A/N: And now a new Bioshock fanfic!

Disclaimer: This story is very, very silly, and probably a bit bitter as well. Also, the Bioshock franchise is not mine.

Where am I?

For perhaps the second time in her mad, disjointed life, Elizabeth found herself floating through a seemingly endless void, her body weightless and ephemeral. It was almost exactly like the time immediately after the baptism, when the multiversal paradox had left her hovering between existence and non-existence… except now she seemed to be headed in a very specific direction.

I'm dead, she remembered dimly. Fontaine killed me. And this is… after.

Somewhere in the infinite darkness, light was beginning to blossom across the emptiness. It was the sort of thing you couldn't witness without experiencing a few spiritual thoughts: maybe this was what it was like to enter Heaven – or maybe she was headed towards reincarnation, and this was what it was like to be reborn. The light bloomed, encompassing and enfolding her in its radiance. For the next few seconds, Elizabeth floated calmly in the midst of the dazzling glow, knowing nothing but its brilliance, waiting patiently for whatever came next. Wherever she was headed, it had to be better than Rapture.

So it came as something of a shock when the light finally faded and she found herself in what appeared to be the living room of an extremely gloomy apartment.

And Robert Lutece was shining a flashlight in her eyes.

Elizabeth blinked rapidly as she tried to make sense of the world she'd awoken to. Wherever she was, she was sitting on a ridiculously oversized couch in the corner of the room, surrounded by dilapidated relics of someone else's home: a tattered length of sodden rug, a half-collapsed easy chair, about a dozen dead plants, some old posters in smashed portrait frames, a TV showing nothing but static, and a coffee table clustered with syringes, gun parts and all manner of other junk. Also, the lights appeared to be broken, because everything here was tinged a very peculiar shade of green…

And then realization hit her like a punch in the guts: she was back in Rapture.

Even with her back to the window, there was no mistaking the distinctive emerald glow of the ocean, or the nerve-grinding drip-drip-drip of yet another structural leak. Judging from the décor, she was somewhere in the Mercury Suites – circa 1960.

Somehow, Elizabeth had ended up right back in the hellhole she'd just escaped from, and somehow, she was alive; true, she felt as though she'd just gone five or six rounds with a Handman, but she was well and truly back in the land of the living.

She must have groaned in exasperation, because Robert immediately flicked off the flashlight and glanced over his shoulder into the darkness shrouding the apartment's bedroom. "She's awake," he whispered.

A quick glance behind him revealed that Rosalind was standing there in the gloom, hands clasped behind her back and her face hidden by the shadows. "Let me be the judge of that, dear brother," she said.

"Would it be worth noting she has been through an awful lot in the last few days?"

"So have we. I think we have more of a right to complain than she does."

"Don't you think we should at least wait until she's had time to recover?"

"We've waited long enough, I'm afraid. Now please stand aside; I think it's time we had a very frank and honest conversation with the lady of the hour."

Nodding primly, Robert stepped away from the couch and allowed his counterpart to step into view. Somewhere in the groggy funk surrounding her brain, Elizabeth was dimly aware that the impassive expression was gone from Rosalind's face; now, her normally serene features were locked in what almost looked like a disgruntled frown.

She had just enough time to notice the bucket in Rosalind's hands – before the whole thing was unceremoniously dumped over Elizabeth's head, sending a gallon of ice-cold sea water gushing across her front and down the back of her neck.

With a shriek of alarm, Elizabeth lurched off the couch like a misfired rocket, soaking wet from head to toe.

"There," said Rosalind icily. "Now she's awake."

Elizabeth let out a pained moan; the pain in her head was even worse now. "What was that for?" she demanded. "I'm fully conscious now, okay? Granted, I don't even know how I'm still alive, but-"

"What were you thinking?"

"I… what?"

"After everything we discussed about responsible interdimensional travel, you go and do something like this! I mean, do you have any idea how long we were out looking for you? And after the lecture you gave us on no longer treating you like a child as well!"

"What are you talking about? What did I do?"

There was a stunned pause as the Lutece twins regarded Elizabeth with identically incredulous expressions.

"You can't be serious," said Robert.

"After all the damage you've done?" Rosalind exploded. "All the havoc you caused?"

"You don't remember that?"

"Any of it?"

Elizabeth blinked in confusion, and actually managed to summon up some mild indignation in spite of herself. "Of course I don't remember," she grumbled. "I'm suffering from Tear Sickness, in case you've forgotten."

If anything, the Luteces looked even more confused.

"The consequences of returning to a universe I died in, collapsing a quantum superposition? Losing my powers, becoming an ordinary human? You warned me all about that yourself, remember? It's how I ended up getting trapped in Rapture in the first place."

A distinctly perplexed silence followed, as the two scientists tried to make sense of what they'd just been told. Eventually, the two of them exchanged glances, shook their heads, sighed deeply, and turned back to Elizabeth with looks of weary resignation stamped on their faces.

Robert coughed uncomfortably. "Maybe it would be for the best if you explain exactly what happened," he suggested.

"Or what you think happened," said Rosalind.

"Because, loathe as we are to admit it…"

"We have no idea what you're talking about."

"But you know what happened!" Elizabeth protested. "You were there for the first half."

"Just indulge us, if you please."

And so, Elizabeth – still dripping wet – sat down on the couch and began to explain everything that had happened to her over the course of her visit to Rapture: her initial activities around the metropolis, the steps she'd taken to set a trap for Comstock, her first interview with "Booker," their attempts to seek information from Sander Cohen, the hunt for Sally in the ruins of Fontaine's department store, and Comstock's final death. For the first half of this particular story, the Luteces remained impassive apart from the occasional raised eyebrow, scarcely reacting to even the most brutal moments in the narrative; but when Elizabeth told them all about how the Big Daddy had killed her, the two of them had begun to cast some extremely dubious looks in Elizabeth's direction.

Things only got worse when she continued on to her return to Rapture: granted, she wasn't sentimental enough to mention her dream of Paris and the imaginary Booker, especially now that Rosalind was in full-blown no-nonsense mode, but that didn't do much good. When she explained the loss of her powers, the Luteces went from dubious to just plain sceptical; when she told them of her deal with Fontaine, they started giving her the same faintly condescending looks bestowed upon overimaginative children by long-suffering parents; and when she brought up her dealings with Suchong and her return to Columbia, the two of them reached new heights of confusion.

Indeed, the discovery of Daisy Fitzroy's true motivations prompted an outraged scowl from Rosalind and a thousand-yard stare from Robert, but every time Elizabeth tried to stop and ask questions, they insisted that she finish the story… not that it improved their mood in the long run. Once she got around to the source of her bond with Songbird and the origin of the Little Sisters' pairbond, Rosalind started gently massaging her temples, while Robert could only hide his face in his hands; by the time she reached the part about tracking down the W-Y-K codeword, the two were barely in the mood to react to anything.

Elizabeth naturally concluded her story with her final confrontation with Fontaine, the realization that she'd set the stage for Sally and the Little Sisters to be saved by Jack, and the moment she'd finally died.

When she was finished, Robert threw up his hands and left the room. Meanwhile Rosalind drew a small handheld device from her pocket and – over Elizabeth's stunned protests – began swabbing saliva samples directly from Elizabeth's mouth and inputting them into the machine, grimly nodding over every blip and green light it produced.

A moment later, Robert reappeared, armed with another bucket of water.

This time, Elizabeth actually had a moment to raise her hands in a feeble attempt at self-defence before a second bucketful of ice-cold water hit her square in the face.

"CHRIST!" Elizabeth howled. "What was that for?! I was just reporting the facts!"

"We're very disappointed in you," said Robert sternly.

"Why? In case you didn't notice, I'm the injured party here! I was beaten to death a while ago. Actually, come to think of it, how am I still here? How did you bring me back?

The Luteces said nothing: they just stood there, arms folded, glaring down at her with a mixture of exasperation and outright anger.

"…you didn't bring me back?"

In perfect unison, the twins rolled their eyes.

"Okay then… was it Sally? I mean, it wouldn't be the first time a Little Sister brought someone back to life – it certainly worked for Subject Delta, but-"

The twins shook their heads, once again in unison.

"Alright then, how? How have I come back from the dead?"

This time, there was only a baleful silence.

"…You mean I didn't die at all?"

Once again, Robert hid his face in his hands; Rosalind merely nodded, grimacing furiously.

"Suffice it to say that what you experienced and what actually happened were entirely separate occurrences," she said.

"Wha- you mean I was hallucinating?"

Robert shook his head. "Dreaming might be more appropriate. Hallucinations imply that your perceptions of the world around you were merely distorted-"

"-and from what we've learned so far, you've spent most of the last seventy-two hours completely disengaged from reality," finished Rosalind. "The test I just gave you confirms it: your conscious mind was operating on a completely different narrative than the rest of you, leaving your body, speech and id to their own devices – devices that swung from the merely self-destructive to the openly destructive."

"From the evidence you left behind, we knew you were under the influence of something distinctly psychedelic… but we never expected it would be this powerful. For one thing, you were under the impression that you'd died and lost your powers; is that right?"

"Uh… yes."

"Take a look at your right hand, if you please."

Almost without realizing she was doing so, Elizabeth raised her right hand – and realized with a thrill of shock that her little finger was once again its usual truncated self, complete with the fashionable thimble topping it. For several seconds, she could only stare at it in disbelief: after her first death, she'd almost gotten used to possessing a proper finger instead of the mangled stump she'd had since she was a baby; now, it was back again. And as reality slowly trickled in through the fogbank of exhaustion around her head, she finally noticed something more important:

Her powers were back… though, if Rosalind was right, she'd never lost them in the first place.

"How?" she asked quietly. "I mean, my powers should be gone for good-"

"Because you visited a world where you'd supposedly already died," said Rosalind, faintly condescendingly. "And who exactly told you that was the way interdimensional physics worked?"

"You did."

"In a hallucination – or a dream, whatever you want to call it."

"Whereas in reality, we've returned to the worlds where we died many, many times," said Robert, by now distinctly smug.

"We even interviewed the man who took our funeral photos."

"And he was very shocked to see us alive and well and criticizing his work."

"A fact you should know full well by now: you overheard the conversation between us back in Downtown Emporia."

Elizabeth blushed. A few hours ago, she'd been almost secure in the knowledge that she was doing the right thing – no matter how badly she suffered as a result. But now that she was sitting here, freezing cold and dripping wet, with her head throbbing in agony and the full spotlight of the Luteces' disapproval blazing down on her, those semi-comforting certainties were beginning to evaporate. Now, a surge of embarrassment was sweeping over her, accompanied by a sensation of creeping dread instantly recognizable to anyone who'd ever asked themselves the fatal question "what the hell did I do last night?"

"If nothing I saw was real, then what about Sally?" she asked. "Was she imaginary as well, or-"

"No," said Rosalind. "Sally was quite real."

"Then what happened to her? Is she alive?"

"You're sitting on her."

For the second time since she'd awoken, Elizabeth shot out of her chair. Once she'd had a chance to calm down, she realized that there was indeed something else on the couch almost exactly where she'd been sitting. However, it wasn't a Little Sister; in fact, it wasn't even a human being: it was a battered old poster, creased and crumbled and torn from top to bottom, not to mention pockmarked with stains best left unexplored. More to the point, it also bore the distinctive translucency inherent to items taken from dimensions that no longer existed – just like all the souvenirs Elizabeth had taken from the memory of Columbia.

As was immediately apparent, it was a piece of early 20th century erotica, racy for 1912 but prudish by Rapture's standards: it was a drawing of a woman in an extremely low-cut top, a rather frilly skirt, a pair of fishnet stockings, and a hat that would had been ostentatious in Columbia. Emblazoned across the lower border was the name "SALLY."

"Ah," mumbled Elizabeth. Suddenly, making eye contact with the Luteces seemed very difficult. "Well, at least I didn't kidnap a Little Sister or anything like that."

"Yes," said Rosalind icily. "Because that would have only been marginally more embarrassing than what you've actually been doing over the last seventy-two hours."

"Was it really that bad?"

The Luteces only glared silently at her.

"Um… I don't suppose either of you know what really happened?"

Rosalind nodded. "Most of it. We've spent the last few days following you through the Tears you left in your wake, so we weren't actually there for any of it, but there were several witnesses. In the meantime…"

Without warning, Robert vanished from the room, rematerializing a moment later at Elizabeth's side with a large glass of effervescent liquid in his hand. "Drink this," he advised.

"What is it?"

"My patented hangover cure. It should help ease the headache and numb the bruising to your face. Now, drink up."

"Hangover?" Elizabeth echoed. "Bruising? What actually happened to me?"

"Drink up and we'll tell you."

Elizabeth sighed and reluctantly downed the glass of cure, immediately shuddering at the foul taste: whatever it was, it bore the eyewatering flavour of lemon and grapefruit juice, along with subtle notes of sparkling water, mouthwash, vinegar, sauerkraut grease and industrial paint thinner. Maybe just a hint of formaldehyde – appropriate, given that she currently felt like a zombie.

"Now then," said Rosalind briskly, drawing her notebook from her pocket once more, "the first report we received came from one Manny D. Weiss, a bartender at the Drowned Leviathan in Fort Frolic, circa 1958…"

Manny wasn't usually a fan of dealing with talkative bar patrons.

After all, most of them didn't have anything interesting to say, and with Fontaine's reign of terror still fresh in the memory, there were plenty of boring people determined to get drunk – and only drunk, sadly; no buyers for the special stock these days.

This girl, though, was different.

The look of her was intriguing enough on its own: the thimble she wore over the stump of her pinkie almost prompted Manny to start asking questions. But in the end, professionalism prevailed: in this business, you only asked "what'll it be?" and let the customer do the talking, and more importantly, the drinking. And it was in the drinking that this strange girl had begun really drawing attention.

She'd turned up about half an hour ago, sat down at the bar and immediately ordered a glass of Red Ribbon Brandy, then a shot of Old Tom Whiskey, then a tumbler of Chechnya Vodka. Eventually, she'd decided to actually make use of the cocktail menu, and ordered a Gin Rickey, followed by a Gin and Tonic, then gave up and asked for Moonbeam Absinthe – with a specific request to leave the bottle. Now, she was quite clearly pickled, but the fact that this slip of a thing was still capable of speaking coherently and remaining upright was nothing short of incredible.

Eventually, she'd started talking. Normally, that would have been Manny's cue to turn his brain off, but something in the girl's world-weary tone piqued his interest.

And the things she was talking about…

"My father died this time last year."

"I'm very sorry to hear that, ma'am."

"I drowned him."

"…I beg your pardon."

"Me and almost a dozen of my alternate selves drowned him in a river; it was the only way we could stop Comstock and erase Columbia from history. It was the only way, and he agreed to it… but I miss him. I didn't even know he was my father until half an hour before it happened…"

After that, Manny had been hooked. The girl was quite clearly out of her mind – probably the Plasmid blues, most likely – but instead of spending her time staring at the ceiling and gibbering on about the armada of bloodsucking butterflies descending on Rapture, she told stories: she talked of flying cities, giant mechanical birds, mysterious bulletproof twins with the power to appear and disappear at will, bottled potions that bestowed powers that would have made Plasmids seem mundane, gateways in the fabric of reality, and impossible voyages through time. She'd even claimed to have seen Rapture in the future, though all she could offer on the subject were a few disquieted mutters: "Kashmir," "plane crash," and most prominent of all, "Songbird."

Eventually, Manny's curiosity got the better of him: "What do you do for a living, ma'am?" he asked.

"Not much, these days. I'm trying to find a career, but it's hard when you can't make up your mind where to start looking – and I've got the whole multiverse to choose from. I've tried a little writing, but it's not going anywhere."

"Then, if you don't mind me asking, then how are you paying for ADAM?"

"I'm not. I've never touched ADAM in my life."

Manny's eyebrows thundered into his hairline with a near-audible crash. A non-Splicer on the premises wasn't exactly uncommon these days, but the idea that Baroness Munchausen here had never had a single taste of ADAM in her life was beyond belief.

But perhaps she wasn't a Splicer at all: maybe she was just an ordinary drug addict, probably drinking a lot to make up for the fact that her supply had dried up. After all, she'd said she'd tried a little writing, so maybe she was part of the artist's commune at Dionysus Park; lord only knew those artsy types were always on something. Of course, ADAM was displacing most of the old drugs, so there weren't too many customers asking for them these days… but maybe there was still a small market for it sitting right in front of him…

His eyes narrowed, and he anxiously glanced around the bar. These days, you never knew who might be watching, and his "secret stock" was technically a smuggled item. Granted, it wasn't smuggled from the Surface, but Ryan Security wouldn't care; after all, if they didn't tolerate people trying to poach ADAM slugs direct from the ocean, why would they tolerate his product? And yet… if he could get a repeat customer out of this weird girl, maybe it'd be worth the risk.

Fortunately, the Drowned Leviathan was almost empty, and there didn't appear to be anyone watching from the window. Plus, with customer confidence still recovering from the big Fontaine panic, they wouldn't be disturbed until tomorrow morning.

So, he leaned over the bar and asked, "I don't suppose you're interested in anything stronger?"

As if in answering, the girl held up her fifth glass of absinthe and fixed him with a slightly bleary-eyed stare. "Is there something stronger?" she replied. "I'll take it if you've got it, but I know I wouldn't find Uncle Ewan's Moonshine in this establishment at this point in history, so…"

Without saying a word, Manny slid the antique snuffbox across the bartop towards her, flipping it open to reveal the powdered merchandise within.

For a moment, the girl could only boggle in drunken confusion.

"It's pink," she said at last. "Pink and… glowing?"

Manny grinned. "It's called Searuby," he said. "It's made from a special kind of coral that grows around the old Fontaine Futuristics building. It'll take you places weirder than that, believe me."

He felt it germane to avoid mentioning that users tended to get rather mobile when visiting these places and usually tended to do things entirely independent of their own conscious minds. The marine biologist who'd sold him his first batch of the drug had mentioned "conscious dream states," "mind/body disconnection," and even "Jekyll and Hyde disorder," all adding up to one of the best commercially-available hallucinogens on the market, so Manny hadn't seen any tangible reason not to sell it – or add any caveats to his sales pitch, for that matter.

True, there'd been a few weird stories about certain users frantically humping the windows in attempts to fuck passing whales, only to wake up claiming that they'd been sprinting merrily across a labyrinth of chocolate built over a lake of honey.

And yes, by it was too late to ask his contact about the negative side-effects, given that the poor bastard had vanished about a month after he'd started dealing, but since nobody had cracked down on Manny's business yet, he had to assume that it wasn't due to the coral. At any rate, so long as this crazy bint came back for more, it was all good in his books.

"…how much?" the woman asked.

"Two hundred per gram."

"Really?"

"Hey, Fontaine Futuristics is now off-limits to most of the work crews – and it's not exactly easy to just steal a diving suit and sneak out, ma'am. In any event, the price is set, take it or leave it."

Sighing deeply, the girl forked over a crisp handful of cash over the counter, and accepted the snuffbox along with a straw. For a moment she hesitated, briefly eyeing her near-empty glass of absinthe – almost like a deep sea diver taking one last look at the airlock behind him before taking the plunge. Then, she lowered her head to the small hill of glowing pink powder, readied the straw and took a very healthy sniff.

For almost a full minute, there was silence in the bar as the drug took effect. And when the mysterious patron finally lifted her head from the bartop, there was a brand-new look of resolve and determination in her wildly dilated eyes.

"I have to find a private detective," she said solemnly.

And without another word, she slipped off her chair and marched unsteadily towards the exit, vanishing out the door and into the neon-studded gloom of Fort Frolic – never to be seen again.

A/N: Up next - intoxication antics!

So yes, this is a fix fic. My only compensation is that it's a very silly fix fic.

On a related moment, it might not have been such a good idea to name the human MacGuffin of Burial At Sea Episode 2 after a mission objective from Bioshock that Elizabeth herself believed was a waste of time.