With Friends Like These

by misterbubblesishere

He needs a way out of Rapture and she needs a cure for her ADAM-induced insanity. He's got a plan and she has knowledge that will prove to be very useful to him—that is, if they don't manage to kill each other within the first five minutes of meeting each other, this arrangement just might work out. (More detailed description inside, rated M just to be safe.) [ON HIATUS]

16. Chapter 16

After another long wait the next chapter is finally here. Sorry about that but it's pretty expected by now I guess. I'm not going to make excuses this time or sugarcoat it—I've lost a lot of passion for this story since I started it, which probably ties into the inconsistent updates. The consistency is all over the place, character development is not as far along as it should be and is sometimes completely out of left field. Plotwise it's going pretty much as intended but I feel everything else is another story. I'm not trying to make excuses here—I have no one to blame but myself for my inconsistencies and I shouldn't have to make you guys deal with them. At this point I'm just trying to finish this thing up so I can be done with it and move on. That said, this chapter is probably my favorite chapter so far, because it was pretty fun to write, even if it happened way too late in the story. Ah well. Hopefully the next chapter will be out soon, but until then, please enjoy this latest installment. Thank you again for reading!

---

The last time he'd attempted a conversation with El, it hadn't gone well.

They're still inside Cohen's apartment, Jack sitting on the platform across from the entrance smoking a pack of cigarettes he'd snagged from the kitchen—it had been too long since he'd had one, and he wasn't planning on quitting until they were damn well shut of this place. Let him worry about his deteriorating health after he's done fearing for his life. Sally had given him a dirty look once she'd "caught" him, but for once he doesn't give a shit what she thinks—any little bit of stress relief he can get, he'll take, even if it'll kill him. Eventually.

Speaking of.

Jack looks El's way, ahead of him—she's looking passively at Sally, who is trying and mostly failing to use the splicer as her new jungle gym after he had refused. El looks far from pleased but doesn't seem to be doing much to stop her. He watches them idly for a few moments, snickering at Sally's futile attempts to clamber up the almost seven-foot-tall monstrosity. His eyes travel, unbidden, to Elizabeth's face, settling on her transparent jaw and her mismatched eyes.

She had been beautiful once, hadn't she, if that Songbird poster was to be believed. Jack supposes she still is, in a very loose and haunted sense of the word. He can still see her former features, hidden underneath the ADAM abuse and its side effects. The soft jawline, obscured by frost and invisible flesh, and those eyes full of sorrow in that poster and even now—he wonders which eye color is her natural one, or maybe she'd had heterochromia all along. Her hair is now matted and tangled, hanging in a poor imitation of loose curls around her face. Didn't she used to have it up? He looks for the ribbon on her person, finding it tied around her wrist—the same wrist that's pushing at Sally's face, trying to get her off.

He thinks back to the bathysphere before Olympus Heights.

El had attacked the bathysphere. Why she'd done it is still a mystery to him—she hadn't been undergoing one of her mental shifts and she hadn't seemed particularly pissed at either Jack himself or Sally. He hadn't brought it up again afterwards, not seeing any point in it. She probably doesn't even remember that it happened. The kid had gotten scared, worried—he didn't blame her—she'd screamed at Jack to—

Kill her.

And he'd said no.

Why had he said no?

Hadn't he planned to shoot her in the face the second he was done with her? Didn't he push a gun into her face the second she went apeshit that first time? He'd never intended for her to come with them—he'd told Sally that it was going to be just them, or at least he thought he had. That thing was never supposed to be part of the equation—and isn't it strange that he feels weird even thinking about her as a "thing" now? She's not a fucking object. El, or Elizabeth, or whatever the fuck she wants to be called, isn't a damn prize to take home just so he can feel better about himself and his choices. She's not a thing.

But, he realizes with a sinking feeling, that's exactly what she's been to him so far. That's what he's been thinking of her as. Just another way to assuage his guilt and prove to everyone else that he isn't a total piece of shit. The only reason he'd been hesitant to kill her at first was because of Sally and her attachment to the strange splicer, but that had diminished significantly since the third time she went nuts. Sally wants nothing to do with the woman.

So why does he?

He doesn't know why he changed his mind about killing her, or when. He doesn't know why he didn't follow his gut, Sally's orders, and his initial plan when it came to dealing with the creature. What had changed since they'd met? They hadn't had any real interaction, not like he and Sally had. They'd never bonded or even held a conversation that lasted more than ten seconds. He'd tried exactly once, and that hadn't worked out well. But maybe...maybe there were smaller moments in between. Not big enough to make a deal out of, but maybe they were just enough to get her underneath his skin. Maybe she'd gotten him just curious enough to want to know more, and that was why he was hesitating. It couldn't be because he'd come to think of her as an actual friend. He'd never thought of her that way before, even though she herself had stated it to be true multiple times. If El isn't his friend, though, what is she?

She's not just a poor chance at redemption for his own mistakes, he knows that. He wants to think he's better than that, even if it isn't true. El is a victim, of Ryan, Rapture, everything this drugged-up Wonderland promised to be and never was. She's her own fucking person. And, Jack realizes with an odd lump in his throat, he has no idea who that person is. He knows nothing about her, and chances are, neither does she.

First I've gotta find the girl, she'd said in that audio diary. If I don't have that girl in my arms in the next ten seconds, I won't hesitate to hurt you, she'd told Jack himself, all the way back in Fontaine's department store. She—well, past her, anyway—had wanted Sally for something. Neither El-izabeth or her former self had said what exactly, but Jack can't help but be curious. What was so special about her that Elizabeth was willing to kill for? Sure, he likes the kid well enough. He'd killed for her as much as for himself before. He'd made a promise to the girl though, and they had a partnership-type relationship going on.

El, as far as he was aware, had no such relations with her. It sounded like she didn't even know Sally when she had set out to find her. But it also sounded like that Comstock was bad fucking news, and Elizabeth was set on rescuing Sally from him, whatever that entailed. Why did she need rescuing? What had Comstock done to Sally and Elizabeth?

I am his victim, she'd pleaded with Sally then, reaching out to her. As are you.

Sally hadn't known what she was talking about either, he recalls. But then, she was a Little Sister. She didn't remember much of anything about her past. Whether that would change upon curing her is still a matter of debate, and something he doesn't want to dedicate the brainpower to right now.

He doesn't quite know what to make of that statement. Victim of what? What had this Comstock done that was so terrible, Elizabeth had likely sacrificed herself to stop it? He wants to ask her about it, even if she doesn't remember, even if it doesn't matter anymore. And, he notes with a wayward glance at her severed pinky, a small part of Jack is afraid of how she might react if those memories resurfaced. If she even wants them to.

Yeah, the last time he'd tried to talk to her had gone swell.

Realistically, he knows it wasn't exactly his fault—she'd gotten distracted by her own voice coming through the radio, and that had sent her into another fit of psychosis. He hadn't made that happen, and he had certainly had no way of knowing the effect it would have.

Would piecing together her past make things worse, he wonders? The first time she'd encountered something from her past, she'd flipped the fuck out and tried to kill them, and the second time...God, he doesn't even want to think about that. Those two events happened awfully close to each other, and he still finds himself waiting for the next snap. Surely it can't be that far away. He wonders if the next mental shift would be the last—for better or worse. The next time she snaps, she might not come back. He might have to go through with his original plan after all.

He still has so many questions. What connection did she have to Fontaine? That, surprisingly, is the least of his questions. Sally had said that El first died when she'd given Fontaine the key to controlling him. But why the hell would she do that? What did she have to gain? Something about El exchanging the Ace for Sally comes to mind, but he can't recall the details right now. Of course, he has questions about El's past too. What the hell are 'tears', and why do they seem to be connected to her severed pinky? Who the hell are Booker and Comstock, and what had the latter done to warrant such hatred? What consequences did he need to face, why did she feel the need to confront him? Why had she come to Rapture in the first place? Last but certainly not least, who the fuck was the dead girl back in the Toy Store? An exact replica of El's former self, somehow, pierced through the heart by a steel beam. When had that happened? How? Who was that? If he somehow discovered the truth about Elizabeth's past, would he find out?

Why does it matter?

He sighs, leaning against the giant poster and turning his attention to Sally instead. El hasn't gotten tired of her antics yet, surprisingly, so Sally continues to grab at every inch of her that she can, yelping when she finds she can grab onto a transparent section of El's left forearm. El lets out a noise that resembles some kind of chuckle, and Sally takes that as an invitation to continue. The bandages that had once adorned her arms had disappeared at some point, leaving bare skin that is almost see through in several places. Small sections have a faint purplish outline—Jack figures that's probably thanks to Peeping Tom. He wonders, briefly, why he has never shown side effects of the Plasmids he's consumed. Perhaps he has Tenenbaum and Suchong to thank for that.

After a few minutes of El trying and failing to get rid of the little brat, Jack's mind wanders to the real situation at hand. He doesn't know what they should do next—find Tenenbaum or find the bathysphere? Both need to get done, but he's not sure which one should take priority. They're almost out of here—just a few more stops and Rapture will be far, far behind them. Just a few more hours and they'll either be seeing the stars or feeling the sunshine. If they want to find Tenenbaum, they have to do it now. He has the sudden realization that if she is still down here with them, maybe she and the other girls are stuck too. Maybe Tenenbaum had nothing to do with the bathyspheres. In which case...they should probably find theirs first. A, so that Dr. Frankenstein doesn't steal it out of spite, and B, so that if that does turn out to be the unfortunate case, they have a chance to get out too.

He avoids thinking about why he should care—after all, Tenenbaum had just left him to die. He hadn't heard from her since the Fontaine thing, despite a few attempts on his part to reach out. Jack's not stupid, despite evidence to the contrary. He knows there's a very real possibility that they're already topside, having taken whatever rescue came to look for survivors of that plane crash. He also knows that there's an equal probability that she's stuck here the same as him, but unlike him, she doesn't have anyone to watch her back. She's got at least a dozen brats to look out for too, all cured and therefore incredibly vulnerable.

Why should he care whether she gets out of here or not? He takes another drag from his cigarette and notes with no small amount of disappointment that the stick is almost depleted. He fishes around for another one and sets it alight, snuffing the previous one out on his ruined slacks.

"Stop," El says, and Jack starts, looking up only to realize she's talking to Sally. Her tone is annoyed as she attempts to shake the Little Sister off, lifting her arm and letting the girl dangle there. She frowns, jostling the limb, but Sally refuses to yield. She giggles, ignoring her, and El sighs, grabbing the girl and setting her down, only for Sally to immediately try again. El pushes her aside, walking away, and Sally follows, grabbing at her as she goes and laughing.

"Where are you going?"Jack has to ask, removing the cigarette from between his lips.

El looks back towards Jack, motioning to Sally with an annoying flick of the hand. "Wherever Little Bird is not," she mutters, glaring at the child. Sally, to her credit, doesn't seem offended. "Annoying bird."

"Like a woodpecker," Sally chirps, grinning. Jack half-expects her to start smashing her nose into El's arm in imitation of one, but thankfully she doesn't. He doesn't know why that image even comes to mind. He bets El would actually throw her across the room if she tried, and the last thing he needs right now is a screaming seven-year-old. "What sound does a woodpecker make again?"

"If you don't remember, how do you know that they're annoying?"

Sally has to stop at that, slackening her grip on El just long enough for the woman to shake herself free and run off towards the kitchen. Sally ignores her, thinking hard. "I don't know. Birds sing all the time. Doesn't that get annoying?"

"You are annoying," El calls from the kitchen. He thinks he hears her rummaging around in the cabinets—what for, he can't imagine. He has to laugh at that statement though, which earns him a dirty look from Sally.

"I don't know," he says, ignoring the intent behind the glare and addressing her question. "I think I know what birds sound like, but I'm not sure I've ever actually heard them."

"Huh." Sally's face, when she looks at him, is a mixture of emotions, but he can't determine a single one. Finally, she sighs, shrugging, the thought sadly doing nothing to deter her hyper demeanor. The kid looks up at him and grins. "I want to find a woodpecker when we get out of here."

Jack places the cigarette in his mouth again. "If we get out of here. Besides, they aren't pets."

"When, Jack. When," Sally corrects him, coming to a stop underneath the platform base. "We are gonna get out of here. And then," she sits, fiddling with something in her hand, and looks up at him. "I'm never going to go near water ever again." With that definitive statement, she nods to herself and doesn't say another word. Jack follows her lead.

---

He is strangely beautiful like this, El thinks, cocking her head to the side as she studies him. Ace had fallen asleep against the giant poster sitting atop the raised platform in the entryway. Little Bird, strangely enough, is not with him—but she is still in sight, dozing off in a moth-eaten leather armchair not far off. El looks off to the side, gazing at the child. Something resembling a melted plastic doll is clutched in her tiny hands. El wonders why Little Bird isn't sitting next to Ace—they seem to be inseparable. Little Bird loves Ace.

El turns back to the man, crouching over his body. He is still except for the gentle rising and falling of his chest—the only indication he hasn't died from sheer exhaustion yet. Her eyes travel from the metronomic rhythm of his chest to his face, watching with great interest as he slumbers on, for once experiencing some semblance of peace. She wonders what he's dreaming about.

She can only describe the expression on his face as...blank, she supposes. Peaceful is not the right word—even in sleep, he is tense, constantly on guard against an enemy El cannot see. When he is awake, his countenance is always changing, shifting—one moment, twisted with sarcasm, the next, emboldened with anger—and still after that, contorted by doubt and distress and maybe the barest hint of terror. No matter the emotion, it is always accompanied by an underlying, barely perceptible weariness that El can for some reason completely understand.

In sleep, he is not awake to experience that, to feel, and so his face is at rest, peaceful almost, and in sleep, he is not awake to spit words at El or scold Little Bird. He is not awake to object to her staring or to wonder why her meathook is traveling along the side of his face. El is careful not to catch the sharpened tip along his smooth skin—Ace would probably be very upset if she hurt him, even by accident. El can see the almost feral beauty of his unmarked skin, spared from the tiny scars that accompany close brushes with bullets and the longer, thinner marks left by Spiders with their heated hooks. There is nothing there to suggest that a Plasmid has ever been thrown in his face or any other part of his body, though El knows that this is not true. There is something almost delicate about those unspliced features, left undefiled of the usual trademarks of heavy ADAM usage. The features do not reflect the man inside, the person he is or has become. El does not know which is right.

His skin is so...smooth, El muses, as she brings the tip to circle underneath his left eye. She doesn't know what color they are—she had never been permitted to get near enough to confirm, but they are either green or blue. Possibly a mixture, a constant shifting between the two. Blue, green—it does not matter. They are both the same color. She unthinking reaches up to her own face, touching the underside of her green eye. In sleep, he twitches again, and El almost takes his eye out. She removes the curved blade from his face—but not quickly enough.

Ace bolts upright, perhaps sensing her intentions—or maybe his worst terrors have followed him into slumber. His breathing is ragged as he quickly scans the room for an invisible enemy, his hand flying to his gun and flicking the safety off. His chest is heaving in a rapid fashion as he scans his current atmosphere, the lingering drowsiness apparent in the way his head sways back and forth just a little. Ace's stance is tense, ready to spring into action—his shoulders are squared, his jaw is set and his hands are curled into claws that could close around someone's neck as easily as they could tenderly cradle Little Bird. Ace is turned away from her, but from what she can see of his face, it is contorted into a terrifying cocktail of horror and hatred, raw and unfiltered. A bitter burning fury that threatens to destroy everything it lays eyes on. But there is something...something else, too. He seems...lost, El realizes, and something inside of her aches for him. He is confused; he does not yet remember that he is safe as long as he is with El. She would not hurt him—she would kill anyone else who tried. Ace and Little Bird—El's friends.

He stops suddenly. His other hand, the one not resting on his gun, rises to his face underneath his left eye, where she had scraped him. He wipes the trail of blood away, looking at the crimson streak on his hand incredulously. He starts to say something, mumbling incoherently, but El does not get the chance to ponder who he is addressing. As quickly as he had woken, Ace turns around and falls off the raised platform, startled by El's presence behind him.

"Who—what—I don't…" The words come out of his mouth, but he seems surprised that anything comes out at all. Though his expression is one of malice, the look in his eyes conveys confusion and distrust. Then suddenly—recognition, and his features immediately relax into his natural surly expression tinged with exasperation. "El."

"Hello." She cannot help but be worried for Ace, but she knows that he will be upset if she mentions it. "I am sorry for hurting you." At Ace's bewildered expression, she elaborates, holding out a hand to him. Helping him up; showing him that El is not a threat. El is not an enemy, and she is not invisible. "I was...watching you," she begins slowly, not sure how he will take this. El sees nothing wrong with it. Ace is a different story. A very fascinating story. She will learn how to read him one day. "You sleep, I watch. Ace is...very interesting. But…" she sighs. Shrugs—lets her arm drop when Ace refuses to take her hand. Out of dislike or confusion, she doesn't know—-she doesn't care. "Blade was too sharp...it should not have touched Ace's face. I am sorry."

Something seems to clear in his mind. Ace blinks a few times, shakes his head once—then nods, grabbing El's fallen hand and using it to hoist himself back up upon the podium. "Thanks for the apology...I guess."

El nods, satisfied, and Ace looks at her with an unreadable expression before falling silent. He seems content to let the conversation drop there. She, however, is not.

"You are very pretty."

"What?" He looks up, surprised. His face goes flushed—his gaze softens, and it takes El a moment to realize he's blushing. He seems almost embarrassed as his mouth twitches into what is almost a smile. "I—uhm—" He manages to look her in the eye, or somewhere very close to it. He clears his throat, attempting to hide his emotions. He blinks, almost uncomprehending. "Thank you."

El nods, pleased that he agrees. "Oh yes, very pretty," she murmurs again, cocking her head to the side. Better angle this way—better to study him with. "Your face is so...symmetrical." She brings a hand up to cup his face, but when he moves away at the last second, her hand circles his cheek and comes to rest underneath his chin. She tilts it upwards, exposing his throat and ignoring his sound of protest. "If I had a…" she pauses, searching for the term. She taps the underside of his chin with a ruined fingernail as she waits. Ace looks thoroughly uncomfortable now, eyes darting to the side where Little Bird still rests. "Meat cleaver." That gets his attention—he looks back to her, eyes widened in something she pretends is not thinly concealed horror. "Yes...a meat cleaver, right down the center. Matching halves, very important. So symmetrical."

"Okay," he says abruptly, grabbing her wrist and tossing her arm to the side. He touches his neck briefly, swallowing hard as he glares at El. "We're done with that." When she doesn't respond, he scoots away from her, a hand going to his gun as he makes a point to avoid her gaze. He throws his legs off the side of the platform, his back facing her. His shoulders are tense—he is scared. Oh...that was not her intention.

An apology is on the tip of her tongue, but she thinks better of it. She lets the uncomfortable silence stretch on, and so does Ace.

He wipes some more blood off of his forehead, where the blade had travelled to. El watches him. Waiting, perhaps, or simply observing. A compelling creature to be sure...if she could study him properly, the way things are meant to be studied, she's sure she could crack him. She could discover what drives him, what makes him tick, what makes him so perfect—how he could be so flawless when El has done nothing but fail, no matter what or how hard she tries. The ADAM, the addiction and the mutating and the slowly becoming insane and the blurred line between horrifying reality and mind-crushing fantasy—El has fallen victim to it, something she is frustratingly ashamed of. She does not know exactly what is wrong with her mind, but she knows that it is broken, shattered into a thousand shards, and she will never find all of the pieces.

Ace is stronger than that, than her. Ace did not follow in her footsteps. Somehow, he is immune—for some reason, the constant ADAM abuse does not affect him, and he can do whatever he pleases without consequence. That makes him flawless, doesn't it? Perfect. He does not need it to survive. For that, she is both jealous and thankful. He has no missing fingers, El notes as she watches him unload and reload his gun in contemplative silence, for lack yet need of something to do. His flesh is opaque, and his face is whole; there is no melted grin adorning his face, or frostbite creeping along the side of his face—although, El notes with surprise, the wet tears are a new and no doubt recent addition. There is no sign of ADAM abuse anywhere on his body. His arms are not transparent. His fingers and sharply sculpted face are not stiff with glistening cold and he can think. Properly, as Little Bird has said before—she does not know what this means, but she knows that she can never amount to it. She will never be like Ace.

Ace…

She's still staring, she realizes, but neither of them seems to care very much. Ace has stopped fiddling with his weapon and is instead lost in some deep thought, staring off into the distance and wringing his hands together. Ace is not his real name, is it? He has told her before, but she cannot remember.

She isn't doing much of that lately, is she.

Ace, who has already been so much she could never hope to comprehend—so much she wants to know but can never ask. He has been surviving in this place, refusing to die even when Ryan himself placed his boot on his throat and everyone else left him for dead. She does not know all the details, but Little Bird talks. Little Bird loves to chirp chirp chirp...she asks questions, and she knows what Ace is hiding. Not everything. But enough. The idea of everything about this strange...thing in front of her now, laid bare for her and her alone to see appeals to her very much. Yes, Ace is a friend—but he is also a mystery, an unbreakable code. El does not remember much about herself, but she knows she adores those.

"Ace."

He doesn't respond at first. Is he still angry? El resolves to leave it there, but then his mind catches up. He doesn't glance back at her, not exactly, but she can glimpse the side of his face now. "Hm—what?"

She is not what most would call…sensitive. She does not know how to soften the blow of bluntness, but she sees no use in "beating around the bush" either. So she just asks. "Did you have a…'bad' dream?"

He doesn't turn to her, but his shoulders tense again. "Why do you care?" His words are cutting, abrupt, and El flinches almost imperceptibly. He does not notice—he never does. She is not stupid; she knows he cares little for her and even less about her. El wishes she could return the sentiment.

"You are my friend," she ventures cautiously, knowing the words will not affect him. He still does not turn to face her. "I want to...help. Let me help."

"You can't help me." The words are meant to be cutting, abrupt—meant to dissuade her or insult her. Instead, their infliction is tired and resigned. Ace truly believes what he is saying, and something in her heart twists. "It's nothing anyways," he continues before she can say anything. "Just a nightmare. Forget about it."

"Nightmare..." The word sounds foreign on her tongue, yet she knows it all too well. She sees the flash of electricity behind her eyes when she closes them for the briefest moment. The vision brings her pain, filling her with a sense of foreboding and fear, but there is no memory attached to it. Her terrors have no significance to her anymore, but that doesn't make them any less haunting. "Yes. I know of those. I...am sorry. I want to help you. Please." At his continued silence, she tries again, an edge of desperation to her words. "Ace. Listen to me. Silence will not make it easier. No one should suffer alone."

At this, finally, he turns to her, their eyes meeting for the briefest of is something...tragic in the way he looks at her, but before she can decipher it he's looking away again—although, she notes with a small amount of pleasure, he doesn't fully turn away. She marks that as progress, and attempts to give a reassuring smile. When he flinches, she regrets it.

"I...don't want to talk about it." Ace shakes his head, perhaps hearing the intent in her words—perhaps ignoring it completely. He doesn't say much for a moment, maybe mulling the words he wants to say over in his head. Deciding whether or not to share this incredibly private and vulnerable piece of himself with a woman—this thing—who, for all intents and purposes, he thinks probably couldn't care less or even begin to comprehend the deeper meaning behind the words. Oh, how little he knows. How much he doesn't see. Finally, he sighs, and she takes that as him resigning himself to her/ Slowly beginning to open up. "I was...thinking, about...Tenenbaum." He looks at her, refusing to meet her eyes. Afraid his resolve will crumble and he'll be left to pick up the pieces. El does not know where she learned to read people so well-but Cage probably knows. "The woman we're trying to find. Did you ever hear of her before all of this?"

A memory, vague and distant, springs to the forefront of her mind, but she does not reach for it, knowing better. Some things are better left buried. "Cage might have. I do not know her."

Confusion peppers his expression now, starting at the mention of her, but he does not ask. Possibly saving it for later—likely writing it off as another of her delusions. "I barely know her myself," he continues as if not interrupted. "I first met her not too long after I came down here. I ran into one of her…'little ones', and…" He doesn't seem willing to go on. El doesn't push him, not at first.

Eventually, he continues on his own, voice heavy with something she strongly suspects is sorrow—or shame. "It didn't go well. I don't want to...I never wanted to." His voice grows quiet, almost distant, and his eyes adopt a haunted, faraway look. His next words are hushed, as if hiding some great secret in them. She doesn't think he's talking to her anymore, but she still listens. "I never wanted to hurt them." He doesn't speak again, and this time it is El who sighs.

"Ace, you must talk to someone. It might as well be me. I understand—"

"No, you don't," he cuts her off sharply, turning away. He drags his legs up and across the stage, repositioning himself so that he's sitting with his legs crossed and his back to Cohen's bedroom door. He is facing her now, and while El allows herself a small moment of contentment at the victory, it is quickly washed away by the expression on his face. He is not...angry, she realizes. He is—scared. Of? "El, you don't...you couldn't possibly understand. What I did—what I've done...those poor girls." He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Forget it. It was just a nightmare. It's over now, and now that I'm awake you can get some rest too. Once Sally wakes up we'll be on our way." He moves to turn around and get off the podium, but El stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He shrugs it off easily, but she isn't to be deterred.

"I have nightmares too," she says, and something about the way she says those words stops Ace cold in his tracks. Perhaps it's not the intonation, but the implication that has him turning back around and settling down again, awaiting her next words. Morbid curiosity—it seems to be the theme of their little group. "Little Bird, she has them also. So does Ace. We are all...broken. But we do not have to…" she pauses, searching for the right words. She shakes her head, almost smiling in reassurance but thinking better of it at the last second. "We do not have to suffer alone. Tell me what is wrong."

Ace scoffs, but there is no bite behind it. "Yeah? How is talking about it going to help anyone? What's done is done. What's the point in agonizing over mistakes you can't change?"

She doesn't answer. Watching—waiting.

Ace sighs, a long, drawn out thing, hinting at a weariness that is nestled into his very being at this point, echoing in his bones. For just a moment, she catches a glimpse of the real Ace, underneath this facade of cynicism and aloofness. He is a bitter man, overcome with shame and grief over whatever horrors his past holds. His exhaustion knows no limits, and he is terrified beyond measure of what the future holds—and who wouldn't be, down here? Worst of all, he is hopeful—and that may be the most dangerous thing of all, she thinks as she looks into those averted eyes. Blue or green.

He still believes, she realizes. Despite everything the universe has thrown his way—despite all of the hiccups and complications they've faced along the road out of hell—some part of him, however unconscious it may be, still thinks there's a way out of here, that he still has a chance. Maybe he knows he doesn't deserve it, maybe he recognizes that the chance is slim, made even narrower by the fact of El and Little Bird's company. But he's still optimistic about his chances, about his future. He is a fighter, if nothing else. She has to admire that, adding it to the ever-growing list of reasons she's strangely fond of him. He will claw and kick and scream his way out of here, or die trying. Again, and again, and again.

"Ace." It's not a question, simply a prompt. A wishful thought, to be some sort of comfort to him. Be more than just...whatever she is to him. He rises to the unspoken challenge. "I am here. I am listening. Just...talk."

"...I can't."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he says after a moment, voice soft. He still refuses to look at her, but she wishes he would, just for a moment. She needs him to look at her. "I just—I can't bring myself to." He does glance her way now, but only briefly, and he looks away just as quickly. "You know, most people don't just happily talk about their trauma whenever they're asked. Talking about it won't make it go away. I don't see the point in trying—"

"The point," El sighs, "is that you are hurting. You are running from your past, but it will not let you go. It will never let you go. Ace does not need to carry the weight of his sins on his shoulders alone." Ace, to his credit, seems to sense her benevolent patience running thin, and wisely lets her speak. "At least…" she breathes, the sound rattling in her throat and making her wince, but she will not be deterred. She wants to grab his face, force his gaze onto her, but she knows that would create more problems than it would solve. She breathes deeply again, forcing the urge down before talking again. "You should speak of it to someone. I am here now, and I will not judge, not when I do not know myself. Besides, I will find out soon enough anyway if Tenenbaum is alive. She has something to do with it, does she not?" At this admission, Jack freezes. She has him right where she wants him. El pushes forward, determined to break what little resolve he still has left. She has to know. She has to hear it from him. She knows she will not believe it otherwise. She has to break him. "I doubt she will let your sins stay buried, Ace. Better to find out from you than her. I trust Ace. I do not trust Mother Goose."

Ace looks like he wants to protest or scream, but in the end he does neither. Instead he glares, turns away, and says nothing. But finally, whether out of desperation or resignation, he begins, hesitant and soft after an eternity of stillness. "...She begged me not to."

She does not think his words have ever been so gentle. El startles at the suddenness of them. He does not acknowledge her. Ace's eyes remain averted, locked onto the floor, but it is clear to whom he is speaking. "She warned me, but who was I supposed to believe? Some crazy broad in a city full of lunatics, who was holding a gun to my face and who had just killed a man in front of me? Whose first words to me were a threat? Or the man on the other end of my radio, who had guided me since the beginning and who had saved my life multiple times over? He...he was there for me, he had helped me, he had...I thought he just wanted to help me. Atlas had explained everything and he had given me what I needed to survive. When he told me those girls weren't human, that they wouldn't feel a thing—that I was doing them a favor. Who was I supposed to trust?"

El pretends not to notice the few tears on his face, the tracks on his cheeks still damp from before, and politely ignores when he realizes they're there and wipes them away with a shaking hand. She doesn't want to ask. She doesn't want to know. If Ace doesn't want to talk to her, she should respect that, shouldn't she? But a small part of her, buried deep in her subconscious and perhaps the only bit that is still sane, reaches out, demanding to be known. This could be the key, she realizes—the key to cracking this particular mystery. Ace is by far the most difficult cipher she'd ever had to decode, but everything rots with pressure and time. No secrets stay buried forever. She just had to wait, and now it seems it's paying off. She nods at him to continue, eyeing the way his shoulders are drawn and his expression is pinched. "What did you do?" she asks, anticipating the answer with dread and excitement.

The question seems to shake him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into. He meets her eyes once more, his expression unreadable, before turning away like before. But unlike before, his eyes are not content to rest on the ground, or on the odd tattoos on his wrists. Instead his gaze travels to the far side of the room, over to Little Bird, still curled in on herself in that armchair, melted plastic clutched to her chest and worn jacket wrapped tightly around her frail, sickly body. She is still sleeping soundly, unaware of the hushed conversation her guardians are having.

"I killed that little girl," he says quietly, shame and horror twisting his words, making them shake. He swallows thickly, debating his next words carefully as Little Bird turns in her sleep. El suspects that in that moment, gazing at the girl, it's not her he's seeing. Lying there, so still and small, as if not in the clutches of slumber, but something a little more permanent.

"I killed her," he repeats after several moments, and El feels something inside her go cold when she hears his voice. There is something wrong about it, an emotion she's never heard in him before, but he doesn't allow her time to stop and decipher it before he's moving forward. "I killed so many more like her. I didn't even stop to think about it after the first two or three. I believed Atlas, believed his lies, and ignored them when they cried out, when they...when they screamed. I didn't think I was doing the right thing, but I never thought…" He has to stop himself, breathing deeply and closing his eyes as if to lose himself in those memories. He doesn't open them again when he starts to speak once more, his words so quiet that she almost doesn't catch them.

"But after. After...after everything. I woke up in Tenenbaum's little sanctuary, and it was a goddamn punch to the gut. Those kids...when I saw them, saw who they really were, who I had been killing? They…were still children, even after what Tenenabum had done to them. They played, and sang, and...they smiled. At me. After everything I'd done to their sisters…I'd thought I was doing the right thing. I thought he was telling the truth. Imagine how I felt after."

He almost looks to her then, seeking out some kind of reaction, she supposes. Understanding or damnation. She gives neither, her expression remaining purposefully impassive. This is not for her. Ace is not talking to her so much as sorting out his thoughts, his feelings—he does this a lot, she realizes. She lets him do it now, because God knows he needs it.

"I tried to make it right," he continues, ignoring her words but acknowledging her presence. His eyes meet her mismatched ones at last—his gaze is unfocused, lost in thought, and El realizes he's not looking at her so much as through her. He's in his own world right now, lost and alone and wallowing in whatever negative emotions he rightfully deserves to feel. El doesn't dare disturb him—if he stops now, it's unlikely he'll get going again. That part of her wants answers and will not rest until she gets them. So she stays silent, placing a frostbitten hand around his wrist and squeezing lightly. An act of reassurance, to ground him and remind him he's not alone. She is here, and she is listening. But still she does not speak.

If he's bothered or surprised by the sudden gesture, he doesn't show it. He looks down at her hand on his wrist and continues as if it never happened. "I tried to do right by her, you know?" he whispers after another beat of silence. "By those girls. I was under no delusions—I knew I might never wash those sins away, I knew I'd never be able to wipe away the debt I owed them. But I never imagined…" A sigh, brief and bitter and holding so many connotations she could never hope to discover them all. "I started to save them. I took on every Big Daddy, every splicer, and I mutilated myself to protect those that were left, and all I got for my efforts was a knife in the back." He lets out a harsh chuckle, bitter and angry, though it is unclear to whom the emotions are directed. The sound is so ugly and out of place coming from him in this state that it startles El for the briefest moment, but he's already moving forward and she can't afford to be left behind.

"I'm not complaining though—much. It's what I deserve. Fontaine...Fontaine was right. I've got nowhere to go, nowhere to run. I have no place in the world above. Tenenbaum left me for dead. Who's to say she won't shoot me in the face the first chance she gets? Who's to say she even wants my help, let alone needs it? Who's to say she's even down here anymore? After what she did to me, I should feel no obligation to help her, to try to save her hide. But—I do. Why?"

Is he actually asking for her opinion, or is he still just thinking out loud? After a long period of silence, in which she debates answering him, he blinks away the wetness in his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face. Again, she pretends not to notice his vulnerability. It is very uncharacteristic of him—hopefully it passes soon. She is...not good with emotions, or feelings. She doesn't think she ever was.

"Whatever," he mutters at last. "It doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done—I can't go back and change it. Damn if I don't wish I could...but it was just a nightmare." He thinks for a moment. "I may not owe Tenenbaum anything, but those girls—" he cuts himself off, shaking his head and sighing. "If there's even a chance they're still down here, El—if there's even the slightest chance they're stuck down here same as us, I owe it to them to get them out. It's the least I can do. It won't make up for the things I've done, but maybe...maybe it'll lessen the guilt. Just a little."

Ace seems to find some semblance of peace or at least acceptance in those final words, and the two fall into a by now comfortable silence as they sit together on the podium. El's hand is still clenched around his wrist. She does not speak, for fear of shattering this fragile peace between them—and neither does he, perhaps for the same reason. He has said all he wants to, and she will not push him further. While he regains his composure, subtly wiping the tears from his face—uncharacteristic, so unlike him—she sits with him, and takes a mental step back to truly take all of this in.

Looking at him now, in this moment of lost composure, it is hard to believe such a man could be so...brutal. Ace has never been too kind, she knows this. He is not cruel, but he is far from loving and gentle. He ignores Little Bird, scowls at El; he makes snide remarks and mutters unkind words under his breath. Easily frustrated, he is quick to take that anger out on his surroundings, inanimate or otherwise, and he does not apologize or accept blame. Not until now. Despite his demeanor of scathing words and detached indifference, she had thought there was some good in him. Buried far within, afraid to rise to the surface for whatever reason. Surely there must be something in there. Otherwise, he would have killed her the moment they met, and Little Bird...however they met, she probably would not be here now. Otherwise he would not waste breath on promises of the world above, of their survival, of their struggles not being in vain. Otherwise, he would not constantly repeat the mantra that no matter what, they were all getting out of here, together or not at all.

Can she still make that claim?

His words are a confession. She had known he was hiding something, a part of his past he did not want revealed, and that had been fine with her. As long as it did not interfere with their escape she had been content to leave it buried. But now that she knows, now that she has pushed him, she cannot let it go. It cannot be ignored.

She does not know all the details. She is ignorant of his motivations, of his reasonings, of whoever this Atlas is and how he was so manipulated by him. A small part of El, some subconscious part that still holds onto Cage's memories, urges her to remember. Something about puppets and loose strings, code words and kindly phrases. It was as much this Atlas' fault as it was Ace's, but one is dead and the other is not. She can only confront one, but she is not so sure she wants to.

A sudden surge of anger strikes her, flaring up inside and burning her mind. It catches her off guard for a moment, glancing at Ace and his expression in the halo of the spotlight. He is lost in his own thoughts, features softened with weariness and something between sorrow and hatred. Not for her, surely—but she does not linger on who else it could be for. Head tilted back, eyes closed…it would be so easy now to rip out his throat, if she wanted to. He would never see it coming.

He would deserve it, certainly. Ace has been nothing but harsh with her, so distrustful and snide with his underhanded remarks towards her appearance and mental state. She knows she is broken, and it frustrates her. Can he not see that? She is aware, even if she does not remember, that she has…no, that Cage has tried to kill them twice now, and Cage made things very difficult for them the last time she made an appearance. Stupid past, stupid memories. She does not want them. They should leave her alone.

Either way, Ace has no basis for looking down on her for any reason, she thinks as she sneaks a peek at him again. He is far worse than she, on the inside if not the outside. He is a monster, without mercy or tact—but, she acknowledges with slight begrudging, he is also misguided and broken. Clearly, he feels guilt, he knows shame—he has acknowledged he will never atone for the lives he has taken. He recognizes his wrongs, and, she notes with a hint of some foreign emotion, he is trying to do right by her and Little Bird now. He wants to find this Tenenbaum—Mother Goose—to make it…not up to her, but right. In the only way he can.

A forgotten memory bubbles to the forefront of her thoughts. A child, small and frail and so much like Little Bird, trapped inside heated metal and between two warring adults. She does not want to go home. She wants out. Of where, El could not say, but the voice inside her head echoes and reverberates tenfold as the child screams, over and over and over:

"Hot, hot, hot! Too hot! Too hot!"

Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, someone cries, but she does not recognize the voice. Yet it is strangely familiar, almost as if it was once her own.

Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt.

Wrong girl, wrong debt. But the principle was the same, was it not?

El does not know the significance of this memory. But Cage does.

The vision is gone as soon as it had come, but the feeling of understanding that had overcome her still lingered. She does not know how, or why, but she has a feeling that she understands his motivations as clear as if they were once her own. A different girl, a different mistake, one born out of malice and hatred and selfishness. Not of ignorance and a desperate need to survive—not born of manipulation and misplaced trust. She wonders if Cage's sins were greater than his. El wipes the blood out from under her nose and sighs, suddenly tired of the silence.

"You did not know," is what she chooses to say, and without even opening his eyes Ace is scoffing, shaking his head. He pulls his wrist out from under her chilled fingers, and she immediately misses the contact.

"Ignorance doesn't equal innocence. It's not an excuse, and I'm not going to use it as one."

"It is not an excuse," she agrees after a moment. She watches him now, noting the way his face moves and shifts into a new expression, one of forced indifference to hide the pain underneath. How dramatic. How...familiar. "I know how you feel," she begins again after a moment, and Ace's eyes snap to hers. Accusatory, unbelieving. She stops him before he can begin. "I do not remember. But I think I understand…" El does not know how to continue that sentiment, but he seems to get it all the same. She elaborates as best she can. "I understand your decision to help. Cage made that decision once too. So many innocents, and their blood is on your hands...she knew this shame, too. She cannot judge by much. Neither of you deserve...forgiveness." Those final words are as hushed as she can make them, gentle but condemning all the same. She has done terrible things too, she knows, even if she cannot remember. But she will not tell him that—not yet.

"I sure as shit don't," he says, looking up at the ceiling. A soft laugh escapes him, as bitter and sarcastic as he is. "I know—" he starts again after a moment, but almost immediately has to stop again. Swallowing around the lump in his throat. He blocks out the rest of the world as he screws his eyes shut, and she can tell he is focusing on the sound of his own voice and the emotions that refuse to settle in his stomach. She knows, because she has done it too many times before. "I know I don't deserve redemption, and I know I'm not going to get it no matter what I do from here on out. Just because I feel bad about what I did doesn't grant me the right to some unearned redemption arc. Just because I was manipulated and coerced into doing something unforgivable does not mean that I get instant forgiveness or that I can just set it down and walk away. It doesn't make me an innocent, and it's not an excuse—just an explanation. There are no excuses for the things I've done, and I know that whatever she decides to do to me, I'll deserve. Hell, if I'm being honest—" and here he stops, cutting himself off for just a moment. He takes deep breaths, trying to regain his composure, refusing to let the weakness in his words show. He still refuses to look at her, and after a few quiet moments he begins again.

"…If I'm being completely honest…I know I don't deserve to leave this place. It would be more than fair to let me rot down here with the rest of the city. It's not right, after…well, you know. There's nothing I could do or say that could possibly make my actions less severe or redeemable in any way. I could never hope to make up for it or make it better…I just want out. Of—of this city, this fucking neverending nightmare. I just want to get away."

"To where?"

Ace scoffs, face curling into an unpleasant expression. One she has seen so many times before, and the notion brings a much needed sense of familiarity with it. "I don't know. I don't care. I just want out."

"If you are not looking for redemption, then why do you want to help?"

"I don't know. Because I owe it to her? After what I've done, the least I could do is help." He closes his eyes, shutting El and Rapture out, and thinks. El cannot imagine what about. It is not her business anyways. Finally, eyes still closed, he speaks again, once again quiet and reserved. El hopes he feels better soon—although this is an interesting change of pace, she really does not want to deal with this melodramatic and sensitive side of him for the rest of their partnership. She is bad with emotions, and feelings got you killed or worse down here.

"I'm not looking for redemption, only paying back what was given to me. She…helped me, even when I'd done terrible things. It's only fair I help her back. If…you know. If we find her. If—if she's willing to hear me out."

El hmms, gaze still lingering on his face even when he is not looking at her. Her eyes drift aimlessly across his face, catching on the blood running down from his left eye to his hairline in an almost crescent shaped mark. She had almost forgotten about her earlier mistake. Briefly, she wonders if she should mention it to Ace—likely he will want to rectify that injury before they head out again. The wound is gradually seeping crimson, forming a thin line as it drips down his cheek. Ace's earlier attempts to clear the tears from his face had smeared the blood across. The redness meshes perfectly with the tears and sweat. El's eyes sweep over the blood and up to his dirty blond hair, noting the few locks that hang over his forehead. Undoubtedly, his appearance is a mess, but she finds the more than ruffled state of it oddly...appealing? She lets her stare linger for a bit longer before noticing, likely for the first time, the light splash of faint freckles over his broad nose and the long lashes that fan out from under his eyes. Blue or green, she still cannot say—but he is, unquestionably, pulchritudinous.

El stops to take it in while she can.

What a fascinating thing he is, this Ace in the Hole. What a magnificent beast. Whose Ace did he used to be, she wonders? It does not matter. He is hers now, her friend, her very own Ace. When this is all over, she will dedicate herself to solving this Gordian knot. Her mind wanders to the topic of him and her obsession with his secrets, beginning the first moment she saw him. Perhaps a small part of Cage is still whispering in her subconscious, influencing her obsession with this man. More puzzle than man—all she has to do is connect the pieces. There are so many already, and with his recent confession, the pieces have multiplied tenfold. Ace is an encrypted code, just begging to be deciphered, cut open and his secrets laid bare to the world—to her. A deadly weapon, perfected to a faultless, tapering point. If you break him, your memories will come back, Cage whispers in the back of her mind. Something about that notion, however unfounded it may be, entices her.

"Yes," she says instead, refusing to betray her emotions. A penny for your thoughts—but hers are worth so much more. "If Mother Goose does not kill you the second she sees you."

"Hmm," is his noncommittal reply, suddenly tired of talking.

El thinks they might fall into another silence, as long and comfortable as the last one, until one of them falls asleep or Little Bird wakes up and they need to leave. But Ace does not seem content with the quiet. She is not surprised when he speaks up again, quiet and hesitant.

"...Thank you. For—listening. And letting me talk. I...needed that." Something that is almost a smile—almost, but not quite—creeps along his face, aimed at her. She wants to smile back, but she knows the act will terrify him. She allows for a small inclination of her head instead. "I don't expect sympathy. Or forgiveness, or—whatever. I'm not looking for that. I just. I just needed to talk about it. Out loud. It's easier to organize everything that way, I guess. And hearing the words...actually saying them, out loud, and telling someone else what I've done…it's freeing, in a way. I needed someone to listen, and to at least try to understand. So—thank you, El."

"You are welcome." Another dip of the head, a small, shared smile, and they fall into silence again. She likes the silence.

It does not last. Ace, so unlike her, decides to carry on the conversation, afraid of the uncomfortable quiet in a way he isn't of anything else. "...Who is Cage?"

The question almost startles her. Almost. She doesn't bother beating around the bush or avoiding the inevitable, taking a carefully measured breath before answering. "Cage is...her. She is my past, I think. She has memories, and I can hear her sometimes. Whispering, in my mind. I do not know her or who she is. I just know...that I used to be her. But I am not anymore. Now Cage is Cage and El is El. Two sides of the same coin…but separated."

"Cage…your past?" He looks confused, another question on the tip of his tongue, before her realizes. "Oh. You mean who you used to be, before all of—" he gestures vaguely in her direction. "—this? Wait, but I thought your name was Elizabeth."

At the mention of her, El flinches, frowning. Distressed, but she does not know why. "No. I do not like that name. It is...not me. Not her. I am just El. She is Cage….cage, somber but special." She loses herself for just a moment, lost in a forgotten memory. "Bird, or the cage? 'Nothing beats the cage.'"

Ace raises a brow at that, but has the tact not to mention it. Probably writing it off as yet another delusion, or a relapse into insanity. Well, he would not be entirely wrong. "If she has a name already, why the nickname? Actually—" he cuts himself off, raising a palm. "While we're on the topic, what's with the nicknames? You know my name isn't Ace, but I can see where you're coming from with that one. Where the hell did you get Little Bird from?"

El has to pause at that one—even she does not know. Cage had assigned the nickname, somewhere in her subconscious, and because she had been unable to remember the child's name, she had gone with it. She scours what precious few memories she has that are not obscured by a hazy fog. "Everyone has needs," she drawls in a poor imitation of Cohen's voice, although the inflictions and the insufferable, slow drawl of the words are there. "I merely provide a service for those who have the means to pay. You'll find your little bird in the housewares department." She looks at him, unsurprised when he looks just as confused as before, and sighs, drawing her knees to her chest. She is only beginning to realize just how tired she is. But she cannot rest—so instead she continues. "Cohen," she explains, as if that name alone would provide context. To him, it does not, but he does not question after it. She tries to elaborate, though with the missing chunks in her memory she has to rely on whatever Cage remembers. Which, in her state, is probably not much. "Cohen sent Cage to find Little Bird...or...no…" She screws her eyes shut, searching her memories. For once, actually wanting to remember. But...she cannot. Of course not. She sighs in frustration. "Cohen knew where Little Bird had flown. Cage went to find her. I do not remember why or when. He called her Little Bird, so that is her name. That is all I know."

"Her name is Sally, actually," he sighs, as if it matters. As if she will remember. "And my name is Jack," he adds almost as an afterthought. His name isn't important to her, he thinks. He knows so little.

"Jack…" The name sounds odd on her tongue, foreign and unused. She turns the word around in her mind, weighing the words before testing them out. "Jack and Sally?"

"That's right," and for once he doesn't bother to hide his shock at her clarity of mind. He looks almost shy as he glances her way, likely noting her guilty expression at the reminder of her broken psyche. "Don't suppose you'll remember it, though. That's—okay. You don't have to."

"If it is your name—"

"I can respond to Ace," he shrugs, nonchalant. Pretending he doesn't care. "It's not a big deal. Once we're on the surface you'll have plenty of time to remember it, yeah?"

"...Yeah." The word sounds wrong coming out of her mouth, but she ignores it. "I am still sorry. I am...not good with memories. I do not have many of them."

"But you do have some." It is a question, the start of an entirely new conversation. She takes the bait with some reluctance, eager to show him that she is not the mindless monster he thinks she is, but unsure if he would understand.

"Yes. From my nightmares." Now she knows how Ace had felt. Something unpleasant twists in her gut, warning her against trusting this man. Because of what he has done, or what he might do to her. She pushes that sensation down, silences Cage and her alter's blinding hatred.

"Which you have, apparently. And you're saying they're about your memories? Your past?"

"...I believe so. I—do not remember what I dream about. I think Cage remembers, but she is...broken. She will not talk to me about them."

"Speaking of," he interrupts, before she can continue. "Eliz—I mean, this Cage person...are you saying there's a part of you in there somewhere that's still completely sane?"

El frowns, confused by the phrasing, but she understands after a moment. She is not sure she can explain it, but… "No, not exactly. She...comes out sometimes. Unwanted, unneeded. Like…" She really needs to stop pausing between her words. She can tell Ace is getting annoyed, but she cannot help it. It is taking a lot to even say these many words in any semblance of coherence. "When I attacked you...I do not remember, but Cage was there. Her fault, not mine." She stops, gauging Ace's reaction, before continuing. "Her mind is more broken than mine. Insane, dying, with most of the memories but no way out. She cannot exist outside of here." She taps the side of her head for emphasis. "When she tries, she goes crazy. Too many of her in one. Not supposed to exist."

"Are you saying there's another person inside your head? A different personality, or something? There's two of you in there?"

"No. Just...she is just my memories. A shadow of the past. She was me, but I am not her." El pauses. "That does not make sense."

"Not a lick of it. But I don't suppose much about you does, does it? You are just…" he stops, for once recognizing what he is about to say and wondering if he should continue with it. He lets out a huff of air, shaking his head. He's staring at her in disbelief, and maybe the smallest hint of wonder. What a fascinating specimen she is to him. Enough to rival Ace. "There are so many things about you that just don't make sense. You're a million dead ends and mysteries wrapped into one. Now that I think about it? It's no fucking wonder you don't know the answers."

She nods in agreement, smiling sadly. At last, he sees. "I do not think I ever will." She looks to Little Bird—Sally—still sleeping in the armchair. She will wake soon. El will likely not get a chance to rest, and her body aches at the thought. "She and I are the same person, but also...not. She remembers who she is, what she has done, but she...she is of the past. She does not exist anymore. It is only me in here. Who I was before—my memories and life, that is who Cage is. Was." She pauses, catching her breath, and chancing a look at Ace...no, Jack. Is he still confused? She feels woozy, unsure of even herself. The more she talks, the worse she makes it. But...Jack—and his name is Jack, not Ace, and she's stunned that she remembers for a moment. He does understand, or at least gets the picture, so to speak. He nods once he realizes she's looking for confirmation, and gestures for her to continue. "She is not a person anymore. But she still...talks. Speaks to me, in my head. She cannot come out, but she wants to."

"I suppose that makes a kind of sense." As much sense as it is ever going to, at least. He clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable, and looks away, focusing intently on the podium flooring. "You said you had nightmares?" He was never very subtle about changing the subject, was he? "About your past?"

"They must be. I do not know what else they could be...but I do not know what they are of. Whose they are. Cage knows, but she will not tell me. When I—when she comes out, I start to remember. Tiny pieces, little fragments. They do not fit together, and they do not make sense. But I recognize them, even after she leaves. Every time, more of them come, and they stay. The memories, they are...broken. Shattered, incomplete and hazy. Nothing is clear, even my memories from after I woke up. But I still remember..."

"What do you remember?" he prompts when she does not continue.

"I see…flashes," she begins, slow and hesitant as Jack had been. She presses on through the discomfort. "They are gone as soon as they come. I do not remember the memories themselves, but the moments…frozen in time, lost to my insanity. There are no emotions attached to them, but they are still troublesome. They carry so much weight with them."

She closes her eyes, willing herself to remember. She has never not wanted something so badly before. El does not know if she has the strength to remember, or to handle the weight those memories will bring. She will not recognize what she sees, but that does not matter. What matters is Jack, and making him listen. "I have seen…a city, floating above in the clouds. In the sky, in the sky…" Another memory, soft and warm and peaceful, rises to the surface of her mind. A man with two faces, one of hatred and control and power—and the other, of steely looks and even harsher words, but with something gentle underneath, something real that she had so desperately craved once. A guitar strums, and a girl sings. Peace at last, just for a moment.

The memory fades, and so does that feeling of safety and momentary peace. A different man sits before her now, and although she can spot some striking similarities, they are altogether two different people. But always a man, always a city. Always a girl, always a debt, always a pinky.

The circle is unbroken. She moves on.

"Sometimes this city…it is on fire. Buildings destroyed, people dead in the streets, and so much blood and misery…but I do not know why. I know it is my fault, but I cannot remember why." Another frustrated sigh—the memories will not come, and for once she wants them to. Why can she not remember when she needs to? Why her? She does not know her past, but she knows she does not deserve this. None of them did.

"I see other things too, in my nightmares. An angel of stone, breaking apart and falling into the sea. A man with two faces, two sides of the same coin but different. Heads. Tails. Bird. Cage…and…a creature of metal and leather, suffocating under the sea…C,A,G,E...a song. Songbird." El feels a memory trying to pry itself free of her subconscious, and although she knows it is a futile effort, she longs to reach for it. She knows what will happen if she does, but she tries anyway, closing her eyes and focusing on the feeling of recollection that has sprung up in her mind. As always, the thought turns to smoke before she can grasp it.

"Metal and leather…you mean like a Big Daddy?" Of course he would focus on the least important thing in that sequence. El cannot help but feel disappointed.

"No…no. This was a—a giant, bird-like creature. But it was no bird. It was—it was—" She growls in frustration, curling her fingers into a fist and smacking it lightly against her head. Jack jumps, but makes no move towards her. "I do not remember." She scoffs. "Of course not."

"Hey." Jack shifts closer to her, settling when their shoulders bump against each other. If El melts just a little at the sudden warmth of another body (his) against her icy frame, well, that is hardly anyone's business but her own. "Look, don't be so hard on yourself, alright? It's not totally unreasonable that you have a shit memory in your state. You've had it rough, just…take it easy, you know? You're lucky to even be alive right now, let alone mostly sane. You'll get your memories back once we fix you up, El. I promise." He risks a small smile, genuine and gentle, and the sight startles El so badly that she almost doesn't notice when he places a tentative hand on hers, his fingers curling around her frosty digits. He flinches at the glacial cold but makes no further attempts to shy away. "I mean." Their eyes meet—at long last—and his are hesitant, calculating, and green. Jack's next words are measured, cautious as he ventures into unknown territory. "If that's what you want."

"It is not." She ignores his look of surprise, but refuses to break eye contact after working so hard to achieve it. "I am not Cage. She is from before—before ADAM, before this place, before him. She is my memories. She is also dead. Cage, whoever she used to be, should not come back."

Jack does not speak, waiting for her to keep going on her own term. El is immensely grateful, and a bit resentful. She wishes he would make her talk. She does not want tom not on her own—but then, did he? She pushes forward, disregarding the cold feeling that seeps into her stomach as her next words are spoken. "I do not know her, but I know she was...broken. Sorrow, regret, guilt. Fear, anger, resentment. A wheel of blood, spinning round and round. Every memory, filled with tragedy and heartbreak. She was never happy or content, never got what she wanted. She lost...everything. No one left to love her, or mourn her, or miss her. All alone, in this world and every other. All of that suffering and pain…" Another memory flashes before her eyes, and her nose begins to drip. "She sacrificed herself for something," she recalls, as the vision fades. The sight of a little girl, standing over a warm corpse, still lingers behind her eyes. "Someone. Little Bird—Sally. I remember that much now. That sacrifice should not be—will not be—in vain. El will protect Little Bird now. Cage deserves to rest—deserves peace, at long last. I should give her that."

"I thought Cage was just your memories."

"My memories...but also who I used to be. When she died, she became just my memories. The key to my past. I do not want her, but...I need her to come back. I do not want these memories, yes. But I want to be normal again. I cannot have one without the other. Cage has both, and I have neither. This makes her a person. It makes me...what does that make me?" It's a rhetorical question. She has thought long and hard about this predicament, and she has not found an answer. Maybe there isn't one. "I do not want the memories, but I must have them. To become Cage. I cannot be a person without my memories. Without her."

"But you do have memories," Jack says, removing his lax grip on her fingers. Instantly, she finds she misses the contact. "El, you remember who I am. You remember Sally—you know who your friends are, and what we mean to you, even if you don't remember our names. How did we meet?"

The question doesn't confuse her so much as completely catch her off guard. "You do not remember?" Huh. She would have thought that relentlessly chasing him through an abandoned department store would have left a more permanent impression. She finds herself disappointed, but not surprised. Ace—Jack, she automatically corrects herself—would not bother to remember such a crucial detail about their shared past. He does not care about her.

Right?

"I might." The sudden brush of his fingers against her wrist makes her jump, but she relaxes almost immediately when he moves to untie the ribbon around her wrist. The red fabric easily slips away, and he takes it as he continues, trying to distract her. "But my memory is a bit...ah, fuzzy. Why don't you remind me?"

Wrong. As she contemplates the quickest way to remind him of his almost demise at her hands, she struggles to ignore Jack moving behind her, out of sight now and quiet. He doesn't touch her, not at first. Just when she is about to begin, one of his hands grazes her hair. She jumps back, whirling around to face him in shock.

Jack says nothing, palms up in a defensive gesture as he looks alarmed. He is not a threat—El knows this. She trusts him. After a moment's hesitation, she gives a slight nod of acceptance and turns her back to him again. She ignores the hammering of her heart in her chest and the heat of her face as he touches her hair again, lifting it from her back as he begins to card his fingers through it.

"I found you in the department store," she says. She supposes that's a start. When Jack doesn't protest, she continues. "I do not remember where you were when I first spotted you and Little Bird. I recognized Sally—Cage reminded me of who she was. I did not recognize you. I thought you were going to hurt her. So I attacked. I am...sorry."

"No hard feelings," he assures her as he removes his fingers from her limp pin curls. He smooths it out before twisting it tightly and bringing it above her head, wrapping the hair around itself until it's arranged in a neat bun atop her head. As he brings the ribbon up to finish it off, he urges her to keep going. "That's not all, is it? I feel like there was more." His tone is oddly gentle, prodding but not pushing. Coaxing.

"...No. I chased you, but you escaped. Good for Ace. I saw you again, wandering around. Looking for a way out. You helped Sally. I thought you could help me. So, I left you gifts. Plasmids. So you knew you could trust me, and I would not hurt you again. I do not think it worked."

"It did," and he ties off the red ribbon atop her head, tugging gently to make sure it's secured. She feels lighter without the weight of her hair on her shoulders—or maybe the weight was from something else, she realizes as she glances back at Jack. "It made me realize you wanted to help, and it did sort of serve as a peace offering between us. An apology, if you wanted to look at it that way. I'm not particularly bitter—plenty of things have tried to kill me before. You wouldn't be the first, and as evidenced, you were not the last." His hands pause as they withdraw from her newly crafted bun, and El thinks something is the matter with it when he asks, "Why?"

"I...do not understand."

"Why did you think I could help you? What made you think I was helping Sally? Why—why did you trust me? And just like that?"

El nods, carefully crafting her confession. As she muses, Jack moves from behind her and takes his place beside her once more. His shoulder bumps hers on accident, and she turns to look at him. His face is so smooth now. She had thought that once he recovered from his nightmare, the usual surly expression would return and his words would be biting and cold. Instead, he is wary and calm, tender in a way she would have never expected from him. He still looks worried, that threat of his thunderous temperament always looming on the horizon, but for now, he is complacent. Attentive, listening, understanding. Hers, if only for this small moment among thousands of others. Once they leave Cohen's apartment, he may very well revert to his usual self, and go back to ignoring her and throwing insults her way. But for now, when his battered shoulder leans against hers in a way that suggests a bone-aching weariness and perhaps something a little softer, his attention is hers.

"I had a...vision, I suppose you would call it. One of Cage's memories. I saw a man—you—come to save Sally. I watched you cure her condition and take her to the surface...that is what Cage died to protect. She was happy because her suffering was over. She saw you save her, so she died happy. I thought, if you could do that for Sally, maybe you could do the same for me. Maybe I could be saved, too."

El hates how her voice trembles at the admission, but she stays strong. She does not allow her voice to waver and she refuses to slow down now that she is making progress. Jack refuses to speak, maybe sensing the fragility of the peace between them in this moment. Maybe he simply has nothing to say to that. In either case, he does not interject, so El persists despite the lump in her throat and the squirming of her stomach. If Jack can do it, so can she. She may not be as strong or as perfect as she had thought him to be, but if there is one thing she can match Ace in, it's this. It has to be.

"You were my only hope...my last hope. I have tried escaping for so long, but I cannot do it alone. I am not whole. Even if I did make it out, where would I go? I cannot blend in—look at me. My face is half gone, my pinky is missing, and I am too tall, almost seven feet. A freak. I do not know anything about the surface. I would be lost and alone, and on top of that Cage would be trying to escape. I cannot risk that. No, I needed help if I not only wanted to escape, but survive. I saw you in my vision, saw you help Sally. If you helped her, you would help me, too. I had no choice but to trust you."

"You remembered her name," he says at last. El turns to him, and he is smiling. "You called her Sally."

A blank stare, followed by an expression of disbelief. "That is your takeaway."

"Well, it's important," he argues, shifting his position slightly to better look her in the eye. "See? You do have memories. Not just Cage's, but your own. El's memories. Sally and I never met Cage. She doesn't know our names or who we are, but you do. Cage never led us to the bathyspheres. Cage wasn't the one who shattered Cohen into a million pieces just an hour ago. Cage isn't the one that's been dealing with that little shit— That was all you. You remember how to get to Market Street. You remember the way out of Rapture. Even if you think they aren't " and he gestures to Sally, stirring in her slumber but still asleep in the armchair. "—when I didn't want to. I'm pretty sure Cage has never been used as a goddamn jungle gym. You have. Your memories? Even if you think they don't belong to you, they're still memories. They're El's memories, and despite what you think, you are a person. You have feelings, you can think, you have goals and ambitions, and you want to live, not just survive. Not like me. You deserve to see the sun just as much as Sally does. Even without those memories, without any knowledge of your past, you're still a person."

"Jack," she begins without any real direction, but he sees through it.

"You know what? I don't remember shit about my own past either. I was born and bred as an assassin and trained in every lethal method both known and unknown. I was supposed to die when them that made me decided it was time and pulled the switch. But I'm here, and I'm alive while most of them are dead. I have these fake memories inside my head, and while they're fading more and more by the second, they're still in here, fucking with my mind. The only real memories I have are the ones I made after coming down here. Just because I don't have memories of my past doesn't make me any less of a person." Something in her gut twists and curls as she notices the wild look in his eyes and the passion in his voice, his volume rising and threatening to wake the sleeping child not too far from them. She refuses to acknowledge that the feeling is far from unpleasant, instead focusing on his next words, rushed and manic and, most importantly, hopeful. He believes in his words and what he is saying, and he wants her to believe it, too. He does care.

"It doesn't make you any less of one either, El. You shouldn't waste your time and effort or risk what little mental health you have left trying to get them back if all they're going to do is cause you pain. You said Cage's memories were miserable and hopeless? That she was better off buried, because she died happy and bringing her back would cause nothing but sorrow? Then let her die, El. Let Cage stay buried in your subconscious and let her rot in Rapture. Stop trying to become that person—she's dead, you've said so yourself. She doesn't exist anymore. She's just a memory. A memory that you don't even want." Jack shakes his head, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. Does he have some sort of personal history with this issue, she wonders? He sounds so guarded, so insecure. Interesting. Another code for her to unravel. She stops that line of thinking before she can begin again. Jack deserves more respect than that, even if that is how she has always thought of him. Something to be poked and prodded like an animal in a cage. Jack is as much of a person as she is. If he is not, then neither is she, no matter what he might say to dissuade her of that line of thinking. Besides, she is far more a specimen than he, and he does not look at her that way. At least, she does not think so...no, he doesn't look at her at all. He didn't use to. Now it seems she holds all of his attention. El does not want to admit how much pleasure that thought gives her.

"You are not Cage—do not let her define you. You aren't a remnant of some dead girl, alright? You're your own goddamn person, with a mind and memories of your own. You deserve to live just as much as Cage did, but she's dead now and you aren't. If you aren't going to live for yourself, at least live in her honor, or her memory or to carry on her legacy, or whatever you want to tell yourself. Anything that convinces you that you deserve to live."

"Getting my memories back will not fix me, will it? My mind will be whole, but I will still look…" she pauses, glancing down at her arms and flexing her fingers. All nine of them. The frostbite glitters in the warm glow from the spotlight above, and the thimble on her pinky reflects the light. "Like this. Hideous deformities and missing pieces."

"No. You're bingo on that. It's not a guarantee that getting them back will fix your mental state, either. You said Cage goes insane whenever she tries to come out? If she came back for good, what do you think would happen to you? If she's so damaged she can't even co-exist inside you, what would she do if she was the one running the show, and not the other way around?"

"I do not want to find out."

"I don't either. I trust you, El. I don't trust Cage." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He seems to be thinking about something, but El cannot even begin to guess as to what. His mind is made of many locks and keys, and although this conversation has provided the clues to many of those keys, the locks still remain. A by now comfortable silence stretches on between them as Jack stays silent and El has run out of things to say. El cannot read minds, but it looks like he is debating something to himself. Some internal conflict that El is unaware of and that is none of her business. She leaves him to it, and is about to suggest that he wake Sally and they get going when he speaks again. He's reached a conclusion, then. His words are hushed and excited, but there is something conspiratorial about his tone. A breakthrough, a solution to one of their many and maybe even their biggest problem—El herself. "You know who will help, though? Tenenbaum. She developed that cure for the Little Sisters. I'm sure her conscience must have grown enough to include the rest of her unintentional creations, too—though admittedly maybe not to the same extent. Still, she must have some notes on reserving this ADAM sickness. I'm sure she could do a whole lot with a live, willing test subject." His manic vanishes for a moment, and he winces, looking at her apologetically. "No offense." El shrugs. She's been called worse, and not even by him. "But if we find her, maybe we can strike some kind of deal. Get her to help you once we get onto the surface. She can fix your body and cure your addiction—and maybe, if she does that, the mind will automatically go with it."

"You think Tenenbaum can...fix me?"

"I do. You saw what she did to her little Frankensteins, I'm assuming in Cage's memories. If she can do that to those little girls, then surely she has some inkling on how to do the same to an adult. All she needs is a guinea pig."

"I am not a guinea pig. I am a person." At Jack's apologetic look, she grins, barely refraining from snickering at his startled look. It is enough to make her reconsider, but he returns the grin as soon as he realizes she wasn't being serious. It's a first for both of them—a lack of restraint on her part, and a lack of fear on his. He is not afraid of her anymore. Some kind of acceptance passes between the two, and they finally understand each other. It feels...nice. El cannot remember the last time she or Cage felt any kind of nice.

"Yes. Yes, you are."

"Shut up, I'm trying to sleep," calls a quiet, disgruntled voice, and both Jack and El start at the sound of Sally's double-bass voice. Oh—El had not forgotten about her, exactly, but with Jack so close and Little Bird so far away, it had simply been a matter of prioritizing. Sally is not nearly as interesting as Ace.

Jack rolls his eyes, scoffing before flashing a conciliatory look towards and standing up. El makes to follow him, but a raised hand in her direction stops her. "No, you stay here. Get some rest—after everything, you deserve it. I'll watch over the little urchin. We'll try to keep quiet."

El hesitates, but looking over his shoulder at the girl, still curled up and half-asleep, he does not think he will have much trouble with her. Sally loves Jack. Besides, they were friends long before El and Jack. They will be fine. She looks back to him and nods, drawing her legs to her chest and curling up on the podium. Beyond her field of vision, she hears Jack closing the distance between him and Sally. She is asking questions—Little Bird loves to chirp. Jack, his patience long since wasted on El herself, is refusing to answer any of them, insisting she shut up and go back to sleep or otherwise keep quiet. Sally refuses to do either, and as El closes her eyes, she hears him groan in exasperation. Something dangerously close to fondness pangs in her chest for the both of them. She doesn't have time to ponder the emotion further, however—the second her eyes are shut, she succumbs to the overwhelming exhaustion that has been plaguing her since Cage...since Elizabeth came back, and ruined everything again.

When she dreams, it is of the two-faced man, a guitar, and a song.