'Your name?'
I glare at the masked man standing at the foot of the bed, and snap, 'Booker bloody DeWitt.'
'And the girl's?'
'I don't know.'
He watches me carefully. 'Her first name. You know that, at least.'
I hesitate, and the man's hand strays casually to the button that connects to the electrical charge. My stomach lurches.
'Elizabeth,' I blurt out, and the bullet wound in my side gives a painful throb.
The man nods and scribbles something on the clipboard balanced on his arm.
'Why do you want to know?' I say uneasily, twisting my hands in the cuffs that bind my wrists, making them sting and bleed.
The man looks up at me, his grey eyes locking with mine over the white mask, and says nothing.
I lay my head back on the steel bed and close my eyes. I suddenly feel terribly, terribly tired, and my wounds seem to deepen still further as the scratching of the man's pencil continues.
'Shit,' I murmur, and glance over at Elizabeth. Her eyes are still closed, but she seems...peaceful; untroubled. What I wouldn't give to feel that way myself.
'Father Comstock will see you now, Mr DeWitt,' says the man's voice, and I look up, startled - but he has already left the room, leaving me and Elizabeth alone.
As soon as the tail of his white coat has whipped out of sight, I begin to wrench again at my bindings. The pain is intense; there must be something on the metal that burns the skin. Trying not to think about it, I curl my fingers into a claw and attempt to summon fire to melt the metal away - but nothing happens. Frowning, I try again, twisting my hand into a painful position so it faces the metal - but still, no fire erupts from my fingers; no flames lick my wrists.
'Shit, shit, shit,' I hiss. Then - 'Elizabeth! Wake up!'
A momentary frown creases her smooth brow, before it disappears as she slips back into unconsciousness.
I feel panic tear at my insides. What if she can't wake up?
'Elizabeth,' I whisper desperately, 'Elizabeth, wake up, goddammit!' In my frustration, my metal-bound wrist bangs against the steel table, and a resounding clang echoes around the room.
She starts, and her eyes fly open. 'Booker!'
'Here,' I say, letting the relief wash over me. 'Are you alright?'
'Where...?' She attempts to sit up, but the cuffs yank her back to a lying down position. I watch as confusion and then alarm crosses her face. 'What -'
'Are you alright?' I say urgently.
'Yes, I'm fine... What - why -'
'We're in...some sort of...of questioning room, I think. There was this - this man, and he was asking me my name, and yours, and -'
'Booker!' she gasps suddenly, looking horrified. 'Your - your neck -'
'What?' I say, confused.
'There's a - a wire -'
Dread floods through me, and I turn my head a little, feeling something jab uncomfortably into my neck. 'What is it?' I ask uneasily.
'It's like a - like a wire, I think, and it's leading down and into some sort of machine... But - oh, God,' - her voice hitches - 'is there - is there one in mine?'
I lean forwards a little to see her better, and, sure enough, a long, silver wire leads from a machine similar to the one beside my bed to her slender, pale neck. Blood is spattered around it, as though the ones who stabbed it in didn't seem to fussy about making it neat, and a large, purple bruise is swelling around the incision.
I nod curtly, and she turns away, straining against her bonds. 'I'm not staying here. I won't let them manipulate me.'
'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' I say warningly as she struggles with the metal bands. 'Look at mine.'
She turns, and a mixture of horror and sympathy spreads over her face. 'Oh, Booker -'
'It's alright,' I say quickly. 'Just - just don't struggle, or they burn your wrists. But before we worry about anything else, we gotta find a way out of -'
'That's right, my lamb,' says a voice from the doorway. 'Listen to the False Shepherd. Hear his lies.'
My head whips around - and dread settles in my chest like an icy fog.
Zachary Hale Comstock is standing in the doorway.
