, she could whisk him back to his universe in a second, and would. As much as she's dying to see him, she's resolved to keep him out of her messy life (lives). ... But, without her tears, she's just a vulnerable girl again. Even more so than when they first met, somehow, despite her matured survival skills. ]
[ He leans back, frowning up at her as she stands and blocks herself behind the chair. It is strange to have her speak of protecting him, but his gaze drifts down to her right hand on the chair, and the red nail on her pinky there. The Luteces had told him about that, too. ]
You don't belong here any more than I do.
What if something happens to you?
[ If she can't protect him, how the hell is she going to keep herself safe? ]
You don't know. [ She shakes her head quickly, trying not to let the frustrated grief enter her voice. ] You don't know what I'm doing here, what I''ve--
[ What she'd done. She thinks of Comstock, of the man who'd pretended to be Booker DeWitt again. Who'd fallen into old habits, who'd tried to escape from his past. In her ears is the shriek of the Big Daddy's drill. She feels, for less than a second, the pain of a piece of jagged iron driven through her body.
Accompanied by a sharp headache, her nose begins to bleed. Calmly, she wipes it away. ]
A lot of things have happened to me. [ Finally she looks away, emotions in check, working very hard to convince herself that this isn't, in fact, real. That he's in no danger. I can't allow myself to break now, not... not now. ] I know for sure that more will happen in the future.
[ Or, she did know. Still, somewhere, she suspects this will be her last quest.
Something occurs to her, suddenly, and her brows come together as she glances sideways at him, displeased. ]
[ He wouldn't do anything else, not now. He'd left her safe and cared for, and with a promise to return to her.
Booker pushes his chair back, standing and walking forward to look Elizabeth in the eye. She's right. He doesn't know what she's done, what she's here for. What had happened to her since they'd last parted. But he doesn't need to know, does he? She's in danger, and she needs him, just as she had in Columbia. Whether she admits that or not.
He reaches into his pocket and digs out a handkerchief, offering it to her. ]
[ She should have found a different name, Elizabeth thinks. Booker had named her Anna and Comstock had named her Elizabeth; the former didn't belong to her anymore (had never belonged to her) and the later still makes her think of the fate she'd inherited in some universes, of the tower, of Songbird. Hearing Comstock himself say it had made her blood boil, had made her completely assured in her murderous mission. When he'd been killed, she hadn't even flinched.
When Booker says it, holding out a handkerchief, she doesn't think it sounds quite so poisonous.
Elizabeth accepts the cloth, turning away to the side. She's glad he didn't ask about her nose, but likely, he knows about her death. It wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't come back to this exact universe, but here she is. She sets it down again next to the ashtray and glances again at him, strangely flighty in manner and almost guilty, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. ]
This isn't your crusade. [ She says quietly. ] What did they send you to do?
[ Because, at the end of the day, who else is there? Songbird is gone. The Luteces, while they had been concerned enough to reach out to Booker, aren't the type to get directly involved themselves. And...that's it. It's not as though she'd had a chance to make other friends in Columbia. No one from there knows where she is, or would care enough to go after her. If he abandons her now, Elizabeth will have no one.
He won't claim to precisely understand everything the twin scientists had told him. But he knows enough. He knows that she's vulnerable, that her tears are gone. She needs him. ]
[ Of course. She'd known, somehow, that it would come to this. She couldn't know for sure, now, not seeing all the doors, but... that confirms it.
Her heart beats a little harder in defiance, but she tries valiantly not to let any of the fear show. ]
Booker, [ she begins wearily ] I sent myself here for a reason. I'm not leaving until I do what I came here to do.
[ Even if she saves Sally, Elizabeth is stuck in Rapture forever. And... ]
Do you think those two are going to come spirit us both away? Do you know for sure that they're going to bring you back to Anna? Because, unless they decide to reappear, we're both going to be here for a very long time.
There was always a lighthouse, always a man, always a city. The variables between worlds were great, but these three constants remained. And where there was a man, there would always be others to rise up against him. Daisy, then, was a constant too - the voice of dissent was an essential element to raze the city to the ground and bring the man to his knees, time and again in world after world.
Even after so many months in a city so unfamiliar to the one she knew, thinking about it made Daisy's head spin. She'd felt overwhelmed when Rosalind Lutece had explained it to her, but if there was one thing she understood it was her place in the grander scheme. It was just that the scheme had gotten even grander than she'd ever expected. And she hadn't been in any position to refuse, really, when she'd seen Lutece and her brother standing over her as the world shrank away and grew dark, feeling herself slip into death's embrace, felt them taking her arms and dragging her away, still with the scissors lodged in her spine. It was the last thing she remembered before coming to in Rapture, healed of all wounds, the twins assuring her that her part was far from over.
The bright lights and technology were impressive at first - even coming from a city in the clouds, seeing the ocean rippling outside the window had taken her breath away. It all paled away very quickly, though; there was no way Daisy could be blinded by it. Rapture's gilded façade hid a society every bit as ugly as Columbia, and Andrew Ryan was just Zachary Comstock by another name. Daisy found it darkly amusing that the two could come from such opposing positions and arrive at the same point of oppression and tyranny, though she wished she could be surprised. Instead she's just bitter and angry that the oppression had to be a constant along with the man.
Still there were variables too, ones that bolstered her hope that a better place was something achievable, and was most certainly worth fighting for. It was only a few days after the Luteces had left her in Rapture that she'd seen a woman even darker than her dressed to the nines, walking right through Arcadia as though she owned the whole forest, head held high, waving to the white women as though they were friends, picnicking with them in the grass and gossiping about their husbands. Daisy had followed her as she left, watching as a pale, flustered man held the door open for her, watching her climb aboard the Atlantic Express and sit among the white patrons without any of them so much as batting an eyelid. In Market Street black businessmen sat and read their newspapers while white men shined their shoes - she remembered fearmongering anti-Vox cartoons depicting just that back in Columbia, and appreciates the irony, seeing it with her own eyes without society falling down around her as Comstock's followers proclaimed.
That wasn't to say that Rapture wasn't on the verge of falling down. And even though it was possible for minorities to rise as individuals, it had quickly become clear to Daisy that as a group they were still at the bottom of the food chain. Pauper's Drop was filled with dark skinned people with either the same hardness that she had in her own eyes, or worse, the despair and hopelessness that so many in the Finkton shanty town had never been able to shake off. It was fitting to her that an Irishman was the one heading up the revolution that was on the verge of sparking into life, that Daisy could feel electric in the air around her. But she didn't buy into this Atlas completely, even though she saw all the good he was doing, and knew that he was the best chance for Ryan's downfall. Because why else would she be here?
The Luteces had brought her because this city lacked the constant that she had been in Columbia. If Atlas wasn't that, then what was he? Daisy was determined to find out.
It's on the Express that Elizabeth sees her. At first, she knows it can't be real, almost expects it to be another vision, an extension of her mind, like Booker. That's certainly new. Why should her mind project the leader of the Vox Populi, her first victim, and why now? She eyes the other woman from a distance, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Any minute now, she'll get some kind of lecture, or... cryptic message. That's how it's worked before. But when the train pulls in at Pauper's Drop, the rebel leader slips off the train without a word.
Elizabeth doesn't understand, but she follows.
Daisy Fitzroy looks just the same as the last she'd seen the woman, minus the blood. Elizabeth is confident that she herself won't be recognized; even Booker might not know her if he saw her. The clothes had changed, yes, but it was more about her attitude, her mannerisms, her face. She'd matured so drastically, had become a virtual god and a complete cynic all at once.
What are the Luteces planning? She can't help but feel a spike of irritation; the twins have been a help more than a hindrance, but this isn't anything she'd been aware of. Why bring Daisy (a Daisy, it doesn't matter which one) to Rapture? What could she possibly hope to accomplish?
Elizabeth continues to follow, moving through the sparse, slow crowd, not exactly hiding, but not tapping the other woman on the shoulder, either. She has to know, to find out why, but... carefully. Variables. This isn't something she remembers seeing when she could peek through all the doors.
Daisy notices Elizabeth as much as she notices anyone else. It's her habit to be observant of her surroundings, here in a strange city even more than before, which is saying something considering she was Columbia's most wanted. She's not known here, though - not yet, at least - and she takes the interest with which Elizabeth watches her to be either because she's still a relatively new face in Pauper's Drop, or because there's a fire in her eyes that hasn't been extinguished along with the hopes and dreams of the multitude of poor and disillusioned down here, who'd hoped for a new life of success and prominence in Andrew Ryan's wonder city.
She pays the younger woman little mind, then, as she continues on her way, weaving through alleys and backtracking when she sees a Big Daddy patrolling up ahead of her - nothing brought her greater sadness here than the glassy stares of the little girls with them, reaping the bodies of the dead for the ADAM that powered Rapture. These children were carrying the burden of the excesses of this society in the worst possible way, and she hated every citizen of Rapture for it, held them all accountable.
As she passes men and women of colour sleeping in doorways or scrabbling around in trash cans for a scrap of food or a drop of ADAM she feels her familiar righteous anger wash over her, and gives them a nod of solidarity and the few dollars she has on her. Seeing white people in the same desperate circumstances makes her a little uneasy, knowing that at least they'd have taken care of their own in Columbia and prevented them the disgrace of seeking work in Finkton with the blacks and Irish. The notion of just who is 'us' and 'them' has changed here, and Daisy doesn't like that it's not so neat and tidy when it comes to knowing what sort of person's on which side any more.
Eventually she arrives at her destination, which at first glance looks like nothing more than a derelict café, the neon sign long cracked and dirtied, the red and white checked tables and tiles covered with dust and debris. Daisy enters through a small side door and descends the stairs to the basement, where a throng of people are huddled inside, squashed in together tighter than a tin of Fontaine Fisheries sardines, all talking excitedly in hushed tones. The atmosphere in the room was electric, and despite her reservations about the man, even Daisy can't help but be carried away by the excitement when Atlas himself appears, standing on top of a mildewed crate as a platform and addresses the crowd, assembled in secret away from the eyes of Ryan and his security, to hear their leader speak of what Rapture could be for them.
She follows. It isn't at all eventful, not that she expected to be; a little part of her did think Daisy might cause some kind of stir, but it seems the woman has composure here, knows, somehow, what she's doing. Or, that's how to seems to Elizabeth, who keeps a distance with a frown. How long has the Vox leader been in Rapture, to seem so in control and not at all fazed by the city? What had the Luteces brought her here for (because it had to have been them, could only be them)? Their interference makes her irritable, but she's still curious, despite it all, and follows into the cellar of the building when Daisy disappears down its shadowy steps.
Elizabeth can barely breathe, let alone stand. There are more people in this small room than could possibly fit; they'd all be dead if someone accidentally fired off a round of Incinerate. The unknowing has her itch for a cigarette, but with the thought of fire hazard on her mind, she makes due with crossing her arms tight over her chest and watching the events unfold.
Daisy is there, too, of course, her attention on the handsome Irishman who appears at the front of the room. No wonder. They are the variables between Columbia and Rapture, the revolutionaries who claim better lives for the people. She knows little to nothing about the man called Atlas, but learned from experience that Daisy's cause wasn't as pure as she'd first wanted to believe. If Atlas is anything like her, if his followers are anything like the Vox...
Briefly, Elizabeth thinks of her first kill, of the little boy that she'd stabbed Daisy to save. Yet, here they both are in another world where similar events may be set into motion.
C'est la vie.
She watches intently as the speech goes on, her eyes not on the charismatic rebel, but on the dark-skinned woman off to the side.
Daisy listens, carried away by some parts of Atlas' promises and closing up at others, knowing from her own experience what should be focused on and what saved for later, what could hurt their cause rather than help it, and comes away feeling only somewhat inspired. There's so much she wants to say and do, but this isn't her battle to lead; she knows that the masses won't listen to anyone but the charismatic Irishman now.
As the speech finishes and people begin to trickle out, Daisy hesitates, heading toward the front to make some comment or ask a question, and then decides against it, doubling back toward the door. It's then, as she turns, that her eyes lock with Elizabeth's, and for a long second she just stares as though she's seen a ghost.
In the end, she shakes her head. "Can't be," she says aloud, more to herself than anything, but now that she's seen her she can't see unsee her.
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no subject
It sounds ridiculous even to him, after all - ridiculous enough that he hadn't dared tell anyone what he'd seen. A city in the sky. Another version of himself. A girl with impossible powers.
And twenty years that - now - he hadn't yet lived.
He'd woken up younger than he had been, but he'd remembered everything. He'd hurried into the nursery and Anna had been there, just as he'd remembered, tiny and burbling happily at him, her finger whole. Booker had spent long nights holding her and gazing at her sleeping face, trying to see in it the young woman she would one day become. And he'd waited, half terrified, half hoping, for the Luteces to show up at his door again.
But they hadn't, and months had passed. He'd stopped waiting. He'd stopped drinking, too, and started working again. The debts were still bad. But it wasn't too late, not yet.
Not this time.
When the Luteces do reappear - both of them, this time - he almost resents it. He has a life now, a real one, maybe for the first time. Anna's growing so quickly. He doesn't want to leave her. Would she remember it, this young, if he left her for too long? Would she grow to hate him for it? But when they explain what they're there for, there's really no choice in the matter. He can't deny Elizabeth anything. Even if she doesn't realize she needs help.
Rapture is the polar opposite of what Columbia had been. Where the latter had all been clean, light colors and brightness, floating in the sunshine, the former is dank and dark, dirty and broken. It's hard to imagine Elizabeth here, and when he does turn a corner and see her, he nearly doesn't recognize her.
She's likely older than him now, he realizes with a start, at least in terms of physical appearance. And it's heartbreaking. Could this really be the same girl who'd danced on the beach in Columbia, happy just to be free? Who'd dreamed only of Paris, her head filled with stories and romance? But it is, he knows that, and he steps forward, his heart in his throat. ]
Elizabeth.
no subject
Well, not nothing, but right now she can't seem to remember the endgame. All the matters is her own mission. Recently, it had been to eliminate another Comstock, to remove from play one of the bastards who'd slipped through her fingers. She'd done that, too, had risked and lost more than she'd bargained for in the process. Her life, her powers. Sally. And despite the patient warnings of her... what, friends? No. Her advisers, maybe, the elusive Luteces, had told her plainly that it was nothing short of folly to return to the same universe where she'd died. That it would mean her end.
Why did I do it? She thinks more than once, hating herself. She'd given up a virtual godhood, and for what? ... But she thinks of Sally's screams, of the little, innocent girl in the hot vents, and her anger ebbs away. It's her fault: not entirely, but some. There's a child who needs rescuing and she's the only one who can do it, not because of her skills or powers, but because she seems to be the only one in the whole of Rapture who cares.
Au revorr, Paris. Goodbye to another dream.
Today finds the beautiful young woman known to few as Elizabeth in the Manta Ray Lounge. The splicers had wandered off (or so she hoped) for the day, mumbling to themselves, humming, sometimes yelling at the tops of their lungs. She'd become very good at avoiding attention, only taking lives when necessary. It's a mercy, though, isn't it? They aren't people anymore. Unlike their pursuers in Columbia, though... was a life under Comstock's virtual mind control a better one than a drugged-up, waking nightmare?
Doubtful.
She has a drink in her hand despite the ever-pressing dangers. Elizabeth smokes more than she drinks, but today is especially difficult. Her leads to Sally are few and far between, having to rely on the thug Atlas for any hints. Most of the leg work she does herself, putting tiny pieces together and hoping to stumble across a map to the little girl. She's reflecting on her rotten luck when she hears her name on the tongue of a man long gone.
Elizabeth doesn't say his name, only spares him a fleeting, sideways look. He isn't real, after all; she'd been seeing and hearing visions of a phantom Booker, one produced by her own mind, for a while now. He's her conscience, for as long as she can take his advice. ]
This isn't exactly the best time to chide me, Booker. [ Yes, she's older than he'll remember, much more woman than girl. Her hair is dark, longer than when she'd cut it off. The makeup is heavy, though smudged with her recent misadventures. Her nails atop ten perfectly normal fingers are red, but chipped.
She is, and is not, Elizabeth, the girl from the tower. ]
no subject
It's not just the way she looks. It's the way she barely glances at him when he speaks to her. The drink in her hand. The stub of a cigarette still smoking in the ashtray in front of her.
Slowly, he moves to pull out the chair on the other side of the table and sits down heavily. He reaches out to gently extricate the drink from her hand if she lets him - not to take a drink himself; he's done with that now. Just to pull it away. ]
So when would be a good time?
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[ There's no point in being anything but curt with him--with herself. There's also no point in fighting him for the drink; once she snaps out of it, she'll be alone, her glass unmoved.
Elizabeth glances at him, her cool composure faltering.
Something is wrong. ]
Why do you look different? [ What is it? He's... younger, she guesses. Her age, or even below that. A number of the lines and scars that she'd come to know for sure across his features are gone.
What am I doing to myself? ]
I don't see how this will help. [ Growing slightly frazzled, she retrieves a fresh cigarette and lights it the old-fashioned way, not herself steeped in the addictive draw of plasmids. ]
no subject
Well, I was almost twenty years older the last time you saw me.
[ He gives her a tiny smile, but it disappears almost immediately as she pulls out a cigarette and lights it. ] Since when do you smoke?
no subject
No. It's impossible that it could be... Well, not impossible, but improbable.]
... Since we decided you shouldn't have a say in my habits. [ The longer they talk, the more unsettled she feels. The more unsettled she feels, the more she feels like smoking. Elizabeth takes a drag, blowing smoke in a steady stream into the stale air of the deadened bar. ] Scram, all right? I need to concentrate.
[ She can't afford to be bickering with herself when a mad-eyed local could hit her over the head at any given moment. ]
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[ He scowls, leaning back to prevent the smoke from wafting into his face. The Luteces had warned him that Elizabeth would be different, but he hadn't expected this.
He also doesn't remember 'deciding' anything of the sort, but he's also not about to start trying to dictating what she can and can't do. Not like it would work, anyway.
She can't make him leave her alone, though. ]
What's so important that you need to concentrate on? Your drink?
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You know exactly what we're-- what I'm doing. [ Elizabeth taps a finger against the counter, agitated. ] Until I'm finished running all over Rapture for that criminal, I won't be able to save Sally.
[ What's the point of spelling it out? Is it a hint? Something she's missed in the process? ]
Am I wasting time? Is that it?
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Booker frowns, leaning forward and staring at her, trying to figure her out. ]
Working for a criminal doesn't much sound like you, Elizabeth.
What's going on?
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... What-- [ She cuts off, shoulders stiff, eying him like a hawk. ] What did you tell me to say to convince Atlas that I could help?
[ He knows. He has to know because he's her, only her, and not Booker. Why would her phantom father lie to her? Why would be play dumb, act as if he doesn't know about her vendetta, her mission, act as if he's--
It just isn't possible. The faces of the Luteces flash into her mind and she swallows, her throat dry. ]
Tell me.
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Atlas?
I didn't tell you to say anything. Who's Atlas? What are you doing here?
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... Booker? [ He'd been so quick to remind her that he isn't real, but this one... this one, real or otherwise, is different. Different enough to give her pause, to make her wonder.
Again, her expression shifts, melts down into something much softer, younger, more vulnerable. Then, as if remembering herself, a deep grief knits her brows and turns her mouth downward as she struggles to find words. ]
They brought you here, didn't they? [ And she's angry, really very angry, because the point of everything had been to return him to Anna, to start over again. Not to end up, as she was, in a glorified gutter. ]
You shouldn't even remember me, let alone be here.
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Well, I do remember.
[ He remembers a girl who'd lived her whole life in a tower, one who'd been eager to embrace the whole world with open arms. This isn't that girl. But he'd seen something, something in the way her expression had momentarily changed, and he softens his own tone, leaning forward. ]
Is that so bad? Me remembering meeting you?
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But she does know. Only... she hadn't expected to see him again. Not her Booker, anyway.
Hurriedly, embarrassed, Elizabeth puts out the cigarette on the ashtray. She's too aware of the state of her clothes, of tears and scratches and bruises, of how she looks nothing like how she used to look when they met or even when they parted. She slips out of her chair, seemingly afraid to be too close to him, hand curled around its top, gripping hard. ]
Maybe not. [ Not if it helps him to raise Anna, to keep his priorities straight. ] ... But you don't belong here. If anything happens to you-- And I can't keep you safe.
[ The role reversal might surprise or confuse him. Before, she could whisk him back to his universe in a second, and would. As much as she's dying to see him, she's resolved to keep him out of her messy life (lives). ... But, without her tears, she's just a vulnerable girl again. Even more so than when they first met, somehow, despite her matured survival skills. ]
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You don't belong here any more than I do.
What if something happens to you?
[ If she can't protect him, how the hell is she going to keep herself safe? ]
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[ What she'd done. She thinks of Comstock, of the man who'd pretended to be Booker DeWitt again. Who'd fallen into old habits, who'd tried to escape from his past. In her ears is the shriek of the Big Daddy's drill. She feels, for less than a second, the pain of a piece of jagged iron driven through her body.
Accompanied by a sharp headache, her nose begins to bleed. Calmly, she wipes it away. ]
A lot of things have happened to me. [ Finally she looks away, emotions in check, working very hard to convince herself that this isn't, in fact, real. That he's in no danger. I can't allow myself to break now, not... not now. ] I know for sure that more will happen in the future.
[ Or, she did know. Still, somewhere, she suspects this will be her last quest.
Something occurs to her, suddenly, and her brows come together as she glances sideways at him, displeased. ]
... You left Anna behind.
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[ He wouldn't do anything else, not now. He'd left her safe and cared for, and with a promise to return to her.
Booker pushes his chair back, standing and walking forward to look Elizabeth in the eye. She's right. He doesn't know what she's done, what she's here for. What had happened to her since they'd last parted. But he doesn't need to know, does he? She's in danger, and she needs him, just as she had in Columbia. Whether she admits that or not.
He reaches into his pocket and digs out a handkerchief, offering it to her. ]
Anna is fine. I'm here for you, Elizabeth.
Let me help.
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When Booker says it, holding out a handkerchief, she doesn't think it sounds quite so poisonous.
Elizabeth accepts the cloth, turning away to the side. She's glad he didn't ask about her nose, but likely, he knows about her death. It wouldn't have mattered if she hadn't come back to this exact universe, but here she is. She sets it down again next to the ashtray and glances again at him, strangely flighty in manner and almost guilty, like a child caught stealing from the cookie jar. ]
This isn't your crusade. [ She says quietly. ] What did they send you to do?
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[ Because, at the end of the day, who else is there? Songbird is gone. The Luteces, while they had been concerned enough to reach out to Booker, aren't the type to get directly involved themselves. And...that's it. It's not as though she'd had a chance to make other friends in Columbia. No one from there knows where she is, or would care enough to go after her. If he abandons her now, Elizabeth will have no one.
He won't claim to precisely understand everything the twin scientists had told him. But he knows enough. He knows that she's vulnerable, that her tears are gone. She needs him. ]
They sent me to save your life.
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[ Of course. She'd known, somehow, that it would come to this. She couldn't know for sure, now, not seeing all the doors, but... that confirms it.
Her heart beats a little harder in defiance, but she tries valiantly not to let any of the fear show. ]
Booker, [ she begins wearily ] I sent myself here for a reason. I'm not leaving until I do what I came here to do.
[ Even if she saves Sally, Elizabeth is stuck in Rapture forever. And... ]
Do you think those two are going to come spirit us both away? Do you know for sure that they're going to bring you back to Anna? Because, unless they decide to reappear, we're both going to be here for a very long time.
[ Well, assuming they aren't killed imminently. ]
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Even after so many months in a city so unfamiliar to the one she knew, thinking about it made Daisy's head spin. She'd felt overwhelmed when Rosalind Lutece had explained it to her, but if there was one thing she understood it was her place in the grander scheme. It was just that the scheme had gotten even grander than she'd ever expected. And she hadn't been in any position to refuse, really, when she'd seen Lutece and her brother standing over her as the world shrank away and grew dark, feeling herself slip into death's embrace, felt them taking her arms and dragging her away, still with the scissors lodged in her spine. It was the last thing she remembered before coming to in Rapture, healed of all wounds, the twins assuring her that her part was far from over.
The bright lights and technology were impressive at first - even coming from a city in the clouds, seeing the ocean rippling outside the window had taken her breath away. It all paled away very quickly, though; there was no way Daisy could be blinded by it. Rapture's gilded façade hid a society every bit as ugly as Columbia, and Andrew Ryan was just Zachary Comstock by another name. Daisy found it darkly amusing that the two could come from such opposing positions and arrive at the same point of oppression and tyranny, though she wished she could be surprised. Instead she's just bitter and angry that the oppression had to be a constant along with the man.
Still there were variables too, ones that bolstered her hope that a better place was something achievable, and was most certainly worth fighting for. It was only a few days after the Luteces had left her in Rapture that she'd seen a woman even darker than her dressed to the nines, walking right through Arcadia as though she owned the whole forest, head held high, waving to the white women as though they were friends, picnicking with them in the grass and gossiping about their husbands. Daisy had followed her as she left, watching as a pale, flustered man held the door open for her, watching her climb aboard the Atlantic Express and sit among the white patrons without any of them so much as batting an eyelid. In Market Street black businessmen sat and read their newspapers while white men shined their shoes - she remembered fearmongering anti-Vox cartoons depicting just that back in Columbia, and appreciates the irony, seeing it with her own eyes without society falling down around her as Comstock's followers proclaimed.
That wasn't to say that Rapture wasn't on the verge of falling down. And even though it was possible for minorities to rise as individuals, it had quickly become clear to Daisy that as a group they were still at the bottom of the food chain. Pauper's Drop was filled with dark skinned people with either the same hardness that she had in her own eyes, or worse, the despair and hopelessness that so many in the Finkton shanty town had never been able to shake off. It was fitting to her that an Irishman was the one heading up the revolution that was on the verge of sparking into life, that Daisy could feel electric in the air around her. But she didn't buy into this Atlas completely, even though she saw all the good he was doing, and knew that he was the best chance for Ryan's downfall. Because why else would she be here?
The Luteces had brought her because this city lacked the constant that she had been in Columbia. If Atlas wasn't that, then what was he? Daisy was determined to find out.
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Elizabeth doesn't understand, but she follows.
Daisy Fitzroy looks just the same as the last she'd seen the woman, minus the blood. Elizabeth is confident that she herself won't be recognized; even Booker might not know her if he saw her. The clothes had changed, yes, but it was more about her attitude, her mannerisms, her face. She'd matured so drastically, had become a virtual god and a complete cynic all at once.
What are the Luteces planning? She can't help but feel a spike of irritation; the twins have been a help more than a hindrance, but this isn't anything she'd been aware of. Why bring Daisy (a Daisy, it doesn't matter which one) to Rapture? What could she possibly hope to accomplish?
Elizabeth continues to follow, moving through the sparse, slow crowd, not exactly hiding, but not tapping the other woman on the shoulder, either. She has to know, to find out why, but... carefully. Variables. This isn't something she remembers seeing when she could peek through all the doors.
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She pays the younger woman little mind, then, as she continues on her way, weaving through alleys and backtracking when she sees a Big Daddy patrolling up ahead of her - nothing brought her greater sadness here than the glassy stares of the little girls with them, reaping the bodies of the dead for the ADAM that powered Rapture. These children were carrying the burden of the excesses of this society in the worst possible way, and she hated every citizen of Rapture for it, held them all accountable.
As she passes men and women of colour sleeping in doorways or scrabbling around in trash cans for a scrap of food or a drop of ADAM she feels her familiar righteous anger wash over her, and gives them a nod of solidarity and the few dollars she has on her. Seeing white people in the same desperate circumstances makes her a little uneasy, knowing that at least they'd have taken care of their own in Columbia and prevented them the disgrace of seeking work in Finkton with the blacks and Irish. The notion of just who is 'us' and 'them' has changed here, and Daisy doesn't like that it's not so neat and tidy when it comes to knowing what sort of person's on which side any more.
Eventually she arrives at her destination, which at first glance looks like nothing more than a derelict café, the neon sign long cracked and dirtied, the red and white checked tables and tiles covered with dust and debris. Daisy enters through a small side door and descends the stairs to the basement, where a throng of people are huddled inside, squashed in together tighter than a tin of Fontaine Fisheries sardines, all talking excitedly in hushed tones. The atmosphere in the room was electric, and despite her reservations about the man, even Daisy can't help but be carried away by the excitement when Atlas himself appears, standing on top of a mildewed crate as a platform and addresses the crowd, assembled in secret away from the eyes of Ryan and his security, to hear their leader speak of what Rapture could be for them.
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Elizabeth can barely breathe, let alone stand. There are more people in this small room than could possibly fit; they'd all be dead if someone accidentally fired off a round of Incinerate. The unknowing has her itch for a cigarette, but with the thought of fire hazard on her mind, she makes due with crossing her arms tight over her chest and watching the events unfold.
Daisy is there, too, of course, her attention on the handsome Irishman who appears at the front of the room. No wonder. They are the variables between Columbia and Rapture, the revolutionaries who claim better lives for the people. She knows little to nothing about the man called Atlas, but learned from experience that Daisy's cause wasn't as pure as she'd first wanted to believe. If Atlas is anything like her, if his followers are anything like the Vox...
Briefly, Elizabeth thinks of her first kill, of the little boy that she'd stabbed Daisy to save. Yet, here they both are in another world where similar events may be set into motion.
C'est la vie.
She watches intently as the speech goes on, her eyes not on the charismatic rebel, but on the dark-skinned woman off to the side.
pretend I tagged this earlier >_>
As the speech finishes and people begin to trickle out, Daisy hesitates, heading toward the front to make some comment or ask a question, and then decides against it, doubling back toward the door. It's then, as she turns, that her eyes lock with Elizabeth's, and for a long second she just stares as though she's seen a ghost.
In the end, she shakes her head. "Can't be," she says aloud, more to herself than anything, but now that she's seen her she can't see unsee her.