Constants and Variables
Disclaimer: I don't own the Bioshock series.
A/N: I absolutely love the Bioshock series and the Lutece intrigue me to no end. These are just the interactions with the Lutece, not their voxiphones or the Kinetescopes with them.
"The mind of the subject will desperately struggle to create memories where none exist…" Barriers to Trans-Dimensional Travel – R. Lutece, 1889
"And what, sister, does that mean?"
"It means what it is supposed to mean, brother."
"Shall we, then?"
"Yes, let's."
-.-.-
It was dreadfully hard work to make a tear here, of all places. Weather was a variable no one could control and it was never a constant as it was never constant.
"This is a terrible idea."
"Yes, you've mentioned this before."
"Have I?"
"Yes, many times and many times more."
"Only one hundred and twenty-three times, brother dear."
"And I suspect, should this one fail like the previous, that it shall be another one hundred and twenty-three more times, darling sister."
"Fail, failed, will fail."
"Are you quite done?"
"Quite."
The body fell, the man barely conscious as he groaned, green eyes flickering.
"I told you it would work."
"We already know IT works. The question is, will he?"
"Anna… Anna…" The man groaned. Voice is raspy, mind piecing together something. Memories he never had, has, will have. "I'm so sorry… Anna."
She took his hand, looking at the AD on the back. A brand, carved in a drunken haze. "Do you suppose he branded himself as some sort of penance?"
"Hmm."
"Don't see the point. What's done is done. What's done WILL be done."
"Hmm."
"I suppose the brand is his hair shirt, as he is ours."
"The girl…" Is he still conscious?
Oh he is heavy but this must be done. We have to do this. Though I always question why open the tear so far from our destination.
"…wipe away the debt." Oh, he is forming memories. Form, formed, will form.
"Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt." Ah yes, the familiar mantra.
"See? He's starting to put his story together."
"You're quite fond of this theory of yours."
"He's manufacturing new memories from his old ones." Or from ones from the others, after all, subjects are all common in these. The only constant was to the redemption, after that, the line splits there.
"Well, the brain adapts."
"I should know… I lived it." Live, lived, had lived.
-.-.-
The storm brew and I, we, began to row. Brother disliked this, being of the stronger sex while sister, being of the fairer, took advantage of it.
"Are you going to just sit there?"
"As compared to what? Standing?"
Their, or rather, our companion, or test subject, one of many, stirred and blinked, the rain soaking him down.
"Not standing, rowing."
"Rowing? I hadn't planned on it."
"So you expect me to shoulder the burden?"
"No. But I do expect you to do all the rowing."
"And why is that?"
"Coming here was your idea." Of course it was. But in the same breath, the same mind, and thought, it was also her idea.
"My idea?" Hypocritical but amusing all the same.
"I made it very clear that I don't believe in the exercise."
"The rowing?"
"No. I imagine that's wonderful exercise."
"Then what?"
"The entire thought experiment." Of course. But it was also she who thought it up. And she knew it and he knew it.
"Excuse me, how much longer?" Heard but ignored. The subject could wait.
"One goes into an experiment knowing one could fail."
"But one does not undertake an experiment knowing one HAS failed."
Failed, fails, will fail.
"Can we get back to the rowing?" Arms were quite tired and this storm was bothersome.
"I suggest you do or we're never going to get there." Cheeky.
"No. I mean I'd greatly appreciate if you would assist." But she would not, will not, never will. For she is the fairer of the sex and takes full advantage of it.
"Perhaps you should ask him?" She found this all too amusing. "I imagine he has a greater interest in getting there than I do."
"I suppose he does. But there is no point in asking."
"Why not?" Why ask when one knows the question?
"Because he doesn't row."
"He doesn't ROW?"
"No. He DOESN'T row." Doesn't, will not, won't.
"Ah. I see what you mean."
Sister dear taps brother darling's leg, letting him know of the arrival he has made one hundred and twenty-three times before. "We've arrived."
He stepped out, looking back. When we pulled away, his face was the same as it ever was.
"Shell we tell him when we'll be returning?"
"Would that change anything?" A variation?
"It might give him some comfort." No.
"At least that's something we can agree on."
"Hey! Is somebody meeting me here?" It was a variable, the question. Mild lingering, wasting a few seconds on watching us leave. The time delay was nothing as it didn't really go into effect for some time.
"I'd certainly hope so." A constant. The answer was always no.
"It does seem like a dreadful place to be stranded."
We, they, rowed away some more before finally going home and waiting.
"Only two hours until arrival."
"One variation down, though the variable is a constant."
"But the constant isn't constant."
"But neither is it a variable."
"Can a constant be a variable when it itself is a variable constant?"
"Well, one could claim it as a variable when it is constant, but it is never truly constant if it is a variable."
"The thought within itself is a paradox and will take forever to answer when the question is never a constant."
"Agreed."
-.-.-
"Will you send it out?"
"I always do."
"A constant constant."
"You know it will not make any difference, it's a constant constant."
"Yes, but it does put that into his head, doesn't it."
"A constant variable."
"DeWitt STOP
Do not alert Comstock to your presence STOP
Whatever you do, do not pick #77 STOP
Lutece"
I hand the telegram to the boy. "He is dressed in a Union suit, red tie, no hat. Shouldn't be hard to miss." The boy runs off, diligent in his work.
"The boy is a constant constant."
"Never a variable."
"Shall we?"
"Let's."
-.-.-
Picking up the balls and juggling, knowing it'd gain attention. We, they, were a constant, never a variable. Whether or not he picks up on that constant is a variable to him.
"We come and go as we please."
"To and fro whenever we like."
"A contradictory to those who do not understand."
"And to those who do, a wrinkle in the fabric."
"A Tear, if you please."
"Quite."
-.-.-
"I dislike this one."
"I find it quite amusing."
"Of course you do."
He comes through the gate, and there we wait.
"Heads…?"
"Or tails?"
The man rolls his eyes. He doesn't recognize us, them, not yet. "Come on, let me through." He will soon. Perhaps he already does since the irritation in his voice suggests it.
A variation?
The coin was tossed and the man never blinked, never looked at it as he smoothly caught the coin. He always does, a constant. A skill he's picked up.
"Heads?"
"Or tails?"
"Huh." The coin was flipped. "Tails." A variable.
It lands and of course, this is a constant though she wishes it a variable and goes through the motion several times to prove it'll be a variable. "Told you."
"Hmm." Another tally.
"I never find that as satisfying as I'd imagine."
Fingers touch a chin, pushing it up. "Chin up, there's always next time."
One more experiment…
"I suppose there is."
One more constant variable…
We move out of his way, looking at the coin. The Silver Eagle is one that we've always had, a standard coin with both heads and tails. No trick, that wouldn't be fun.
We, ignore the shooting, ignore the killing, ignore it all as we go about our day. After all, these are all constants. Those who die will die, those who live will live, but there are just a few, only four by our count, who are both. They, however, are constant variables. If they do not die here, then they die in another place and if not by his hand, then by the Vox. Their deaths are constant.
He runs and we watch. This one… this one is a variation.
The subject follows the same constant variables as the rest but there is something about this one.
What is it about him that is a variable?
He picked the ball, a constant, but the constant variable was made in favor of him, in favor of the two tied. The outcome is a minor branch.
We arrive in a bar where he will go.
One last one. A constant constant or a true variable?
"This one is different…"
"Will that affect this outcome?"
"Perhaps sway this constant to a variable."
"Should we gather more, put this in theory?"
"If this one succeeds, it won't be needed."
"But if proven variable, perhaps a better will explain. A theory and experiment need more than one."
He arrives and of course, the familiar eye roll.
"We have company."
"We do indeed."
"Why are you following me?" His tone is flat.
"We were already here."
"Why are YOU following US?"
A joke, one we love.
"I…" He sighs, giving up. Of course, a simpler mind.
"Aperitif?" She offers him the formula.
We watch with bated breath.
He twitches as a glow wraps around him.
We blink as she moved away slowly.
A variable…
"Oh… what was that?!" He stumbles slightly.
"Hmm… surprising…"
"Surprising that it worked?"
"Surprising that it didn't kill him…"
"But a magnetic repulsive field around one's body can come in handy."
"If it doesn't kill you."
"A fair point."
The subject's head passes between us in the discussion, a confused look on his face. We only smile as he moves away slowly.
"This one…"
"Yes."
-.-.-
The variation had brought on more subjects and each one had been killed by Songbird as he tries to save the girl, the Lamb, the Prime, from the tower which her father not father locked her away. But the one, the first, he succeeded.
Dies, died, will die.
A pipe through the chest when falling, failure to land in Battleship Bay, a broken neck from Songbird, broken back, skull caved in from the Lamb, each death as unimportant as the one before.
But the first, the one who made the branch, he lives still. A few, very few follow, it takes another few hundred times.
-.-.-
We see them, him and her walk up. He tired, her with eager eyes.
A gift.
A variation based on his beliefs.
A gift to her, his daughter.
"Mr. DeWitt, here!"
She comes to us, looking at the brooches.
"Bird?"
"Or the cage?"
Always asking her. She is of both minds but it is he who will decide.
"Or perhaps the bird?"
"Nothing beats the cage."
"These two again?" Of course, recognition. "How do… never mind." He waves a hand.
She looks at both, going over their beauty alone. Not the symbolism, not the thought process he goes through. He steps closer and her bright eyes smile to him.
"Look at these, they're amazing!" She shows him, and to his credit, his eyes do glance over them. "Which one do you like more? This one… or this?"
He looks over them again, processing.
The cage is a symbol of entrapment of isolation, but of familiarity and constants. The bird is freedom and free will, but variables and anarchy.
"The bird is beautiful and the cage is somber, but there is something special about it. I just can't decide."
He sighs. "The one on the right."
The bird. He sets her free.
"Are you sure?"
He nods, a small smile on his face. Fatherly joy? "I'm sure."
"I love it." She puts it on as we bow.
"Surprising. I expected the cage." Did one variable would have picked the cage? Would one who lived would have?
"If you're going to be a sore loser, then I shan't do this again." A promise of more experiments.
"Now that is just sophistry."
The experiment didn't cause a change, didn't cause a difference, it was a simple choice, no branching off.
A gift is a gift.
-.-.-
We present them with the option and the familiar lines roll through us.
He looks and sighed. "The one on the left." The cage… one did pick it.
We bow, barely listening to their talk.
"I expected the bird…"
"If you're going to be a sore loser, then I shan't do this again." A smile.
"Now that is just sophistry."
-.-.-
We watch, watched, will watch as this variation goes through Columbia, through the floating city. We see, seen, will see him lie to her, lie to himself. We see, seen, will see him make the promise of freedom through a lie with someone we spoke, spoken, will speak to about her change. Her constant.
They move along, finding out secrets. Find another variable. His mercy or his wrath. It's a small branch, one that leads nowhere, like the gift.
They see someone who is dead here…
But who is not dead.
He spins the chair, her hands covering her mouth. "We're too late. God dammit!"
"Fink…this is what he meant." We ignore their conversation, it doesn't concern us.
"Now we need to find someone else to make those guns."
"No."
"Dead is dead, Elizabeth." Well, he's part way right.
"Dead is dead." A coin flips.
A gun is pointed at us before recognition flares in those green eyes. "What? The hell did…?" The gun lowers as a frown appears on his face. This is too fun.
"I see heads."
"And I see tails."
"It's all in a matter of perspective."
The subject frowns, looking at us with anger. "Why are you following us? Who sent you, Comstock?" How drole. "What do you want from-"
"What do you see here, from this angle?" The subject looks to the coin, not really understanding our metaphor.
"Dead."
The subject takes a deep breath, calming his anger. "Listen-"
"And that angle?"
"Alive."
His anger flares again as he glares at dearest sister.
"Booker, Chen Lin…" Of course the girl would get it, she is like us. He hand is set on his arm, trying to get his attention.
Though of course, he continues to glare at dear sister, his stubbornness matching hers, and in the same breath, matching his. "This is becoming rather awkward." A smile. It doesn't help. Angry green eyes continue to bore. "This one needs a bit of a nudge." This subject is more stubborn than the rest, which is true. "We could spell it out for him, I suppose." Silence fills the air as the girl tugs on his sleeve. Darling brother says nothing still. "Ah… your silence betrays you, brother." The two look at each other and share a smile.
Oh yes.
Still, the subject goes to Elizabeth and she reveals the tear. "The body's gone," he breathes, unbelieving.
"It was never here."
The subject gets it. "It's another Columbia…"
"A different Columbia." The girl looks to her father.
Father comes to us again, looking at the coin. "The same coin."
"A different perspective."
"Heads."
"Tails."
"Dead."
"Alive."
Subject looks up and takes the coin, flipping it a few times, handing it back as he turns to the girl.
"We have to go through to this other Columbia, but how?" She knows, understands, but doesn't catch on yet.
"It's like riding a bicycle…"
"One never really forgets."
"One just needs the courage to climb aboard."
We flicker, the Tear sustaining us briefly before we go. The subject's eyes are wide before he blinks, rubbing them.
Comical.
-.-.-
"He understands, doesn't he?"
"Perhaps, but who can really say with his guilt blocking it."
"He will see something he will not like."
"But he will not see it until far too late."
"Too late for him?"
"Her."
"Ah!"
-.-.-
They crash and we are needed. She is smarter than he, but together they need the push.
The broken piano will suffice for now.
Deft fingers on the keys but playing purposely wrong. "That's not it."
"Certainly is."
"Isn't."
"Is."
"Isn't."
Sigh. "Try again."
"Alright. Here you are." Keys played again and again wrong.
"No, that's the E."
"No, that is certainly it!"
"It's not."
"It is."
"Isn't."
"Is!"
"Isn't."
"Is!"
Brother crosses his arms. "Try again."
"No, you try." Sister waves her hands at the keys.
"Fine!" Notes are played, in a lower octave but still, wrong.
"Nope, that is not it."
"Is."
"Is not.'
"Is."
"Is not."
"Is."
"Not."
"Pay attention." Again, wrong.
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Quite certain." Wrong.
"That's the E."
"Tis. It's wrong though. It's quite close, but it's wrong." Wrong, always wrong.
"That was the same note."
When they emerge, she shouts to us. "Stop it!"
Of course, we don't listen. "Fine, here you are," sister says through the child's shouts. "HA! There it is." At last, finally, played to perfection.
"No… you've done it now… he's… he's coming back!" The subject readies his gun, eyes looking in the air.
"The notes were correct."
"The instrument was not."
"Was needs both to get his attention." Should have been obvious with the lack of the mechanical beast flying around.
"But if you know how to sing to him…"
A card was withdrawn from an inner pocket. "He will take you where you need to go."
"Would you care to hear anything else, brother? Perhaps a waltz?"
The card was taken and the girl turned to us. "Who are you?"
"We are…where we are needed."
"And needed where we are."
The subject rolls his eyes. "So Comstock uses these songs. Are there others? Something to keep the bird off our back?"
"Perhaps you should ask the maestro himself…"
-.-.-
"That was rather rude of us."
"Yes but we can't linger forever."
"But we can."
"No, we cannot."
-.-.-
We see them arrive.
"Shall we play with them?"
"Yes."
We stood on opposite platforms, seeing the subject watching us.
"Ready?"
"Always."
The ball flew through the air before hurtling back to where it came from.
Another platform.
"I told you they'd come."
"No, you didn't."
"Right, I was GOING to tell you they'd come."
"But you didn't."
"But I DON'T."
She turns. "You sure that's right?"
"I was going to have told you they'd come?
"No."
"The subjunctive?"
Sigh. "That's not the subjunctive."
"I don't think the syntax has been invented yet."
"It would have had to have been."
"'Had to have been?' That can't be right."
Step 1-2, step 1-2, step 1-2…
"Odd isn't it?"
"What's odd?"
"That sometimes we-"
"Finish each other's sentences?"
"Exactly."
"It would be odder if we didn't."
One mind, one body, if one were spiritual, one soul? No, that can't be right.
"Hm."
-.-.-
"Here we are."
"And yet, here WE are."
"A wrinkle."
"Tear, if you please."
"Yes."
There, our stones, our names.
How… mortal.
-.-.-
The spirit, ghost, lost soul, the dead, not dead creature fell from the last shot. Both subject and girl panted, looking at each other.
"What is she?"
"I don't know," she answered, looking lost and confused as she looked to her father. "What am I? My God, is she the source of my power?"
"But what is she? Alive or dead?"
So demanding.
Our graves, though not our graves. We enjoy seeing them from time to time, though it is a morbid subject we choose to ignore. But it is lovely to see them.
"Why do you ask 'what'."
"When the delicious question is 'when'."
"The only difference between the past and the present."
"Is semantics."
"Lives, lived, will live."
"Dies, died, will die."
"If we could perceive time as it truly was."
"What reason would grammar professors have to get out of bed?"
"Like us all, Lady Comstock exits ACROSS time."
"She is both alive and dead."
"She perceives being both."
A smile. "She finds this condition… disagreeable."
"Perception without comprehension."
"Is a dangerous combination."
The girl's eyes catch on something. "Look, footsteps." The father turns and sees them too, nodding.
"She goes to unfinished business."
The father looks to daughter. "We have to follow her, convince her to open the gate to Comstock House."
Brother and I share a look, bidding our final resting place adieu.
Though as we appear before them again, gun pointed before lowered with an angry breath, darling brother speaks.
"It's a shame you have need of her to enter Comstock House."
"Frankly she doesn't seem all that cooperative." Shrug.
"There is a way to bring her to reason."
"Three truths you much discover first."
"Truths which, in this world, Comstock has destroyed."
One being us, after all, the Lady hated us, specifically, sweet sister.
"If only one of you had the power to alter time and space."
A smile. "That would be a blessing, wouldn't it?"
"Hm."
-.-.-
Our laboratory. How it is missed. But we don't need it, no, this is far better.
They are exploring what we have known always.
He will learn her truth. And she will know her birth false.
It was a delicious dark secret.
-.-.-
He lost her, reached for her, failed.
Now we listen to her scream in pain.
Our fault.
He runs, hearing her scream. He cares, wants to save.
"What?" He stops, looking at the same as we. "It's a Tear. What is it-"
"Why do you ask 'what'?" Yes why?
"When the delicious question is 'when?" A common question. He will not get it.
"Lives, lived, will live."
"Dies, died, will die."
He doesn't pay attention though, just confused and hurt by her screams.
Of course.
-.-.-
Will she be like us? Brother thinks so, sister does not.
Heads.
Tails.
-.-.-
Prime is free. The bird is her.
She pulls us to her and we have to answer her call.
We are back rowing.
Or rather, brother is, sister just sits, again.
Prime speaks, looking at the subject. He still doesn't understand.
"Booker… you're bleeding."
"No… I remember what I remember…"
"Now we've upset him." This is the end.
"I don't expect this next bit will do much for his mood."
They leave, and we wait until the next calling.
Brother and sister hold hands.
"This will only end in tears."
-.-.-
Another calling, but we don't go, merely observe. This is a memory, his and his.
"Let's go!"
"The Tear is fluxing, it's rather unstable."
"It's fine, hurry!"
Panic, fear. Hers, his. Angry father comes closer.
"Fine? Are you mad?"
"No! You will not get caught between, come!"
Brother, I can't lose you.
Sister, I'm frightened.
"It is uncomfortable enough as it is!"
"It's going to be more uncomfortable if you don't come now!"
I'm scared.
I am too.
"If I get caught, it's going to be a very long time before we see each other."
"You will not get caught, I promise!"
"You can't promise me that!
We watch.
"We're going to lose our window!"
"I'll wait, thank you!"
True father is now closer gripping himself. "Give her back, you son of a bitch!"
He replays his role, the subject's eyes angry and afraid.
"It's ready, go!"
Brother slips in and into the arms of sister. They hold each other, looking back to the two. She fears for the baby, of course, it is a woman's reaction to fear for infants.
"Shut down the machine!"
Sister hesitates, not wanting the little one caught.
Brother moves her aside finally, flipping the switch.
On one side, just a finger.
On theirs, ours, a wailing baby with blood on her hand, nose bleeding.
Hands grip onto one another tightly, the feeling coming back.
We return to the beginning.
The body fell, the man barely conscious as he groaned, green eyes flickering.
"I told you it would work."
"We already know IT works. The question is, will he?"
"Anna… Anna…" The man groaned. Voice is raspy, mind piecing together something. Memories he never had and has. "I'm so sorry… Anna."
She took his hand, looking at the AD on the back. A brand, carved in a drunken haze. "Do you suppose he branded himself as some sort of penance?"
"Hmm."
"Don't see the point. What's done is done. What's done WILL be done."
"Hmm."
"I suppose the brand is his hair shirt, as he is ours."
"The girl…" Is he still conscious?
Oh he is heavy but this must be done. We have to do this. Though I always question why open the tear so far from our destination.
"…wipe away the debt." Oh, he is forming memories. Form, formed, will form.
"Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt." Ah yes, the familiar mantra.
"See? He's starting to put his story together."
"You're quite fond of this theory of yours."
"He's manufacturing new memories from his old ones." Or from ones from the others, after all, subjects are all common in these. The only constant was to the redemption, after that, the line splits there.
"Well, the brain adapts."
"I should know… I lived it." Live, lived, had lived.
-.-.-
He reawakens, or rather, comes to.
"I sold you… I… sold you…"
"To your credit, you did try to weasel out of the deal." And nearly succeeded. Only a few had, the branch having father and daughter as they had always meant to be.
"This is all Comstock's fault." Well, he's not wrong. "What if I went back, killed him before he did any of this?"
Fear.
"Things get set in motion."
"How would one know how far back to go?"
Prime looks to us, watching, waiting.
We are only visitors in her realm.
The circle that he started will end with him.
Father, daughter, not father, and us. All shall end.
"No, we shall simply fade."
"One possibility goes."
"They all go."
"And we are left wandering."
"No, we are left in one."
"Together."
"Yes."
A forever constant.
A/N: I LOVE the Lutece! Yes, at least 80% of the lines came from the game but that's the beauty of them, they are amazing and definite and over all snarky.