A/N: This takes place after Elizabeth's capture by Songbird, approximately the evening after chapter 1.
Chapter 2
At least the chair was comfortable. Being whisked away by a mechanical bird had left its fair share of bruises, as had the less-than-gentle handling by the guards awaiting her arrival. Elizabeth could do without the coarse leather straps at her wrists and ankles, but all things considered, this was the most luxurious position she'd found herself in over the last few hours. Hours. Booker couldn't be too far behind.
When the door behind her creaked open she remained still. Once Elizabeth had been secured in place and left alone—she guessed perhaps an hour ago—she had taken full account of her escape options and range of motion. The raw skin beneath the straps was a testament to that. The headrest behind her curved and extended high up, blocking anything behind her immediate left and right from view. The intruder took their time in the background, shuffling papers and clanking metal lightly together. From the soft click-clacking of their steps Elizabeth assumed it was a woman in heels.
"Hello, dear."
Elizabeth said nothing, fixing her gaze on the wall in front of her. She'd only gotten a passing glance at the room in its entirety before being strapped in, but knew that it was small, only about the size of a bedroom, and besides a table behind her and the chair she was trapped in, there was no furniture. The chair the woman carried into her field of vision must have come from outside.
"My name is Ruth, I'm a nurse." Ruth was a plain woman, not much older than Elizabeth, and dressed in a white uniform, as if proving her position. She had a kind smile—but she was still one of her captors. Elizabeth maintained a neutral expression. That's what Booker would do. "You have nothing to be afraid of, dear. Everyone is thrilled to have you out of that tower and where you belong. It must feel wonderful to be finally home."
Elizabeth supposed long-term prisoners might consider their jails home, after a certain point. That wouldn't happen to her, though. She knew where her home was, it was…destroyed. By Songbird. I'm homeless, she thought, letting it sink in all over again. It was just as much a prison as this place was, but at least there she had full control of her limbs.
"I'm only here to make sure you're still in good physical condition," Ruth went on, that smile never leaving her face. "The last few days…I can only imagine how hard it's been on you. Being kidnapped by that…" she broke off, looking sincerely sad for Elizabeth. Ruth laid a hand on top of hers consolingly. "But Father Comstock must have known it would happen, and never would have allowed it to do so if he didn't know you would come out all right. This shouldn't take long at all."
As if on cue, a terribly bright light from above flickered on, illuminating the pair in a small circle. Elizabeth winced, preferring the softer sconces that dotted the walls. She could see the beams reflected on the upper half of the wall in front of her; the previous dimness hadn't revealed the glass. The door opened, and heavier footsteps came through—men. Two appeared on each side of her and began undoing the straps at her wrists. Her eyes flitted around the room, but no tears had been present when she first entered, and none were popping into existence now. Elizabeth could see by their uniforms that the men were Founders soldiers, and they were rougher than they needed to be—her reputation must have preceded her. Only when one began tugging on her jacket did she panic and recoil away.
"Now, dear, they're only here to help," Ruth chided softly. "We must see all of you, to ensure your well-being."
"And you need soldiers to do that?" spat Elizabeth. They'd wrangled her jacket off of her and one kept a forceful grip on her arms while the other worked on the corset's laces.
"This is for your own safety," the nurse assured her sweetly. Elizabeth's arms were pinned against the headrest and the corset was slipped up over her. "My, that garment can't have been comfortable, but those bruises ought to heal on their own in a few days. Gentlemen, the skirts, please."
Elizabeth felt humiliated, even as the soldiers seemed to keep their gaze away from her. Her wrists lost their freedom before her ankles were unstrapped, and she ground her hips into the back of the chair to keep her skirts from slipping. "Please, dear, you're only dragging this out." Ruth crossed over to the back of the chair and fiddled with the mechanism beneath it, reclining the back to be almost level with the seat. There was an unceremonious clunk as her boots hit the floor. Elizabeth only held out for a few moments before the material flowed out from beneath her, her undergarments soon following, and finally her stockings. She snapped her legs together, but, as if expecting that, they pulled her feet apart to re-secure her ankles.
She wanted to weep. Ever since seeing the two-way mirror in her tower Elizabeth had known that she'd been watched her entire life, that countless people had seen this much of her. But somehow this was so much worse. Her gaze had nowhere else to go but the harsh bright light on the ceiling, so she kept her eyes shut and balled her fists, so as not to give them the satisfaction of her tears.
"Can you describe your diet since being taken from the tower?"
Cotton candy. Hot dogs. The man on the boardwalk had thought Booker was her father. No, sir, actually my father is…no one. It wasn't Comstock, he took her from her parents, whoever they were. She wondered if she'd ever meet them.
"An answer, please."
"Irregular." Elizabeth heard the sounds of scratching on paper.
"How so?"
She chewed on her lip before responding. Information was valuable, after all. "One day we didn't eat at all. Whatever we found had to do. Crackers, fruit. I can't remember." Her stomach growled with excellent timing.
"Well, we'll get that squared away soon enough, once we're done here."
The examination seemed to drag on and on. Ruth went over each limb, testing reflexes and examining wounds. Besides the scrapes and bruises, Elizabeth was as healthy as if she had taken the Lutece infusion instead of Booker. No fever, no sprains, only mild dehydration. "Such a pity about your hair, it was so lovely long." Ruth's questions grew increasingly asinine, and Elizabeth could swear the nurse's grin was becoming audible. She heard more papers being shuffled, then set down somewhere, and sensed Ruth standing at her feet.
"All right, gentlemen. The stirrups, please."
Despite being fully clothed again, Elizabeth felt naked. Ruth and the soldiers had been gone for some time now, the promise of food remaining unfulfilled. The bright light had gone out, the sconces relit, and she was put back into a sitting position, left to glare at the same wall she'd faced before. Ruth's demeanor had abruptly changed during the gynecological portion of the exam—her voice had flattened along with her lips. Her questions grew more curt, her instructions to the soldiers less polite. Elizabeth knew what she'd discovered, and wondered how that would affect her treatment.
It won't matter, she thought fiercely. Booker is coming, he'll be here before nightfall. This will be just one more bad memory. She shifted uneasily against the straps, hissing at the roughness against her now overly-sensitive skin. Every now and then she could hear muffled voices through the walls, but never anything as distinct as words.
The wall in front of her lit up—or at least, the top of it did. Another mirror. Except I can see them, too. Elizabeth strained her eyes to make out the details of the other side, but there was only the yellow, and a fuzzy shadow coming up against it. The black figure became less hazy at it approached the glass, to the point where she could see it was an arm reaching below where the window cut off. A light beneath to illuminate Zachary Hale Comstock staring neutrally at her.
"Hello, dear child." He must have had a microphone, because his voice came from above through speakers she couldn't see. Of course his word comes from on high, she thought distastefully. "I'm happy to have you safe at last, if not as whole as you once were."
Elizabeth wasn't sure if he could even see her face, as dim as the sconces on her end were, but maintained a blank expression all the same.
"I knew the false shepherd would come for you." His voice boomed from the ceiling, and his sadness sounded sincere. "I begged the Lord to spare you any pain, but the flames are needed to forge a worthy blade. In any case, you're home again, as I knew you would be. And the false shepherd will pay for the injustice done against you, dear Elizabeth."
Ruth had said it herself, she was fine besides the odd nick and contusion. No wounds went deeper than her skin, so what was the old man talking about? "I don't…understand." Elizabeth's voice was a croak from disuse and lack of water. "Y-You've got me, why do you need to go after him?"
"Why, to punish him, of course," Comstock replied in surprise. His dark eyes were full of pity—they repulsed her. "The wretch has slain hundreds of my men—our men. It is his way. Like a biting dog, he must be put down." Comstock was still afraid of him, then. Good. "And, worse than I dared to fear, he allowed you to become…despoiled."
Elizabeth's knees twitched of their own accord. Every word counted now, but she had no idea what to say to get her out of these straps—or prevent her from being put somewhere worse. The fright must have shown in her face despite her best efforts, and Comstock's shoulders sagged under his bowed head. She'd never seen the man so humbled.
"Rape is one of the great atrocities of man," he murmured dolefully. "Even in a haven like Columbia, the vermin find their way in. If we had only found you sooner, before you were ever dragged to that vile shantytown…but, we must move forward." Comstock peered up at her through the glass, tenseness writ in every winkle. "It was one of the blasted Vox, wasn't it?"
Elizabeth shivered upon hearing him angry for the first time. Despite his crimes, she'd never seen him lose composure. "W-What are you talking about?" she gasped, suddenly feeling suffocated. "Shantytown? I don't—"
"Yes, that pit of depravity!" he roared, the speakers crackling. "DeWitt must have lost you, yes? And one of those Vox Populi swine found you and forced you!"
"I-I'm not, I—"
"And that damned false shepherd will rue the day he let you come into harm's way," Comstock continued. His gaze was on her, but his eyes seemed far ahead, as if she was invisible. His hands clenched in front of him violently. "That weak-willed coward, whoring, drinking, gutting his way through my city, everything I've built! The sacrifices I've made, my child, all for you, all of them…"
The thought of near-slavery brought on in her name made Elizabeth sick, and she squirmed uncomfortably. Her nails dug into her palms as she willed Booker to hurry up and get her the hell out of here. If a tear would just appear already...she'd become so reliant on them over the last few days, and now felt utterly powerless. Even if one miraculously came into being, however, there was little she could do with whatever lay on the other side while restrained.
"I'll see him drawn and quartered, flayed living, I'll see him beg for Hell's embrace!"
Elizabeth did her best to keep visions of Booker's various punishments out of her mind. She'd only ever touched a firearm to pass it onto him, but nonetheless felt strangely…protective of him now. She couldn't pretend to know of his tendencies before they first met—the whoring and drinking could very well be as true as the gutting certainly was—but he was the closest thing in the world she had to a friend. Columbia would fall out of the sky before Elizabeth allowed the light to go out of those green eyes.
Comstock paused, his voice rasping from the outburst. He took a moment to collect himself, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "God has shown us, time and time again, that only fire can drown wickedness. You'll learn to use it yourself, in due course. And Fink's housing district, that is the source of Columbia's evil. The womb of the Vox must be burned so as to stop the spawn of sin. With any luck, the beast who defiled you will be there to be smothered in smoke—and even if not, he won't get far."
"B-Burned?!" Elizabeth stammered, her throat closing up as if she could feel the embers now.
"Yes, my dear," he answered solemnly, nodding as if they were well in agreement. "I've long considered destroying the lot of them, but Fink…" he sighed exasperatedly. "The man thinks only in money, not morality. He cannot see the sanctuary he's created for the damned. No more—we'll put the torch to it."
"Booker!" she screamed, drawing blood against the leather as she scrabbled to get up. "I-It wasn't the Vox, it wasn't anyone, it was him, it was Emporia, please!" Her breath was as ragged as the prophet's, desperate as she was to convince him against this plan.
Comstock didn't speak for a long moment. He seemed to age even as mere seconds passed, the lines in his face etching ever deeper. His eyes had always been on her face, but for the first time since the beginning of his morbid sermon, he truly seemed to be looking at her. "Elizabeth…what exactly are you telling me, child?"
The freezing calm in his words made her shrink against the chair. She was afraid, more afraid than she had ever been—she couldn't not see the child she coaxed into accepting food in the bar basement. "B-Booker and I, last n-night, in Emp-poria, pl-ple-hease! W-We were near the b-bank, s-some house and…and Shantytown had n-nothing to do with it!"
"You…you laid with the false shepherd?" Elizabeth nodded earnestly, cursing the tears that were streaming down her face. "Answer me, damn it!"
"Yes," she hissed. Her heart was in her throat and still her chest seemed desperate for air.
Comstock looked…lost. For a moment, the anger dissipated. He lowered himself until he was at chest-level with the bottom of the window—he was kneeling? When his hands clasped together and his eyes creased shut Elizabeth understood, but what was he praying for? His silent devotion persisted until Elizabeth could swear she felt her own blood congealing on her skin, and when he finally opened his eyes, there was a loathing that wiped away any physical ache or pain she felt. Only terror was left. Comstock rose to his feet and reached for something out of view. The lights on his side of the glass turned off, leaving her alone with his last words to ring in her ears.
"You'd better hope you bleed within the month."
