Stepping out of the Tear, the confusion left in the memories' wake clearing as he does, Booker looks around, the sense of déjà vu returning.

"Huh…" He stands in his office, the name DeWitt Investigations plainly visible on the door. The office is almost identical to the one he just left, except for a few key differences; the windows behind the desk replaced by a bulkhead, everything having a distinctly darker look to it, and that the office had been trashed.

"Well, I guess this me had a harder time of it." Striding to the door, Booker stops just as he grasps the knob, his mind finally registering what he'd agreed to; he'd accepted a job to save someone he didn't know save for some strange memories that weren't even his own, from another person of the same dubious connection.

"What the hell was I thinking…?" Booker turns back to the Tear, thoughts of returning home taking root in his mind, a scowl on his face. "Wait…"

With each step, he finds himself slowing, thoughts turning from the comfort of home to the memories, and the nightmare. Remembering the visions, dredging up the emotions they evoke, Booker can only stop and sigh, turning his back on the Tear.

A chuckle replaces Booker's scowl with a smirk, "Heh… I guess she really is important to me… I'd never forgive myself if I abandoned her…" Taking a deep breath and reaching for his revolver, Booker steps out into the new world.


"That… that's not something you see every day." Booker's gaze follows a whale swimming past the glass separating him from the sea, and as it continues on he can only stare in disbelief at where he is; a city under the sea, even after seeing Columbia, struck him as ridiculous.

Rubble and trash littered the plaza below, tarnishing the polished stone, wood and cement floor, the architecture all flowing lines and cold metal. A bronze relief of a man stared back at him, words emblazoned on a stylized red banner, "No gods or kings, only man, huh?"

"Well, one crazy city beneath the waves isn't much different than one above the clouds…" Leaving the door half-open, Booker steps to the railing, looking out onto the plaza. He wasn't anywhere from his nightmare, but he couldn't shake the feeling Elizabeth had been here. "Maybe she was looking for this Booker? But… guh!"

His vision shimmers and blurs, Booker slamming his hands on the railing for support. He feels something wet on his upper lip. Touching two fingers to it, they come away bloody, more trickling from his nose.

"Who's there?" Booker ducks behind the railing as a harsh screech comes from the floor below, carefully peeking over the side, his head still throbbing. At least his vision was clearing.

"What in the hell… what happened to them?"

Two misshapen men, one wearing a box on his head, stand below, a flask of glowing yellow liquid resting between them. Both heard Booker's door slam, both charging for the stairs, screaming and swinging metal pipes with their disfigured hands.

"Whoa buddy, I don't want any trouble…" Booker raises his hands while backing up, trying to calm the crazed men.

"Die!" Booker barely dodges, the pipe whistling past his ear as he sidesteps the charge. He catches a glimpse of burnt, malformed skin and a few rotting, crooked teeth in a gaping maw, the receding gums making them look like fangs. A stench like a week-old corpse assaults him.

"Bad idea, fella." Revolver clears holster, the report echoing in the empty promenade, Booker's first kill in Rapture falling to the floor silently. The second falters for a moment as Booker turns his attention on him. This one wears half a mask, the face that wasn't hidden looking puffed up, like he had a run-in with a swarm of bees. Scraggly patches of hair do little to cover his head, Booker thankful he didn't have to smell this one. The lunatic screams and charges, Booker letting out a breath before pulling the trigger.

"What the hell happened to the two of you?" Booker kneels to inspect the crazed men, "Whatever's going on down here, it's just as twisted as in Columbia."

"They're called Splicers." Booker spins around, bringing his gun up until he recognizes the speaker.

"Lutece." The redhead nods as Booker continues, "What do you mean 'Splicers'?"

"The citizens of Rapture use a substance called Adam to rewrite their genetic structures," Lutece chuckles at the blank look forming on Booker's face, "it allows them to acquire abilities, much like the Vigors in Columbia. Splicers became addicted to Plasmids, this world's Vigors, and have gone insane."

"They're easy enough to put down…" Booker mutters, wiping the blood from his nose and checking the revolver out of habit, "Four left… damn, should have brought extra."

"Hopefully you won't be forced to contend with anything worse. Regardless, the Infusion down there," Lutece motions to the flask, "will certainly be helpful in a pinch. I suggest you take it, then take the elevator up to High Street and find a place called 'Cohen's'. I believe the next Tear is in or near that establishment."

"Fine, but can't you…" Looking up again, Booker finds Lutece already gone, "Guess I'll just figure it out as I go."

Dropping down to the plaza, Booker retrieves the flask, 'Infusion' Lutece called it, déjà vu nagging at his thoughts. "Hmph, might as well get it over with." Downing the fluid, Booker braces himself.

At first, nothing. "Did I just dr-grk!" Pain flares up from nowhere, veins of golden energy running beneath his skin, and then it is gone, a thin sheen of energy appearing, like a second skin.

"What the hell was that?" Panting hard Booker looks himself over, finding nothing out of place. A memory stirs, and Booker can't help smirking, "A shield, huh?"

Rather than continuing on, Booker kneels and slips off the satchel, stopping for a moment as he notices the 'Rapture Tribune' newspapers beneath his other self's office. "Nah, they're probably months old… alright, let's see just what he hid in here…" From the satchel he draws three objects: a silver pocket watch; a packet of black-and-white photographs; and a small stack of cash, twenty-five Silver Eagles and dollar bills each.

"Hmph, at least this'll help some." Pocketing the bills, Booker turns his attention to the watch and popping it open, the hands reading 3:05. "What's this…?" The inside of the watch bears an etching, the same design as the brooch, that of a bird.

Shaking his head with a smile, Booker turns his attention to the photos, the first showing Elizabeth and this world's Booker where he knelt, the next of the approaching Cohen's. Something bothered him about the other Booker; his hair was white and face weathered, but something in his eyes looked… off. The pictures tell the story before his nightmare, the final piece showing the other Booker being run through by a mining drill, Elizabeth looking on with hate in her eyes.

"Comstock…" Booker spat the name, gritting his teeth, "That bastard. He took my name, my face… how the hell did he do that? And Elizabeth… she put him down. Good." He felt the headache again, unfamiliar memories appearing, none making sense.

Shaking off the headache of two sets of memories in his head, Booker cautiously searches for the elevator Lutece mentioned, slipping down the street past abandoned stores, sounds of Splicers within forcing him to find cover.

"This place must have been something before all hell broke loose…" Booker thought as he hid behind a bench. Imagining the lights still working, the street cleared of rubble and trash, Booker chuckles as he imagines visiting the establishments with Elizabeth. Then he realizes it's a memory he's thinking on, not his imagination. He shudders, thinking of Comstock, what he could have been doing here.

He lets out a sigh of relief upon finding the promised elevator, no Splicers or whatever was 'worse' threatening him. Hitting the button once safely inside, Booker leans against the metal wall, retrieving the pocket watch. "3:30… took almost half an hour to get here? Damn." His groan slips through the door as the elevator opens up to a rundown restaurant.

"Of course, it's never that easy…" High Street is massive, and though just as vandalized as Market Street below, still holds a degree of opulence. The source of his consternation, however, is much closer; to the left of the restaurant's exit lays Cohen's, a mob Splicers wearing rabbit masks barring his path.

"How the hell am I supposed to get through that?" Peering around the corner, Booker curses, "Dammit, Lutece. Now would be a good time to show up and 'guide'! How am I supposed to-"

"Welcome, you chosen, you visionaries who appreciate the mastery of Sander Cohen!"

The entrance to Cohen's flies open and another Splicer steps out, wearing a tuxedo and a golden rabbit mask, his arms held wide in welcome.

"Who among you wishes to enter my abode, hmm? Who is worthy enough to witness what I, the master, has wrought?" The mob of Splicers cower before Cohen, partly in supplication and partly in fear, all speaking in hushed voices, seeking his favor.

"No, no, who has the fortitude enough to come forth, without fear, and declare their intent to see my masterpiece?" Cohen spun about, clearly enjoying the mob's adulation, "Certainly not you cowering wretches. Perhaps… the one slinking in the shadows has more spine than he's showing?"

Cohen's gaze turns directly to Booker, the crowd of Splicers following suit. A bead of sweat rolls down Booker's face, barely able to breathe as the Splicers stare back at him, the mob slowly standing while gripping makeshift weapons tightly.

"I-I wish to enter your domain!" Stepping out from the restaurant, plainly visible now, Booker holds his breath, hoping the mad artist would respond favorably.

"Now this is a surprise." In a burst of red smoke, Cohen vanishes, reappearing before Booker in like manner, "Last we met was some time ago. You looked much older, your hair much, much grayer," Cohen emphasizes the 'much' greatly, drawing it out, "how is it you come to me now, a much, much, MUCH, younger man than before, Mr. DeWitt?"

Booker's eyes widen in panic, the breath he held escaping; he had no answer for Cohen, no knowledge of what this world's Booker did, and he could already see the spark of perverse curiosity forming in Cohen's eyes. Curiosity that was certain to lead to wild, sociopathic whims. The Splicing probably didn't help any.

"Well, no matter." Cohen's declaration catching Booker by surprise, he almost coughs on the artist, "You intrigue me, Mr. DeWitt, and that alone is worth the price of admission. You may join me for the first viewing of my masterpiece."

With a dramatic flourish, Cohen spins about on his heels and marches back to the entrance, the Splicers parting before him as he passes.

"Well, I can't pass that up, can I?" Breathing a sigh of relief, Booker cautiously follows Cohen through the Splicers and into the club.

Inside, passing through a series of empty white rooms, Booker steps into the tall, circular shaped main room of the club, a mass of plaster-like bodies sits illuminated by spotlights, forming a tower of grotesque design rising high above. The center of the tower is made up of intertwined bodies, men and women, young and old. The periphery has bodies posing in graceful positions, each row up in a different pose.

"They look almost alive…" Booker must have breathed the words aloud, for Cohen chuckled.

"Of course, I am the master, after all."

As Booker's gaze climbs the twisted monstrosity, the wavering, flickering form of a Tear atop the tower greets him, visible to his eyes only.

"So, Mr. DeWitt, what do you think of this, my masterpiece, this edifice to my genius?"

"It's… unique…" Glancing at Cohen, Booker knew he needed something more, some reason to approach the tower, and to appease this lunatic's ego, "Magnificent, even. But… I imagine that a towering marvel such as this would have something extraordinary at the top."

At first, Cohen remains silent, showing nothing. But a wry smile soon tugs at his lips, "You have a keen insight into the mind of the artist. Come, let me reveal the jewel you seek."

Following Cohen up a winding staircase on the far side of the room, one the darkness hid until he stepped up to it, Booker finds his gaze fixed on the tower. The bodies look so lifelike, it feels uncanny. So distracted by the tower, Booker nearly runs into Cohen when the masked lunatic comes to a stop.

"Here we are, the crown jewel of my masterpiece." Self-satisfaction evident in his voice, Cohen turns to Booker, a crazed grin distorting his already disturbing face.

Booker feels his heart seize up as he lays eyes on what stands before the Tear. Elizabeth's form, eyes closed, kneeling with hands pressed together in prayer, sits atop a dais of bodies, nude like the rest. His heart beats again as he notices she isn't as detailed as the rest.

"She's beautiful, but… that's not the genuine article, right?"

"Sadly, yes. My little songbird died some time ago, her beautiful corpse irretrievable." Booker shudders as Cohen confirms his suspicions about the rest of his 'masterpiece'. "Now, Mr. DeWitt, I think you and I could make something truly unique together."

"Mr. Cohen," Booker slowly glances at Cohen, ready to move, "I am many things, even been called a 'roguish-type' once, but an artist is not one of them. Especially not your kind of… artist. I'll be taking my leave of you now."

"Oh, you can't –No!" Cohen shouts in dismay as Booker leaps, toppling the plaster Elizabeth and ripping the Tear open as he goes. Before Cohen can act, Booker is gone.