Elle didn't notice it a first, even as the darkness consumed her … was it a hand? .. Mister B come to save her? Whichever it was, she was past caring and consciousness by the time it reached her. It gripped her, hauling her from the massive pot in a single, easy pull, although the amount of solution within had defiantly gone down by a serious amount, she have obviously drunk a lot of it in the course of her drowning, however all of this was unbeknownst to her, as were so many other things, including the newly fallen bodies of 7 splicer's on the floor, and the corpse of Roz, pinned to the was by a crossbow bolt straight into the bone each fore-arm, and a wooden-stake through her heart.


"-explain it to me one more time then, English"

"Oh for heavens sake, I've already had to explain it once before, why weren't you paying attention then" The accent was British, distinctly British. Cultured, urbane, tremendously civilized and genuinely frustrated. Elle tried to open her eyes, but found that she couldn't, it was like they were glued shut at the eyelids. She tried to move, to use her hands to see if there was anything blocking her sight, but then found that she couldn't move, it was like she was frozen still, unable to move, paralyzed almost totally, gripped by some immense lethargy.

"I was busy"

"Busy? Oh that's very useful, now if your quite finished being 'Busy' hand me that other scalpel"

There was the sound of a tray of objects, metal ones, being shifted around, then the faint sound of something exchanging hands. Then it started, a searing pain in her stomach, continual and unrelenting, it was like being ripped apart and repaired and ripped apart again and again and again by hundreds of thousands of sharp, pointy objects, indiscriminating, indescribable pain. she tired to move, but found that she couldn't, she could only breathe and silently, mentally, scream. Through the emotional fit she heard a grunting sound, then there was a sound of flesh tearing and she felt her stomach heave violently. There was an odd plop, the sound of something metallic being immersed in liquid, followed by a curse.

"Damn implants! looks like this might take a little longer to fix them I thought"

"Fix, you never said anything about fixing English"

"Yes I did, you just weren't paying attention, you were 'Busy', we've already established that point, besides, if I don't remove the implants then that stupid slug buried in her stomach going to kill her"

"Then why not just cut them both out then?"

"Because that would kill her as well, so all I can do for now is remove some of the implants, lessen the pain and the neurological trauma, and anything else which might jump out at us. Unfortunately for the little one, I can't do it any other way, the good Doctor didn't share all her secrets you know"

There was a snort, followed by the sound of exhalation, and Elle's nose caught a slight smell of smoke, and if she could have she would have retched nad cughed.

"How long?"

There was a momentary pause, with some obviously mental calculations being done, Elle felt another pulling sensation in her stomach, then heard another plop!

"A few more hours or so, depending on how much anaesthetic we have left"

"Enough for another … 2 hours at least, speaking of which"

There was the sound of something going pop, probably a cap being removed, and Elle felt another sharp pain in her arm, although this one ended super-quickly, unlike the other one, which was still, still tearing at her insides like a fire. She suddenly felt very tired, very tired indeed, she couldn't feel her stomach hurting anymore. Mentally she gave a small sigh, as she felt sleep begin to grip her once again, but this was a different sleep, a much kinder, gentler sleep.


The next time Elle woke up, she was alone. Her head was hammering, her stomach was on fire, and her hanks were shaking like mad, otherwise she felt absolutely great.

She sat up, her eye adjusting to the dimness of the room around her as she looked down at herself. Someone had removed her dress, the previous one she had been wearing, which mad her a little cross. Mister Bubbles had given that to her, and now it was gone, yet … for some reason that didn't seem to bother her as much as it should. Ignoring that thought and pushing it aside, she looked down at what she was wearing now, a sort of cross between a dress and a suit, coloured grey, with lots and lots of little pockets and buttons and zips and other things, which made her feel a little weird to say the least. She wriggled her toes and found that someone had places a pair of, if odd, socks on them, one was red a fluffy and warm. Whilst the other was blue and white striped and had a hole near where the big toe should go, but otherwise was at least as warm, except for the fact that they were at least 4 or 5 sizes to big for her. So much so that she probably could have used them for tights if she felt like it.

Feeling a little groggy, she shook her head, trying to clear away the veil of tiredness which made her eyelids feel like lead. She was in a room … obviously, the wall were panelled in wood, intricately slotted together to give it the feel that as if the entire room had been carved out of a single piece. The design itself was simple yet complicated, the work of a perfectionist, an artist maybe, yet all of that was lost upon a little girl who had spent most of her life observing corpses as divine messengers. The room was lit by a single bulb, hanging tenuously from the ceiling by a thin cord, every now and again it would either brighten a little, or dim a little more, meaning that her eyes soon began to hurt because of the constant adjustment. The first things which leapt out at her were a beautifully forged crystal chandelier, which had probably once hung where the simple light bulb had been, and an old gramophone … there was something about it … had she seen one before … maybe, somewhere … although where she had seen one she couldn't quite think, it was like there was a massive cloud hanging over her thoughts, a dark, oppressive cloud.

The remainder of the room was filled with materials, books, magazines, newspapers, all stacked hurriedly atop each other in an extremely untidy fashion, grouped sometimes depending on their size or colour, or at least that was how she saw it. However there was one thing which interested her the most, a small, shiny disk of glass, surrounded by a loop of polished brass, through which all she could see was blue … was that the sky … no, not the sky, the ocean. The enormity of what she could only glimpse through a tiny hole scared her, just a little, one little girl against the whole wide ocean, that was how she felt, such a small little girl, lost in all that blue.

She gingerly moved her legs over t the side of the bed, so they were dangling freely, after a few moments of doing little stretches to wear out the stiffness, she pushed herself forwards, and landed n the floor with a small bump! Then it hit her, like a sack of potatoes, a sudden, sharp, excruciating pain in her stomach, which shot like lightning through her body. Lancing through her veins like a fire, striking directly at her heart like a thunderbolt.

Clutching at her stomach, she keeled over like a dying tree, hitting the floor with a loud flump! She had had a stomach ache once, but this was nothing compared to that, it was as if someone had taken liquid fire and poured into her veins, and speaking of veins. She could see the light in her stomach, flowing outwards, consuming her. She felt her little heart flutter weakly on her chest, as if it were about to stop, then the fire reached it, and in a single heartbeat she felt her veins suddenly explode. Another heartbeat, and she felt her veins explode again, she curled up on the floor, the pain was unbearable, worse then before, a dozen times as bad, a hundred maybe, maybe even worse then both of those but together. A third, and just a soon as she thought that she couldn't take the pain any longer, she heard a faint, almost minute pop! right in the middle of her chest. Her poor little heart had given in to the fatigue and stopped dead, unable to take any more strain.

Then for the second time in so many days she drifted off to sleep, except this was different from any sleep she had ever drifted into, not the quiet ones, not the sudden ones, not the dozy ones, not even the kind ones, this one was cold, dark … and nigh on endless!


This was a different room now, although the wooden paneling remained the same, this room resembled a cross between a surgery room, autopsy centre, and a small laboratory. The centre of the room was taken up with a silver, rotatable worktop/operating table with several strap on it for holding down the more … volatile patients. The entirety of one wall were covered in various little sketches and formulae and pictures of autopsied Splicers, spread out and scattered among complex medical charts and scribble notes with instructions, hints and tips of a variety of usefulness and levels of legibility. The other wall was overwhelmed by a massive blackboard, which stretched almost the length of the room, stopping just short of the door, where a small shelf contained about 10 or 11 boxes of chalk, most of them opened.

At one end, there was a sink, where a few remnants of the days operation still swilled around in the corners of the porcelain device. There was also a mirror, flecked with blood, and several metallic pots filled with sharp tools and a small, plastic dispenser containing disinfectant. Off to either side there were a massive pair of cupboards, their twin double-doors reinforced and shielding their contents from the prying eyes of those who would find out what lay within. Up the other end, there was a pair of desks, the leftmost strewn with vast amount of paperwork, most of them with different collared notes attached to them with paperclips as an indication of their importance. There was also several trays of medicinal tools, scalpels, tweezers, drills and lots of other more gruesome tools, some of which you would expect to find in the dungeons of Viktor Frankenstein then in a small office under the sea. The rightwards one was covered in what might resemble more of a child's chemistry kit then a scientific genetic laboratory, test-tubes and Bunsen burners boiled and smoked strange coloured liquids, giving the room an extremely warm and moist feel. On the floor, tucked just out of view, there was what appeared to be a still-beating heart in a glass jar filled with green liquid, where it continually beat out a strange, calming rhythm. However the atmosphere in the room was far from calm, far, far, far from calm.

There were three people in the room, discounting the small child who lay, mildly unconscious on the operating table. One of them sat in the corner, leaning back on a wooden chair, the joints creaking every now and again. In one hand he held a cigarette, taking a puff of it now and again, fuelling the acrid atmosphere of the room. He was dressed in a long, brown trench coat, which had been with him through the trenches, and the oceans, and the beaches and now to the depth of the ocean, it still had the insignia on it, a man wielding a spear and riding a Pegasus, on each shoulder. In places there were patches which hid bullet holes and plasmid burns and generally unpleasant stains, but its creased surface was generally well-worn, but he probably wouldn't get a chance to get a new one so he stuck with it. His feet were booted, bug, black ones with steel-toe caps, as his commanding officer had once told him:

"These boots, you use them for three things and three things only. Kicking in Doors, Windows and fucking Nazi Skulls. Use them for anything else and you'll be the one polishing them till they shine like damn sunbeams"

Of course, then the war had ended, and being a solider had become 'out-of-fashion' so to speak, but then a Mr Andrew Ryan came a calling. He was looking for men, tough, dependable me to help him with some enforcement for a little … project which he was working on, and he had jumped at the opportunity, like so many others. Taken deep under the sea to do Ryan's bidding … until he went mad. He was one of the lucky ones who got out alive, although he almost did end up on Ryan's wall with a spike through his skull.

The next man was a little older, probably being in his late 40's, or perhaps older, the slight indentations on either side of his nose indicating the heavy usage of glasses. His hair was almost completely grey now, and beneath his nose there was a slight, bushy moustache which helped keep his upper lip warm. He was dressed in a white laboratory coat, heavily stained with red and green and a variety of other colours beneath which he wore a suit, and he was one of the few sane who did, and his shoes were suede, black and polished. His face was pockmarked with wrinkles, both through age and stress, and he had a burn scar on his cheek. His hands were veined yet steady, and he was missing the top portion of his ring finger, the price he had paid for getting to close to a Splicer which he assumed was dead, he had got his ring back in the end, but it had been a bit bloodied. He had a slight stoop to his motions, as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, and sometimes muttered to himself in an urbanely British accent, formulae and sequences and equations pouring out of his mouth at odd times.

The last man was younger then the other two by a great comparison, Russian, early 20's at least, if not younger. His sandy-blonde hair still had that sheen of youth about it, as did his face, even if his forehead was a little lined, but that was recent. He was dressed much more casually, beige shirt, rolled up sleeves, and a pair of brown trousers held up by a pair of suspenders. At his waist in a holster was a revolver, which had had quite a bit of work done to it, little tweaks and additions. On the surface he had been an engineer, electrician, plumber, welder and a half-a-dozen other careers despite his youth, and all of that 'technical' knowledge came in handy down in Rapture leaking underworld. Out of all of them he was the most silent, only voicing his opinion when he felt it necessary, unless he was excited, then you could never shut him up.

Of course, the little girl didn't know anything of this, it was yet to be revealed to her, even as she stirred a little they were talking. The scientist, earlier identified as 'English' fiddling with a variety of chemicals and compounds, the Russian watching him intently, maintaining both a not of interest, and of watchfulness. Even as he bustled with various medicines and chemicals, English was still speaking, getting a little crotchety in his old age, he had his back to the Smoker.

"- and your definitely sure about this?" his voice betrayed a note of curiosity

"Yep, Rozella was cooking up another of her 'cocktails' as she liked to call them"

"Liked?"

"Well I killed her obviously"

There was an odd patting noise, as the Russian gave English a firm pat on the back, whoever the face of the aging man was set.

"Comrade, we all knew you had thing you her until-"

"Before she flipped her lid!" This was a new voice, effeminate and with a slightly Irish drawl to it, followed by light footsteps on the wood, there was a faint breathe of cool air and the faint sound of a door shutting quietly.

She was tall and slender, one might almost describe her as upper-class, and indeed she had considered herself to be, until Rapture went to Hell. Now there was no 'class' so to speak, just the sane and the insane, and she was definitely one of the sane. She wore a simple dress, loose-fitting and hard-wearing, the way they should all be really, that was they don't get in the way. In a similar way to the Russian, she tore also wore a pistol at her waist, except that hers was unmodified and had seemed a little sleeker then his in places, a German Luger, which she had … 'liberated' from its previous owner, a German Officer who really had never understood the phrase "Don't Trust the Irish" until when she shot him with it.

The Smoker lent forward on the chair to select a cigarette, lighting it using his old lighter as English continued after the interrupted.

"Yes … well, she was never quite the same after her first course with Steinman"

"An you t'ink anyone was English?"

"No … anyway, what were you saying about a cocktail?"

There was the sound of scraping wood on stone, followed by the creek of wooden joints and a loud exhalation as the Smoker took a loud puff, leaning back in his chair to continue his story

"Lemme see … Every now an' again Roz would find 'erself a bunch a lunatics who was willing to 'elp her. Somehow, an' a wish I knew how, but she was always able ter' get hold o' massive quantities of Tonics an' Plasmids. Then the crazy bitch would stick it all up in one great big cauldron, pot, empty barrel, anything that could hold liquid, then she'd cook herself a nice witches brew an' share it out. Problem was, taking the stuff in that sort of concentrate kills you stone dead, unless you mix it with ADAM, of course … Roz nevah told'em that, so 7 or 8 Splicers later Roz has all the ADAM she needs to drink it safely."

There was another deep breathe, followed quickly by another smoky exhalation.

"Of course, that was when this little blighter ended up falling in it somehow, of course, that ticked Roz off something nasty, then sh-"

The speaker was cut off however, by the sound of glass smashing, followed by the acrid smell of scorched chemicals and sulphur, there was a stunned silence.

"Y-y-y-your not serious … she actually fell in it!" English stuttered, his tone clearly showing shock

"Well yeah English, why else do you think she was laid out the way she was when I brought her in. I mean be a bastard at times, but I don't beat up little girls"

There was the loud sound of stomping feet, which seemed to fade a little, English crossed the room in four strides, his expression one of the utmost, righteous fury as he bore down on the Smoker like a hurricane.

"And yet you failed to mention this earlier!"

"Well it sorta slipped my-"

"You idiot, it perfectly fitted my hypothesis of why she collapsed all of a sudden, and yet you neglect to tell me that she downed enough Gene Tonic and Plasmids to kill us all instantaneously!" the annoyance in his voice was about as plain as the missing part of his finger, he was ticked, severely.

"but … she's still alive, why isn't she-"

"because she's a Little Sister! her veins are already stuffed full with ADAM, I wouldn't be surprised if she sprouted wings, forget wondering why the defibrillator didn't work!"

"So what are you going to do about it English?" The Irishwoman cut it, her expression slightly concerned, yet none of that was betrayed in her tone, she was seeking more to stop the argument then to inquire.

"Me? … nothing I can do, except wait and see what happens after her genes re-sequence" English said, placing his hands in the pockets of his coat and pulling out a small torch, checking both of the little girl's eyes by peeling back the eyelids by shining the light in them, suddenly turning back to the Smoker with an admonishing look on his face

"if they haven't been shredded completely"

A deathly silence followed, broken only by another exhalation of smoke and the fizzing and bubbling of chemicals, the Smoker said nothing in response, in fact it was the Irishwoman who spoke.

"Is … is that serious?"

"I don't know … maybe, the extreme quantities of ADAM in her system might be able to hold her genes together long enough for her body to naturally re-synch them together, but it'll be touch and go for a while"

"What if she wakes up?"

"Well if she does, you'll be the first to know about it, as soon as the anaesthetic wears off there's going to be more electricity running through this room then there is coming out of Rapture's core"

"Why?"

"Why do you think? There's enough ADAM stored in her body to fuel a nice Plasmid spree, and if my Math is correct, which it mostly is, 1 ADAM is equal to … roughly … well I have no idea"

English broke off his speech and, plucking a piece of chalk from a box, began doing some hurried calculations on the blackboard, which continued for several moments until he finally gave a grave reply.

"It all depends on quality, and I don;t have the right equipment here even if I did, but that's besiede the pintand her body is going to burn off all of the excess ADAM it can in one massive shot"

"So what do we do?" an obvious question to say the least, but they were in Rapture, and some things you could and couldn't do, even if society had goen to hell, there were still things you just didn't do.

"Well … if we were in a hospital … I'd stick a lithium rod in her arm, fireproof the room and leave her for a week to burn off the excess power, but since we can't do that, we'll just have to lock her up here for at least twice that long and hope that there is something left when we come back" English seemed t pause, as if he was willing to contribute more to the discussion, but then turned back to his blackboard and began scribbling more notes, at an even faster pace then before.

"So she's a ticking time bomb for two weeks, AND she may not survive it?"

"Essentially … yes, Mags, although shouldn't we be worrying about us, rather then her?" There was a note of finality about that statement, punctuated by a sharply dotted 'i' on the board.

'Mags''s expression was one of complete genuine lacklustre, however she was the first to notice something the other had not, something very, very simple, but would surprise them all.

"You do realise she's awake?"