Indulging in my head-cannon for Kyle Fitzpatrick, the pianist in Fleet Hall from Bioshock~ this is just the veryvery beginning of Fitz's life in Rapture, and it's supposed to go until he blows up with his beloved piano, but I have yet to write that far.

Enjoy~

[Fitzpatrickresidence,1950]

A man with fiery red hair stood, arm drawn back as if to lash out with it. Pupils dilated in the center of blood shot eyes, he snarled at the child in front of him movements sporadic even as he tried to stand still, "You ungrateful little shit, takin' that tone with me?"

"N-no, m'sorry, I-I di'n mean ta" the spiting image of the raging man sat on the floor legs folded at the knees, resting as they had been when they had given out from underneath him and sent him to the floor. The twelve year old's shoulders slumped, fear and submission evident even in his posture. One hand covered his damaged eye as he sobbed pitifully, begging the man's forgiveness. The elder swung out, splitting the child's lip with the force as his hand connected with skin, sending the younger redhead backwards, curling on the floor.

"James, James stop it!" a dainty woman rushed out to grab at her husbands arm, dark ringlets of hair falling out of place from the struggle, "Keep your hands off of him!" she shrieked as he pushed her back, the fear that sped her heart beat hidden behind the mask of pure anger on her usually delicate features, "How dareyou treat your son like that, you know he did nothing wrong-"

"Shut up, Shut up, Shutup!" Blue currents ran up James' arms as he clasped his temples, keeling forward as if the sound of her voice sent sharp pains through his very being.

"No I won't let you hit him any more." She moved to approach him again, halted as he threw his arm out at her in an attempt to fend her away. The woman screamed, the haunting sound filled with agony and sharp at pitch. She writhed on the ground as the Electricity from James' arm flew out at her, his anger triggering his plasmid; Electrobolt. As flashes of blue faded to the faint flickering across the now still woman's skin, the redheaded man looked up, twisted features calmer then before as he slowly approached her.

"...L...Lucy..?" Eyes wide and mouth slack, her pain and fear frozen on the face of her corpse, James frowned, reaching out to her before a light shuffling caught his attention. He jerked his head to the side as his son slowly sat back up wiping the blood from his mouth, only managing to smear it across his face. He blinked, disorientated. "Kyle...?" he breathed out the name, the raging insanity wiped form his features as he looked at the battered child.

Kyle watched the motionless figure on the ground, waiting for her to stand, move, anything. But she stayed still. "...M-mommy?" his voice was rasped and frail.

The calm only lasted a moment, James letting out a sharp scream more-so in fear then the anger he had expressed before. With out another word the man fled the apartment, leaving his only child and the corpse of his wife behind.

[MainAtrium,FortFrolic,1950]

The taste of blood was still pungent in his mouth, probably still staining his skin as well if the few passerbys looks had anything to say about it. The child had wandered aimlessly out of his apartment, not wanting to sit there, alone, in the dark... with a corpse. His face wiped clean of emotion as he stared ahead of him, gaze unfocused. He could hardly see out of his swollen eye by now, but it didn't matter, he wouldn't need to see if he didn't know where he was going in the first place.

A voice sounded from somewhere around him, but he didn't try to find the source; it seemed faded and hollow in his ears. Was it a recording? No, there were hands on his shoulders now, and the voice was closer...

"My dear boy, whatever has happened to you?" Kyle blinked dumbly up at the man speaking to him, his face was familiar. He was famous, wasn't he? An artist, the owner of Fort Frolic. Sander Cohen was speaking to him with concern lining each word though it was too upbeat a tone for real sorrow, "You're the young pianist that plays in that book store, are you not? My God, you look terrible, poor thing." he brushed mused bangs off of the redheads forehead, not waiting for a response before speaking again, "are your parents here? We'll find them later, how about we clean you up?" the hand placed delicately between his shoulder blades pushed him in an unknown direction with the Artist, who tsk'd softly, "no need for tears, little one, chin up."

Kyle reached up to touch his cheeks, fingers meeting the tears now deluding the blood on his face; he hadn't realized he had started to cry.