tearmeanewone | SIX + Action / Voice

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SIX + Action / Voice

[VAGUE SPOILERS FOR 'BURIAL AT SEA' BELOW]

Elizabeth Comstock, you have been tried and found guilty of leading this man to his untimely death--

[Booker sits in the gallery, staring coolly back at her, and Elizabeth feels both wet and cold. And bloody--there's blood all down her front. But she doesn't feel shock or even surprise. She knows why it's there, she just can't see the memory. Every time she reaches for it, nothing happens.]

[Words feel unsteady, and she has to chase each one and hold it, own it, before speaking it.]

I was never his! But he… he had to have me! [What choice is she defending herself for making?]

--You have therefore, been sentenced to have your head forcibly torn from your body until you are dead.

[A cord is looped around her neck, Robert and Rosalind almost waltzing around and past her as they do so. Elizabeth scrabbles at the cord as it's pulled taut by one Lutece at each end.]

But he’s right there! He’s right there!! I didn’t kill Booker, he’s right there! He’s been here the whole time! [The cord tightens, Elizabeth’s hands don’t work, her fingers can't get under the cord.] Stop pulling, stop pulling, please! I’LL BE YOUR DAUGHTER!

May God have mercy on your wicked souls, child.

[Action - Locked to Gai and BioShock Infinite Crew]

[Elizabeth writhes in bed, her breathing becoming quicker and shallow as though she were having trouble filling her lungs. And whatever she’s trying to get away from her neck, there isn’t anything there. She’s scratching at nothing.]

[END SPOILER CONTENT]

[Voice – Early, Early Morning of December 1st]

Has anyone here ever had a dream that was prophetic? I know that most dreams are a product of our subconscious thoughts, but… I had a dream and I know I couldn’t possibly have been thinking any of the things that were in it. Not even subconsciously.

I thought that maybe this could be an experiment of some kind. [Read: ‘I’m hoping this was an experiment of some kind.’]

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[Oh. It's that.

Strange they should be on the topic of death. It feels like a muted version of that experience, the flush of chill and heat and pressure, the off-balance lumbering in her chest for a few agonizing moments of inwardly-directed clarity. It's a truth she knew. Has known. Still knows, even if she is cut away from the state of being that lets her see it at every moment, from every angle, only the smallest fraction of all the moments that exist, simultaneously, across the breadth of eternity.

Such an infinitesimal fraction. It had been one of her assurances that she might still be more human than anything else, that something so small could snarl inside of her so tightly.

She looks at her brother - bare-wristed, sombre, hands mantled lightly on the countertop. And all at once, heat still prickling through her skull like the last stray sparks of dying neurons, she feels both small and unspeakably vast.]

From one angle, a perfectly fair assessment.

From the other, a fight of fancy.

[It isn't said meanly, merely with that same, calm dismissal the Luteces are well known for. Something Robert hopes will translate into it being nothing to worry about, a creation of the mind and nothing else.

His voice and posture remain the same. Only his hands, hidden from Elizabeth as he stands with his back to her, convey actual reaction. They tremble slightly, clench, then unclench.

He can't be sure it's a memory or even a ripple of one. There are many reasons for that sort of dream, after all, but there are memories he had managed to bury (though never forget) that are crawling their way to the surface.

Robert pours three cups of tea and turns around, saying, almost amused:]

Have you been studying French history again?

No, not at all. And if I had, I think a guillotine would have been more appropriate. [It is calming, strangely enough, to have both Rosalind and Robert treat her dream with skepticism. It's true that there's nothing to suggest that it could be in any way prophetic.]

Maybe... I was afraid you would come home early and find out I hadn't been living alone while you were all gone. [She smiles and stands up, moving to get her tea. It sounds like just the thing to calm her nerves, actually.] I suppose I was going to be on the end of many disapproving looks in the morning, Robert?

[She tries not to smile so wide as she glances at Rosalind before settling her gaze on Robert. Rosalind, Elizabeth expects, probably doesn't much care if Elizabeth hadn't been alone all month. Robert, though...]

So maybe it was a case of... extreme prophecy.

Extreme anxiety, I should think.

[Rosalind cants her head as she glances at Robert, a moment's wry questioning in the look before she takes up her own cup in passing and moves to dose it with the appropriate amount of sugar. If this is the game he wishes to play, this seems neither the time nor the place to shatter it, for either of their sakes.

It's made easier by the fact that there's no artifice in the bemusement that comes with Robert, of all people, appointing himself this young woman's chaperone.]

Unless you've taken upon yourself the mantle of our moral guardian, brother.

[Robert chuckles faintly at the last remark and shrugs his shoulders slightly.]

I certainly know what conduct is unbecoming to a young lady.

[But, as he sets a cup in front of Elizabeth, he makes a small nod of his head, acknowledging the unspoken admonition he knows is coming.]

Even if I have little room to remark upon it.

I'm twenty-one, by Columbia's standard if I hadn't been so carefully kept I would already have a husband and a child. [There you go, Robert.]

[Elizabeth pulls her tea closer and reaches to put some milk in it.] But even if it is unbecoming... I didn't want to be by myself again. I've had enough of that--and If I'd woken up, alone, after that nightmare...

[She swallows and doesn't want to think about it much past that.]

[Rosalind knows she does not need to retort about conduct unbecoming of young ladies or her own experience with the practical limitations of such sentiments. So she simply looks flatly over the rim of her cup at Robert, lifting her eyebrows mildly.]

You were the party arguing in favour of romanticism all over her shelves, as I recall.

Yes. You'd have had a husband. Thus, the conduct wouldn't be unbecoming.

[Because, of course, Robert Lutece entirely and completely advocates chastity outside of marriage. Whole-heartedly...

He has never carried on affairs before his jump to Columbia, never had any record of unbecoming behaviour. And certainly never engaged in anything questionable in Columbia. Or so he can damn well pretend to claim.

Even if both parties present know better than that, even simply based on allusions he's made to his history.]

I have no objections to literary romanticism, nor do I, I admit, have any say in her conduct, which is why I make no pretence of scolding her.

[Elizabeth levels a disbelieving look at Rosalind, then flips it immediately to Robert. She knows she's being held to a standard Robert himself didn't follow and Rosalind didn't even care about (or, maybe she did and was on Elizabeth's side, purely for the rebellion against what constituted 'conduct unbecoming of young ladies'). After holding the look for a good long five seconds, Elizabeth breaks it and puts milk in her tea. Robert may not be overt about scolding her, but Elizabeth does feel as though he's trying to impress his opinion of what would be best for her. And, somewhat, that he's judging her for her entire relationship with Gai. Strangely enough, it didn't make her angry--she wanted Robert's approval, so it hurt.]

Then the next time everyone decides to pack up and leave to do research, give me some warning and I'll marry the first available man. Then living with someone won't be unbecoming at all. [She raises her cup and sips, the brief moment giving her a chance to refocus.]

I was the first one of us to get here, and I was all alone for two months. And considering I had lived alone almost my entire life before then, I thought it would be easy to go back to the routine. But it wasn't. I just didn't want to be alone again, for a whole month, in this empty house.

I think you both understand what it feels like. To wake up knowing that you're alone in the room, but also knowing there's someone out there who could vastly improve the silence.

["Robert, they're dreams."
"No, they're not. I can prove it."
"How? A book? Robert, you've been shut up there for days. Come on. The university's written. Another offer of a job. Just accept it."
"I don't want to teach, I want to innovate. Do you realize what I've done?"
"You're driving yourself mad!"

"I haven't left this building in five days. But people have come. Claiming to be my family. People I know aren't."
"Hold on, Robert. We'll solve this."
"No we won't, Rosalind. Not this time."
"Don't talk like that. You, my dear brother, will think of something."
"I don't know what to do."
"You'll figure something out. You did before."
"With you."]

Well played.

[It's a simple statement said easily. He even sounds almost amused as he concedes the point.

But it's not so easy in his mind. Because he knows exactly what it feels like. To be so used to being alone and then... utterly unable to go back to life that way. To follow it to its ultimate conclusion, to a point where he began to doubt whether the world had gone mad or he had simply lost his mind.

To be so alone...

He takes a sip of his tea, properly flavoured with sugar, and doesn't look at either woman, merely keeps his gaze on a fixed point low on the wall, so he can seem contemplative when all he's really trying to do is shut off his mind, keep it from going out of control, keep himself from revealing anything.]

My remarks were unwarranted. If you will allow, I will rescind them.

Your remarks were nothing she will not hear elsewhere.

[It's as much of a comfort as she will give Robert, for she knows what that admission must cost him. But Rosalind's reply is also a simple statement of fact - for above all else, fact is a comfort, and has always been her solace against the cleverest and deepest of blows.

She knows the threat - the promise - of loneliness. She has known it since she was a girl and stubbornly chasing her studies, under the assurance that she did so at the cost of every happiness and comfort available to her. She was promised a life bereft of certain things and so she determined to not require them. The threat became nothing but another of those cool, comfortable facts. For a time.

She still wakes sometimes to the phantom oil-and-copper smell of pooled blood. The threat is there, then, for a few seconds, and it has never been more yawning or terrible. Then it is gone, before it can manifest entirely, and for a few rare seconds Rosalind is aware of finding comfort in a form of ignorance.

The reply does not cut, for she does not know this thing as keenly as Robert does. And in truth, even though it separates them, she does not wish to.]

Given that they are in such plentiful supply, though, I don't see why we should trouble ourselves to be merchants of common goods.

She's right. [Elizabeth reaches over to put a hand on Robert's. She hadn't meant to hurt him, she had only wanted Robert to understand her perspective.]

About those remarks. And that you aren't anyone common. You're as close to a father as I may get, Robert, what you think of me... it matters a lot. [Elizabeth looks warily to Rosalind--because she's straying far outside of comfortable logic and into feelings. But it's the only explanation she can give for bringing up something like this.]

I just want you to know why it was so important to me. You don't have to apologize, you're only doing what you always did: looking after me. And I understand that.

[She looks down at her hands around her teacup and fusses with them, trying to find a pattern in her laced fingers, trying to fix the pattern--] He's not turning me into something unsightly or immoral, we're just trying to not be alone. I'm not expecting you to like him, but I just want you to. [There's a little futile laugh in there as she says the words, because she knows it's not going to happen. But there it is--she's never been one to hesitate before telling someone what she wants.] Or at least be glad I have someone to spend time with who's close to my own age.

["As close to a father as I may get."

If ever there was anything to be terrified of, it was that statement. He actually smiled a bit.]

Proof further, though I didn't need it, that it's a good thing I'll never have children.

[It's said with a bit of humour, meant as detrimental to him, not as an insult to Elizabeth. He's hardly been any sort of decent father. Provided her books but never spoke to her. Not to mention all that she didn't know. Bartering with a desperate young man, handing over a child to a religious zealot. He'd only tried to fix what he'd done in the first place.

To repay his own debt.]

Morals are different here than those I have known. I spent twenty years in Columbia, and twenty more before that in London's society. This is... a far more liberal place, and I...

[He can't help but chuckle faintly with a brief glance to Rosalind, of acknowledgement.]

And I may know how to work against a society's morals, but I was one to do so subtly, to mask my goings on. There isn't need for that here, and I haven't yet learned to shake those expectations. Of myself and others.

[Rosalind isn't entirely certain where such wariness comes from, when Elizabeth turns her eyes from Robert to her. Of all of her available choices for a parental figure here, Robert may well be her best option, sad as it is to say (and sad not because she thinks so little of her brother, but because they are the same person and thus she knows their shared and contrasted faults in such merciless detail). And the foray into sentimentalism is hardly appalling. They are entirely different creatures, and what is so treacherous to Rosalind is a proven and enduring source of power for Elizabeth.

No, if anything it is intriguing, to see what she thinks of the both of them.

She meets Robert's look with a lift of her eyebrows, innocuous and enigmatic calm to the faint cheek of his admission, but a mirror in its own way. She finds herself in much the same place, save that where Robert seems to wish to protect, she is content to observe.]

The intention of the thing is valid, however poorly the particulars adapt to a new framework. [The words come out more contemplatively than in her head, deliberately. It is a matter she speaks with little to no authority on, but general principles seem applicable, and Robert provides a reasonable starting framework.] If one must have a companion, it only follows one should find one that betters oneself.

[The wariness comes, entirely, from Elizabeth's realization that Rosalind seems to deal less in feelings and emotions and more in what was strictly practical and logical. There wasn't anything logical about Elizabeth feeling a need for companionship. She could, reasonably, live alone and not starve. She could, reasonably, not be involved with anyone and function.]

[Her wariness comes entirely from the fear that Rosalind will deem her more emotionally-based needs as unnecessary. And Elizabeth has never been able to fault Rosalind for her common-sense wisdom. But she had walked so far with Gai, looking back on the path and wondering if she hadn't made a proper decision somewhere down the line is a harrowing prospect.]

Yes, the intention is valid. And his intentions have always been very gentlemanly within this, ah, framework. [In a very, very general sense. The only way Elizabeth can say that with any conviction is by assuring herself that a gentleman did not take advantage of ladies, and was conscientious and polite and caring during any part of the courtship. Gai had been all of those things to her at every moment. ...even those moments she would never, ever speak of in front of Robert, Rosalind, or Booker.]

And he does better me. We're separated by over one hundred years of history, but our life-defining experiences are so similar it's a little scary. I haven't felt as... inhuman, since I started spending time with him.

Constants and variables.

[It's as simple as that.]

Find someone similar enough that you understand them... but different enough that it can complement you. Someone who can support you when your faults have you nearly crippled... and who will rely on you when theirs are working against them.

[He knows that feeling too well, and the two women in the room know it.

After all, he had gone to great lengths himself to join Rosalind in her world. Which was why he knew he had little room to complain about Gai. Any ungentlemanly conduct, he could likely be accused of himself. Probably more than Gai, actually. Not that he shared everything. Rosalind knew; Elizabeth didn't need to.]

Yes, I understand.

[Robert says it better than she likely could. Unsurprising. A comfort, also, in its own strange way. She has always liked a well-crafted proof, and there is a perfect symmetry between his words and the truth of them in Rosalind's silence.]

I suppose we shall see how it all develops.

[Rosalind remains unconvinced that Elizabeth is at all appreciably bettered by tying her stability and freedom to a young man from another world, but that is her own discovery to make, her own experiment to run, and one that Rosalind sees no particular reason to entangle herself in. Especially where her heart is concerned, Elizabeth will do what she will, and the most that can be hoped for is collaboration.]

In the meantime, you know where to find us.

[She's already half-turned, as if to return to bed, head inclined to Robert to come along with her.]

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[Burial At Sea Spoilers - for real!]

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