The Big Daddy withdraws his drill and lets the mangled body slide to the floor. The Luteces are completely indifferent to this, but even through the massive diving helmet, the man inside can see Elizabeth is not, though she pretends otherwise. She reaches for a cigarette and the Big Daddy rumbles loudly. She catches herself, tosses the carton away. The Big Daddy makes as if to remove its helmet, but with its thick armored glove, it's easier said than done. Elizabeth moves forward (it can see the difference in just her walk; what has this place done to her?) and reaches up to help. She finds the clasp, undoes it, struggles to lift it, feels the Big Daddy's massive hand touch hers gently, feels it help her to lift the helmet and reveal her father's face. Not the Comstock that used his other's face to hide beneath the waves, the one that lies dead behind her. His. Booker DeWitt. The False Shepherd. He takes in a deep breath of fresh unfiltered air and says, "You know those things'll kill ya, right?"
"You know what kills you quicker?" she retorts, laying a hand on his right arm. "A giant drill through the chest."
They smile for a moment, but Booker sees her lips trembling ever so faintly. "If y' help me with the gloves, I think I can manage the rest on my own." Elizabeth nods and reaches for the gauntlets. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the catch and she clears her throat.
"There." she says at last, but she's only managed the one. Doesn't matter, he thinks.
Aloud, he says, "Thanks. You c'n look at the ocean if you want; I'll just be a sec."
"Okay." She hurries away, revealing a little more of herself than she thinks in the speed with which she walks down the stairs to the giant glass wall that floods the room with an eerie green glow (the electric lights in the ceiling having been taken out in the brief firefight a few minutes before). As Booker struggles to climb out of the massive suit of armor that protects against the crushing force of the tons of water outside as well as the hail of bullets Comstock had peppered him with, he finds his attention torn between Elizabeth, elegantly silhouetted against the window, and the man bearing his face, albeit contorted in agony from the gaping hole where his heart had been, crumpled against the base of the vent. No better 'n' you deserve, you baby-stealin' bastard. Booker thinks savagely to himself, even as his vision blurs and a droplet of blood from his nose falls loudly to the floor.
Finally, with a loud echoing clank, he casts the bodysuit aside. Now for the boots... His heart skips a beat as he hears someone sniff. He can't tell if it was him or her, and he hastens to get out of the armored boots still clamped tightly around his legs. He's free now, and he runs to his daughter at the window. From the way she looks at him out of the corner of her eye but says nothing, he can tell she's in agony. Or, again, that could be him. "How you been?" he asks finally.
She shrugs. "The city's nice. On the surface anyway. What about you?"
"Well, it wasn't easy gettin' the parts for the suit. Ryan's got them locked up tighter 'n' a...uh, pretty tight. That, 'n' the fact that there's a man with my face already well-known 'round the whole of the city, makes for quite the story." He chuckles, but she makes no response. "So after that, I just had to stumble around down here waitin' for you 'n' that lyin' sunuva..."
"Booker." Elizabeth turns to face him. "I...killed you..."
"No, I killed him. I remember bein' very insistent 'bout that."
"I brought him here. To pay for what he did. He could've gone the rest of his life without remembering; he would've wound up in a gutter somewhere, drinking himself to death. But I..."
He takes her in his arms and holds her close. She's still talking. "When we came here, I felt her die. Her head was cut off so cleanly, I don't think she actually felt anything. But I..."
"Shhh." He hugs her tighter. "It's over." She relaxes into his embrace, and he rocks her back and forth slowly, the way he did when she was young. A Lutece scowls as a tear on Booker's cheek catches the distant rays of light from outside.
"I don't know why you find it so fascinating."
"We were with her before she remembers, and we've been with her ever since."
"So is it just the development of her character that holds your attention?"
"No, but it'll do for now."
"I daresay it won't."
"And I say it will."
"It won't."
"Will."
"Won't."
They glare at each other for a moment, then return to watching. Booker and Elizabeth are still standing by the window. Still hugging. They wonder, almost in unison, if there'll ever be a time that they won't feel like hugging. Booker's shirt is wet; whether it's from residual moisture from the suit, his own sweat or her tears is best left unsaid. They part. She smiles at him. He smiles back. "Gotta say, that dress is you." Booker says.
"Think so? I was afraid it was a little too, I don't know, flashy...?" Elizabeth muses as she looks down at herself self-consciously.
"Hell, the whole city's flashy, so you fit right in." he assures her. "Matter o' fact, it gives me an idea. Don't go anywhere." She raises an eyebrow quizzically, but lets him walk away. She waits patiently, hand on hip, as he clears debris, clusters chairs with tables, and finds a radio behind the bar. He fiddles with it for what feels like ages (at least to him) before he finds something to his liking. Her heart lightens as a familiar violin begins. "Care to dance, miss?" Booker asks gruffly, extending a hand toward her.
With a soft "Booker, you remembered", she takes his hand. He even remembers the posture she taught him; one hand around the waist, one holding the other aloft. The Luteces tire of not being able to see what's going on and walk slowly down each flight of stairs, Robert on the left, Rosalind on the right.
"Oh bother, they're at it again." Rosalind complains.
Robert sighs. "She and Comstock had plenty of fights along the way; does that not satisfy you?"
"No, it doesn't. I will be satisfied if and when they allow us to leave."
"They can't very well stop us."
"You know what I mean."
A pause. "I do indeed."
"Good, that's settled."
"Is it?"
"It feels as though it is."
"Then it's settled."
"Mmmm."
When the violin stops and the guitar takes over, Booker opens his eyes and looks into Elizabeth's. "Is this okay? It ain't Paris, I know..."
"Shhh," she says. "It's perfect. Just listen..."
So he does and they're both washed away. Gone are the sounds of Splicers squabbling in the distance, the sound of the machinery hidden in the walls rumbling and groaning, the sound of a lone foot tapping impatiently against the floor (at least until its owner is shot an exasperated glance)...
Like all good things, it too comes to an end and Booker dips his daughter low in a dramatic, if misplaced, dance move.
"That's a tango." Rosalind says dryly. He shrugs and eases Elizabeth back up. Her eyes are still closed in delight, and he rests his chin on her head, pleased with himself, as he should be.
Suddenly, he breaks away with a grimace. "What's wrong?" she asks, looking at him in concern. He twists, glances down at his side, at a spot where blood has begun to seep through. "Guess that old man did pick up my skill with a gun," he grunts.
"Let me." She lifts his shirt up and begins treating his wound.
"Ow."
"Oh, be quiet. He didn't complain nearly as much."
"Liked to bottle it all up, huh? I used to be that way once."
"I'd never have guessed. There." She's stitched him up and applied a fresh bandage atop it. She's gotten good at that. "Just try not to lift any two-hundred-pound doors while we're down here."
"Can I punch 'em?"
"No."
"Ah, you're no fun." He smiles at her as he pulls his shirt back into place. "Thanks all the same."
"Don't mention it." She yawns suddenly. "Whew! All the excitement's getting to be a bit much for me."
"I agree." Rosalind interjects.
"I wouldn't recommend fallin' asleep down here; one of the Splicers'd get ya b'fore long." Booker says.
"Then where should we go?" Elizabeth asks and with a wave of her hand, a thousand tiny bubbles appear, each with their own little picture.
"You're the expert, you tell me." Booker says.
She studies the canvas before her thoughtfully. "There." She points at one in the middle and they are there.
On the asteroid Tiaanamat...
Booker is a little queasy. He's in space. Outer space. On a tiny little rock adrift in the vast expanse of space, facing a sun that...that...
"Robert. Does that star have a face on it?"
"Do you know, I believe it does."
"And did the face just change?"
"Yes."
"...I'm rather glad we stayed."
"As am I."
Elizabeth helps her father to his feet. "Are you all right?" she asks softly.
"I'm fine. Why the hell wouldn't I be fine? I'm just staring at a star that looks like it wants to eat me... Uh, Elizabeth?"
"What?"
"Do you hear someone singing?"
She does. They all do. A small child dressed all in red stands on a rock that's colored differently from the other rock around it, and she's singing. "Rest now, my warrior... Rest now; your hardship is over...:
Then they're singing. Booker, Elizabeth, the huge crowd around them; perhaps even the Luteces, although the song is so loud and so clear that they could just as easily be mouthing the words instead.
Please, wake up; wake up...
And let the cloak of life cling to your bones, cling to your bones...
Wake up; wake up...
The chorus is repeated twice more. Father and daughter are lost in the song. Gone are the memories of the perils and hardships they were made to endure to make it this far, alone and together. No doubts. No regrets. No worries. No what-ifs. Just the music.
Suddenly, the crowd is singing wordlessly and they are separated. They look around in confusion, and then they see the light. That strange pale dead light all around. Calling them home. Booker has no idea what it is, but deep down, he knows it's the end.
As the choir rises to a crescendo, Booker DeWitt turns to Elizabeth and gives her one last smile.
As the choir repeats the last ten lines of the chorus, Booker DeWitt hugs Elizabeth.
As the choir fades, so do they.
And somewhere, somewhen, some one of him obeys and awakes.