He'd fought his way through the entire forgotten and familiar city. He'd learned who he was and what he was. He had violated his own genetics countless times and he held onto the blue-glowing syringes because he knew he wouldn't be able to do it without them . He knew he wouldn't be able to finish this fight. It was time to kill Fontaine, avenge his father, take back the city, and leave it at the bottom of the ocean to rot. It was time to return to the surface where he could start again. He was alive now, more than he had ever been, his thoughts were electric and countless. Just as one came to mind another surfaced. That's how he knew they were his own. He thought to himself, this is how normal people think, they think a thousand thoughts a second and they manage to make sense of it, so calm down, and take it slow if you must. Tenebaum was hidden with the girls, they were safe and waiting. It was nearly over, he knew that, it had to end now or it'd never end. And he kept thinking, I've taken down this whole city, there's just a little further to go.

But he knew, even then, he didn't have to do this alone.

Fort Frolic smelled like perfume wherever you went. Floral, sweet, almost like a sad reminder of the glory this city had once, briefly, had. It was faint now, like it was coming off the pillow some girl you loved for a night but can't even remember slept on. Yes, Fort Frolic smelled like perfume, the lonely remnant of something pure and good and fun. The Bathysphere opened and immediately that smell hit him. He felt at once uneasy returning there.

Cautiously he took his first steps, the ever-dancing "statues" welcoming him. Almost immediately a Spider Slicer leapt down from the ceiling, landing on the floor like a graceful ballerina. That's mostly because she had once been a ballerina. His hands lit on fire and he stood, prepared. But the ballerina, with a bunny mask stopped. She dropped her hooks and let out an innocent squeal.

"Oh, thank God, it's you!"

He had almost forgotten that the Splicers, underneath their masks and their twisted flesh, were people. The ballerina's name was Michelle. She was twenty-three, and a scout in Sander Cohen's "Rapture's Troupe of Many Talents." Sander Cohen's own personal army comprised of artists, musicians and writers. She had short, brown hair that was singed at its ends. Her white bunny mask was uniquely clean and behind it he could see blue eyes, but that was all. She held his hand gently, pulling him through the maze of stairs, theaters, back stages, clubs, and ballrooms. Fort Frolic was darker than before, the lights were off, it was closed for business, it seemed.

"He's been so distraught since you left." Michelle explains. "He's shut down all our productions."

She takes him deeper into Fort Frolic than he knew it went.

"I guess you're feeling like Alice now." She laughs. "Following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole."

He grew nervous suddenly, realizing he hadn't been paying attention and wouldn't know where to go if he suddenly had to escape.

Finally they came to the end. She opened a door labeled "Back Stage, Employees Only." The back stage was enormous to say the least, it was for their grandest theater where Sander's own productions had taken place. This was a theater built for Rapture's Greatest Entertainment, thus it boasted to be the biggest theater in the world. The back stage was beautiful and ornate, almost decadent. Only the best, for Rapture's best, he supposed. Of course Sander Cohen and Andrew Ryan couldn't let a back stage be simple, nothing about Rapture was simple. And so the back stage was like a cathedral built for the performer. It was here Sander's army now resided and slept and ate together. The make up areas had been cleared, there were dining tables there, and beds where the dancers and ballerinas prepared and practiced. The cathedral was now home.

There must have been fifty, maybe even more Splicers there. When she opened the door they all paused and stopped to look at him. After a moment of fear, they saw it was him, and they all welcomed him as warmly as Michelle had. Michelle tugged at his hand.

"He's this way."

She took him up the stairs and towards the main stage, where he could suddenly hear the sound of a grand piano. A lonely spot light lit Sander at the piano's bench, playing something slow and sad. Michelle stopped to allow Sander to finish the piece and applauded as he did. Sander forces a smile and bows towards Michelle.

"Thank you, dear Angel." He tells her.

"Sander, I've brought someone here to see you!"

She pulls him out of the darkness and from behind the curtains and Sander Cohen's face lights up. He holds out his arms ready to embrace Jack, he takes a step and vanishes in a red cloud, only to appear right in front of Jack, grabbing him.

"Oh, my Little Moth has returned home! I was so worried about you, out there by your lonesome! I feared the worst, you have no idea."

"This means we can start the productions, again, right Sander? I have my dance recital tomorrow!"

"Yes, my Angel, of course! You should see Michelle tomorrow night, she's treating us to 'Swan Lake!' Oh, Michelle, give us a little taste!"

He claps his gloved hands and she leaps to the center stage. He claps a rhythm and hums the songs of Swan Lake as she dances her heart out.

"Sander, please." Jack stops him. "I need to speak with you."

"Yes, my Moth, you can say anything to me." He says as Sander continues to clap away.

"I need to speak to you privately."

Sander stops. Michelle understands. She begins to walk away, but turns back and grabs Jack's hand.

"It's so nice to have you back." She tells him before running off.

"She's a good kid." Sander remarks. "She ran away from home to pursue ballet. When we met she was supporting herself on three jobs and desperately trying to get into a troupe. I told her that night, 'my Angel, you'll never have to work another day in your life, all you have to do is dance, dance for me.'" Sander smiles, he walks off towards the piano bench, dancing to Swan Lake on his own. "She was only sixteen. She's been with me ever since. You have to reward dedication like that. A true love for one's art."

"Sander…"

Sander sits back on the bench and begins tapping at the keys, quietly playing.

"It was like a light went out when you left." He tells Jack. "I thought I couldn't bear it, not again, not so soon. Not even the Masterpiece could warm my heart!"

"Andrew Ryan is dead."

Sander misses a key and pauses. He recovers, and gently continues.

"I see." Sander says.

"Fontaine is planning something terrible. He's got most of the city's Adam, and I think he's planning to use all of it on himself."

"Well, that just sounds like an awful idea."

"I'm going to go to try to stop him."

Again Sander misses a key.

"So you came only to say goodbye? Is that it? You come, to see me at my lowest, and mock me, and leave!"

Sander bangs his fingers against the keys, staring at Jack with all the fury in the world.

"What did I do wrong, Little Moth? After everything I did for you, what more could I have done!"

"Sander, stop it." Jack tries.

"It was never going to be enough, was it!"

Sander rises, his hands becoming engulfed in fire. Jack holds up his arms and remains calm. He has to remain calm.

"Sander. You have no idea how difficult it was for me to leave you." Jack tries. "I've come back because I need your help. I'm going to stop Fontaine, but I can't do it by myself."

"You? You want me to help you?"

"We can end this now, Sander. We can return to the Surface. You can go back Broadway, or go to Hollywood."

He hopes this would bring Sander Cohen comfort, but suddenly Sander shrinks. Sander holds himself, and puts his hands to his mouth, looking incredibly sad.

"Oh. No. I couldn't do that."

"Why not!" Jack yells.

Sander looks up at him, suddenly seeming so fragile. He looks at Jack with fear and shame. He shakes his head, he hates that he must say this.

"Well, you see…" Sander tries to find the words. "I'm really quite insane. I mean. My art is made of dead people…"

Sander turns to the audience, scattered with his statues, his bleeding, dead statues. He looks at them, forever applauding and watching the performance, and he can't help but laugh.

"Heh. Heheheh." He puts his fist to his lips, stopping himself. "Ahem." He swallows hard, trying desperately not to laugh any further.

Sander admits his insanity and it nearly breaks him in two. He can't bring himself to look at Jack, who is exhausted.

"Sander, it's show business, no one's going to notice!"

"HAH!" Sander laughs. "Oh, Little Moth, you always know just what to say to me to make me feel better."

Sander forces a smile, he still holds himself in place, his arms wrapped around himself. But now he at least laughs beneath his breath. He thinks briefly of the idea, could he, would he ever return to the surface? But he feels the familiar throbbing in his head, a headache brought on by Adam deprivation, and he looks again to those bleeding statues and he knows in his heart there is no place for him on the surface anymore.

"But you ask too much of me." Sander sighs. "It's suicide. And…if I am gone who will look after the Troupe? What will happen to Michelle and the others? Who will run the theater? Who will document what's happened here, what will happen here? It's always Ryan and Fontaine, blah, blah, blah! Don't bother yourself with it, you don't have to go! You could stay here! Stay with us. Stay with me."

Sander reaches for Jack's hand, but he steps away. That alone is answer enough. Jack prepares for Sander to become enraged, to fight him. But Sander stops, saddened, rejected again. He sways to the piano bench, sitting down with a loud thud.

"I understand." Sander says. "It's…difficult here. You know, you're a story, we're all stories in the end. The main characters in our own lives. It's up to you how people will remember you. I never intended my story to be so terrible, I mean, a horror of all things… I never intended for it to be that way, it just happened. I can't help it now, just look at this place…"

Jack walks up to him.

"A man chooses, Sander. He doesn't hide behind excuses, or his fears, or other people. He chooses and then he does. My father taught me that."

"Heh. Lovely. I'd love to see your father down here."

"You have."

To this, Sander gazes up at him, like he's seeing Jack for the first time.

"You told me that you loved my father once. Then if you won't fight for me, fight for him. For his memory, for what he intended this place to be, what he wanted to give to you and everyone else."

Yes, he could see it now, in the eyes and the face.

Jack waits, but Sander says nothing more. He looks down and knows that he must face Fontaine alone. He had no other allies, other than Tenebaum and the girls. He buried his fear deep inside him, and he turned away from Sander, knowing Sander wouldn't try to stop him.

Sander suddenly stands.

"Jack Ryan." Sander whispers.

Jack is behind the curtain, heading down the stairs. Sander must yell now.

"That has a nice ring to it! HAH! Hahahaha!"

It was impossible, but there he was, the son of Andrew Ryan.

You could still hear Sander's laughter back stage. Jack didn't even look at Michelle or the others as he left. He didn't need them, he'd find his own way out. They watched him go, not fully understanding why this was all so tragic.

He took his lonely walk to the Bathysphere, passed the dead statues and that terrible perfume smell.

"Brigid." He spoke into his radio.

"Jack! I can hear you now."

"Sander's a no-show. I'm on my way home."

A long silence.

"I want…to see you before Fontaine. See you and the girls."

"We'll be waiting." She said.

He entered the Bathysphere and didn't even notice Michelle standing at the entrance, watching him go.

/ / / / /

More to come.