[ 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.
[ His throat closes up and his chest goes tight at what she's implying. Anna. He can't stay here forever; he has to get back to her, he can't abandon her again.
But he sets his jaw, shaking his head stubbornly. No. He may not have much love for the Luteces, but they seem to have at least some interest in doing the right thing - or at least putting other people in the right place to do so. They wouldn't just leave him here, cut off from Anna. They wouldn't. ]
I'm sure.
[ Even if he wasn't - even if he let himself be anything other than certain - there's not much to do about it right now. He needs to focus on the problem at hand. Everything else will work itself out somehow. He steps forward, closing his hands over hers. ]
[ His hands close over ten perfectly normal fingers. She wonders if he's noticed, if he's wondered. If he knows. She certainly feels less herself and more than once has reached for the thimble only to find an intact pinkie. Strangely, perhaps, this is more disturbing to her than the loss of her practical omniscience. ]
... I'm looking for a girl named Sally. [ As she had with Comstock, back then, she slips a hand from his to retrieve the picture of the girl: Sally with Sarah 1957. ] She was an orphan. Got taken by some men more interested in her value than her well-being.
[ "This world values children, not childhood." ]
She's-- [ What is Sally to her? She'd been Comstock's charge, had become a Little Sister. Elizabeth had almost burned her alive in the name of the truth, of her own vengeance. ]
[ He's noticed. It's hard not to, not so much because he's used to seeing the thimble as because he knows now exactly how it had gone missing in the first place. Whose fault it had been.
He'd spent hours counting Anna's ten perfect fingers, letting her wrap them around his larger one, marveling at her tiny half-moon nails. But Elizabeth...Elizabeth shouldn't look that way. He's not sure exactly why she has her pinky back now - the Luteces hadn't deigned to explain what had happened - but he knows that they wouldn't have sent him here if Elizabeth didn't truly need his help.
We're both going to be here for a very long time.
He doesn't need to ask to know that her abilities are gone.
He takes the picture from her and looks at it, expression darkening at she speaks. The story - as she would know - is all too familiar, sending a spike of guilt through his heart. It doesn't matter if Comstock had never existed, if Booker had never even had the opportunity to hand his daughter over to a stranger. He still remembers doing it. ]
How did you find out about her?
[ He looks at her, handing the picture back. ]
Why are you here?
[ Of all places. There are thousands, billions, of lost children on billions of different worlds. Elizabeth could have gone after any one of them. Why this one? Why this place? ]
[ She could lie. She lies easily these days, does it without blinking an eye. She can convince whoever she wants of whatever she wants. She'd certainly fooled Comstock, the man passing as Booker DeWitt. Him and dozens of others.
Could I really do that to him, now? Doesn't he deserve the truth?
There's a silence, eerie and tense. In the distance, a Splicer (assumedly) breaks a glass and the shattering sound echoes off the high ceilings. ]
There were still some Comstocks that existed, even after. [ After I--we--drowned you. ] One escaped to this place, to Rapture.
[ He must know what that means, but she feels compelled to spell it out, to show him that she isn't the Elizabeth he knew, to maybe repulse him into returning to Anna. To safety. ]
I killed him. [ Not expressly true, but it is for all intents and purposes. ] Sally almost died, too. Because of that... I needed to come back. To make amends.
[ To her, only to her. Not to Comstock. ]
He passed himself off as you. [ The words escape before she wants them to and she feels out of control in a way she hadn't in a long time. She's telling him too much, she knows, but... ] Told me to call him Booker, he said--
He knows what she's hinting towards even before she says it out loud, but that doesn't make the shock any less. It's not the first time Elizabeth has killed. But Daisy had been different. Elizabeth had stabbed her to save a child, because she'd had no other choice.
Looking at her now, he knows that the same thing hadn't happened here. This Elizabeth is cold and calculating. She'd come here with the express purpose of killing Comstock, and from the looks of her, she'd done it without flinching. ]
You should have called me.
[ His voice is rough. He thinks of the Prophet using his name, thinks of Elizabeth interacting with him, spending who knows how much time with him. Plotting his death the whole time.
His stomach turns, both at the thought of Comstock being here, living his life as if he had any right to, and at the thought of Elizabeth ending it, cool as a cucumber. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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?
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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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But he sets his jaw, shaking his head stubbornly. No. He may not have much love for the Luteces, but they seem to have at least some interest in doing the right thing - or at least putting other people in the right place to do so. They wouldn't just leave him here, cut off from Anna. They wouldn't. ]
I'm sure.
[ Even if he wasn't - even if he let himself be anything other than certain - there's not much to do about it right now. He needs to focus on the problem at hand. Everything else will work itself out somehow. He steps forward, closing his hands over hers. ]
Tell me why you're here.
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... I'm looking for a girl named Sally. [ As she had with Comstock, back then, she slips a hand from his to retrieve the picture of the girl: Sally with Sarah 1957. ] She was an orphan. Got taken by some men more interested in her value than her well-being.
[ "This world values children, not childhood." ]
She's-- [ What is Sally to her? She'd been Comstock's charge, had become a Little Sister. Elizabeth had almost burned her alive in the name of the truth, of her own vengeance. ]
I need to get her back safely.
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He'd spent hours counting Anna's ten perfect fingers, letting her wrap them around his larger one, marveling at her tiny half-moon nails. But Elizabeth...Elizabeth shouldn't look that way. He's not sure exactly why she has her pinky back now - the Luteces hadn't deigned to explain what had happened - but he knows that they wouldn't have sent him here if Elizabeth didn't truly need his help.
We're both going to be here for a very long time.
He doesn't need to ask to know that her abilities are gone.
He takes the picture from her and looks at it, expression darkening at she speaks. The story - as she would know - is all too familiar, sending a spike of guilt through his heart. It doesn't matter if Comstock had never existed, if Booker had never even had the opportunity to hand his daughter over to a stranger. He still remembers doing it. ]
How did you find out about her?
[ He looks at her, handing the picture back. ]
Why are you here?
[ Of all places. There are thousands, billions, of lost children on billions of different worlds. Elizabeth could have gone after any one of them. Why this one? Why this place? ]
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Could I really do that to him, now? Doesn't he deserve the truth?
There's a silence, eerie and tense. In the distance, a Splicer (assumedly) breaks a glass and the shattering sound echoes off the high ceilings. ]
There were still some Comstocks that existed, even after. [ After I--we--drowned you. ] One escaped to this place, to Rapture.
[ He must know what that means, but she feels compelled to spell it out, to show him that she isn't the Elizabeth he knew, to maybe repulse him into returning to Anna. To safety. ]
I killed him. [ Not expressly true, but it is for all intents and purposes. ] Sally almost died, too. Because of that... I needed to come back. To make amends.
[ To her, only to her. Not to Comstock. ]
He passed himself off as you. [ The words escape before she wants them to and she feels out of control in a way she hadn't in a long time. She's telling him too much, she knows, but... ] Told me to call him Booker, he said--
[ Let's leave it at Mr. DeWitt. ]
But he's gone.
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He knows what she's hinting towards even before she says it out loud, but that doesn't make the shock any less. It's not the first time Elizabeth has killed. But Daisy had been different. Elizabeth had stabbed her to save a child, because she'd had no other choice.
Looking at her now, he knows that the same thing hadn't happened here. This Elizabeth is cold and calculating. She'd come here with the express purpose of killing Comstock, and from the looks of her, she'd done it without flinching. ]
You should have called me.
[ His voice is rough. He thinks of the Prophet using his name, thinks of Elizabeth interacting with him, spending who knows how much time with him. Plotting his death the whole time.
His stomach turns, both at the thought of Comstock being here, living his life as if he had any right to, and at the thought of Elizabeth ending it, cool as a cucumber. ]
You should have let me do it.
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