"Ya got a lotta nerve, showin' up like this, Lutece."
Staring down the barrel of her Hand Cannon, Abigail glares at the newcomer. The sounds of battle had ended as quickly as they'd begun, but the fate of her 'squad mates' doesn't concern her much, only the woman standing before her and the pair outside on her mind.
"Because of you… because of you and your brother, my friends and comrades… they've all become murderin' thugs! You set us on this path! Even if Elizabeth out there brings down Comstock, it won't matter! What's the point if all that's left is blood and hate!?" Abigail hisses at Lutece through grit teeth, her anger warring with her need to remain hidden.
"My brother and I never asked for your people to become 'murdering thugs', as you put it. And in the end, it was Daisy's choice all along." Rosalind Lutece states this with the same calm, even tone she'd spoken to Daisy with, and Abigail grimaces as she remembers that conversation. "I'm… sorry, but there was little we could do."
"Don't give me that!" Abigail wants to scream, but settles for a snarl as she tightens her grip on the Hand Cannon and the trigger. "Everything's gone now… the Vox Populi was my home, my friends… the closest thing I've had to a family since my Ma died! Now it's all gone, drowned in violence an' hate…" Tears threaten to well up, but she shakes her head and affixes her gaze on Rosalind Lutece.
"All we have left is anger and blood… how can we ever…" Abigail's knees seem to give out as all the fear and disgust comes back to her, the young redhead sinking to the floor, struggling to find the words, "W-we gave up our humanity… and for what!?" Looking down as tears well up, Abigail finds her Hand Cannon resting on her lap, no longer pointed at Rosalind. The flash of anger she'd felt for the new arrival had vanished as the full weight of what had become of the Vox Populi hits her all at once, and all Abigail can feel is despair.
"Not all of you." Looking up as tears run down her face, Abigail's eyes widen in surprise as Rosalind Lutece offers her a handkerchief, "You, miss Abigail, seem to have held onto your humanity, though it seems to have brought you nothing but grief. You… did you experience something after the Tear?"
Abigail can only nod, taking the offered handkerchief and blowing her nose, "I… saw some of Booker's memories. I don't know how, but I knew about Tears, Tear sickness, my other selves, other worlds… Rapture, and somehow… I saw her." Glancing out the window, she spies Booker and Elizabeth stepping into the Lutece Lab, and she can't help but wonder what they're looking for.
"If you truly want to know who she is," Abigail whips around as Rosalind speaks, "You may benefit from eavesdropping. I'll be here when you return, just be certain not to be seen."
"Why don't you just-"
"Tell you? Some things need to be witnessed in person, Miss Abigail. I doubt you'd believe me otherwise." With that, Rosalind turns away, stepping further into the darkened house only to take a seat in the living room. Despite the despair she's experiencing over the path the Vox had taken, Abigail finds a smile coming to her lips, and she pushes herself to her feet after a moment of trepidation.
"Don't suppose I'll be getting anything else outta ya'… why does this feel familiar?" Wiping away tears as she steps outside, Abigail heaves a quiet sigh, turning her thoughts to her muddled memories and to Booker and Elizabeth. The mysteries wouldn't solve themselves, and she's better off considering them than despairing over the Vox's bloody course.
"… come and get your little bastard. I want her out of my house!" Abigail panics, a shrieking, hysterical voice jarring her nerves as she steps through the Lutece Lab's front doors. She scrambles for cover behind the counter reading 'Lutece', hopefully hiding from whoever's raving beyond the front room.
"Sterile?" Abigail pokes her head over the counter as Booker's voice comes from beyond the double doors, listening as intently as she can.
"They weren't my parents…" Elizabeth's voice answers, barely a whisper. Abigail quickly covers her mouth, gasping into her hands as realization kicks in after a moment; the Lamb isn't Comstock's daughter?
"What? Then what are you to them?" Booker's voice again, and Abigail finds herself wondering the same. Elizabeth's answer, however, makes Abigail wish she'd never heard it.
"A child they decided to imprison."
"Son of a bitch…" Abigail curses silently, struggling to comprehend the magnitude of what she'd heard; Elizabeth's no 'miracle child' and certainly isn't the Prophet's, just another of Comstock's victims. She has powers, yeah, but the thought of being taken from her family and locked up in a tower strikes an all-too-personal nerve in Abigail.
Footsteps sound from deep in the lab and getting closer. "Oh damn…" Abigail pushes off the counter and bolts outside, sprinting as quickly as she can back to the house with the family, Rosalind's warning about not being seen seeming to be of immense importance all of a sudden. It's not a long run, but the urgency of her sprint leaves her lungs burning.
"Welcome back." Rosalind quips as Abigail bursts into the house, the young Vox shooting a glare back at the peculiar scientist before locking the door behind her. Once the gate is in place and the door's locked tight, Abigail doubles over gasping as the moment passes, her lungs crying out for air, and she's all too happy to oblige.
"She… she's not… Elizabeth's not…" Trying to speak as she fills her lungs, Abigail grits her teeth, taking a deep breath before trying again, "Elizabeth's not Comstock's daughter?"
"She is not." Rosalind nods, her expression just as inscrutable as ever.
"Then… who is she?" Abigail lunges, grabbing Rosalind by her coat. She doesn't know why, but she HAS to know, the memories left by Booker stirring like mad.
"If I tell you, Abigail, you must not interfere with them. Are we agreed?" Rosalind stares back at her, unfazed by the young woman gripping her. Abigail recalls the twins disappearing after speaking with Daisy, and she breathes a sigh as she realizes Rosalind may only be humoring her. She nods quickly, wondering if she could even harm the woman before her.
"Elizabeth's birth name is Anna DeWitt." Abigail's heart feels as if it'd stopped, her jaw hanging agape and eyes wide. She barely registers that Rosalind is waiting on her, that her grip on the redheaded scientist is now nonexistent. All that she can think on is what'd just been said; Elizabeth is Booker's daughter, the baby girl he'd told her about when they'd first met.
"But… how? Booker said his daughter's at home, all but a babe… my Booker, not that one… wait… how are there…?"
"I can't explain everything. Not enough time, I must be getting back before long. But know this; they will put an end to all Comstocks across all worlds, or nearly, but the act will separate them. Booker will wake up in 1893 with no memory of Columbia or Elizabeth. Not until a year later, when he'll come in search of Elizabeth once more, though just like now he won't remember who she is."
Abigail feels as if a puppet whose strings have been cut; she stumbles away from Rosalind, falling back against the door and sliding down to the floor. Sitting there, Abigail can't help the feeling of helplessness as she imagines what Elizabeth and Booker must've experienced. She glances out the window again, watching listlessly as the unknowing father and daughter leave the Lutece Lab behind them. Looking up at Rosalind, Abigail manages to stammer out a few words, "How… do I have his memories?"
"A theory: the Tear you entered was one Elizabeth left behind, and it was born of either her death, or-"
"She died!?" Abigail's on her feet in an instant, strength returning as panic and disbelief take hold. "W-wait, how… she's out there! How can… how can she…"
"Yes… Miss Abigail, this Booker and Elizabeth are the past selves of the Booker you met and the Elizabeth he's seeking. The girl was killed in Rapture, something Booker is attempting to unmake." Rosalind's implacable expression falters, and Abigail can't tell if the woman's annoyed at being interrupted, or if she's seeing a touch of melancholy. "Regardless, Booker and Elizabeth share a bond, and I believe these Tears were formed by either her passage through Rapture or her death, and the connection she shares with Booker. His experiences with Tears before your encounter have slowly been returning his memory, and this Tear returned the last of them after he passed through it."
"I… are you sayin'… the Tear was for him?"
"Possibly. The Tear may have been meant for him, and was collapsing after he went through. Your contact with him in the Tear may have caused this… transference of memories. Hmm… would you like to see him again?"
Lutece's question catches Abigail by surprise, the young woman blinking as she tries to comprehend, "Y-you can do that? I… I suppose, but how…" With that, Rosalind spreads her arms wide, and the darkened house is suddenly awash with gray light; the distinctive figure of a Tear shimmers beyond Rosalind.
"Oh… holy hell!" Abigail steps around Lutece, the sight bringing tears to her eyes even as she smiles; before her, Booker and Elizabeth support each other as they hobble down a dark and gloomy hallway, Robert Lutece guiding them and a strange little girl holding Elizabeth's hand. "Good for you…" Staring at the family, Abigail chuckles as she sees a strip of blue wrapped around Booker's right arm, just like the red around hers.
"Should I close the-" Abigail shakes her head, cutting Rosalind off, "Then why are you crying?"
"I… I don't… I'm happy for 'em, I suppose…" The smile fades as she wipes the tears on her sleeve, sighing quietly as confusion takes hold; why does she care so? She'd only met Booker once, only for a short time at that, and she's only ever seen Elizabeth from afar or in Booker's memories. Looking back to Rosalind, Abigail can't help but feel lost, "I dunno…"
"Hmm… curious." Rosalind waves her hand, and the Tear closes, the house once again shrouded in darkness, "What will you do now? You have a woman and her children in the back room; may I ask your intentions?"
"I'm goin' to get 'em to safety." Abigail turns to look Rosalind in the eye, a grim smile spreading across her features, "I won't leave 'em to be found by the Vox, not after all that's happened. My Ma wouldn't want me ta' abandon 'em, an' I'm not goin' to disappoint her, not again."
"Listen, I'm getting' ya someplace safe, but for now we've gotta stay here, and quiet." Abigail kneels before the woman and her children, trying to sound as confident and reassuring as possible, "A barge'll be back to pick me up, I'll get ya on it and take ya far away from here."
Rosalind had disappeared shortly after their chat, something like half an hour ago, leaving Abigail alone with the scared, nervous family. The woman still looks at her suspiciously, and the boy is still fearful, but at least the children don't tremble or whimper at her approach. The girl gives Abigail some hope; the child simply watches her without a sound, her expression and gray eyes neutral.
"A-and if the barge doesn't come? Or there are more Vox? T-then what?"
"Then I'll protect ya." Abigail's heart sinks at the thought, even as she tries to reassure the mother, "No matter what. We've got an hour or so till then, so just sit tight, yeah?"
The woman nods, and Abigail steps away with a heavy heart; without the imminent danger of someone being killed, the thought of fighting her fellow Vox turns her stomach. What if they're just following orders, and aren't bloodthirsty killers? The young redhead grimaces as she leans her Repeater against a dresser. Lowering herself down to sit beside her weapon, Abigail rests with the heavy wooden dresser against her back. For the third time since she'd returned from the Lutece Lab, she glances around the room, trying to take her mind off the future.
The dresser she's resting against sits near the door to the bedroom she and the family are hiding in, the door itself in the right corner. This must've been the kids' room, for two small beds lie in the far corners, nightstands beside them with colorful toys and other personal effects littering their surfaces and the floors around them.
"Shh… It's alright…" Abigail's gaze is drawn to the family as the mother coos to her children, stroking the boy's hair while rocking back and forth. They're huddled together atop the bed in the opposite corner from the door, and Abigail still can't understand how she could've hated these people so much.
A shuttered window on the far wall, across from where Abigail sits, and one other on the left allow only the weakest of light to filter into the room. The light is barely enough to make out the family she's determined to protect, but Abigail doesn't particularly care either way right now; she's got enough on her mind.
"Hmph… bigger than my family's shack in Finkton…" Abigail groans as the thought crosses her mind, thoughts of her own family replacing uncertainty with an all-too familiar hurt. "I wish I could've had a family like the other me did… even a family like Booker's…" Abigail grimaces again, shaking the thoughts of those two from her mind.
Thinking of family, Abigail turns her thoughts to the songs her other self sang in Rapture, and the song Elizabeth had performed there. But she has neither the practice to sing her other self's songs, nor the clarity of memory to even attempt Elizabeth's; the memory of Booker's seems one of a first time hearing, not enough to make out even half the lyrics. But there is one song she knows, though she hasn't sung it in years.
Pulling her knees to her chest and crossing her arms over them, Abigail lowers her head to rest her eyes against her forearms. The words come easily, and she takes a deep breath while untying her ponytail. Her voice comes out slow and quiet as her hair comes loose, further muffled by singing into her arms.
I'll tell me Ma when I go home, the boys won't leave the girls alone.
They pull my hair and stole my comb, but that's alright till I go home.
Her voice isn't nearly as upbeat or quick as the song calls for, but then again, she isn't in an upbeat mood. Fresh tears spring forth, Abigail remembering her Ma teaching her the song.
She is handsome, she is pretty, she is the belle of Dublin city.
She is courtin' one, two, three, please, won't you tell me-
"Are you crying?"
Abigail jerks her head up at the sound of the voice, only to see the little girl standing before her. The girl wears a knee length gray dress with bands of white about her wrists and neck, her blonde hair tied up in a bun. Abigail smiles despite the tears, the little girl's face showing only sympathy, "Yes, I am, lass."
"But… you're Vox… and a grown-up."
"You think Vox don't cry? We're people, too. And grown-ups can cry if they're really sad…"
The child seems to think for a moment, and Abigail glances past to the girl's family; the mother holds her breath, fear evident in her eyes, while the boy clutches the arm holding him to his mother's chest. Neither looks particularly at ease with what's happening, and Abigail turns her gaze back to the brave little girl before her.
"My name's Mary, what's yours?" The girl steps closer, putting a little hand on Abigail's arm.
"Abigail." She smiles, and the little girl follows suit. "You're not scared of me?"
"Not really. I play with some boys and girls who sound like you… but don't tell my Papa." Mary looks at her intently, as if something'll happen just from staring. "Where're you from?"
"My Ma and Da," Abigail runs a hand through her hair and draping her now-loose hair over her shoulder, "came here from New York. I don't remember it myself; too young. My-" she falls silent for just a moment, wondering if she's remembering her family's past, or Booker's, "my Granma still lives there, but I don't remember her much. I've only ever seen a photo of her when I was but a babe, like you. My Ma taught me this song, but she… she died when I was your age."
Mary blinks at her, and Abigail realizes the girl may not understand death yet. Probably for the best, but Abigail still grimaces as she wonders how long that'll last. "M-my Ma had to go far away, and I haven't seen her since."
The little girl's face falls, Mary looking back at her mother before awkwardly sitting next to Abigail. "Mama said the same thing about Papa. I hope he comes home soon…" She looks up to Abigail, "Does singing that song help?"
Abigail stares at the girl sitting beside her, forcing a smile even as her heart sinks, Mary's innocent words dredging up painful memories, "Y-yes, a little. Do you want me to keep singing?" Mary smiles back and nods, her enthusiasm helping to dampen some of Abigail's melancholy, "Alright, here goes…"
Albert Mooney says he loves her, and all the boys are fightin' for her.
Knock at the door and they ring at the bell, sayin' 'Oh my true love, are ya well?'
Out she comes, as white as snow, rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.
Ol' Jenny Murphy says she'll die, if she doesn't get the fella with the rovin' eye.
"This' the chorus, Mary. She is handsome, she is pretty…" Mary wears a happy smile as Abigail sings, clapping along as the tempo rises. Abigail finds she's smiling herself as the chorus winds down.
Let the wind and the rain and the hail blow high, snow comes shovelin' from the sky.
She is sweet as apple pie, she'll get her own lad by and by.
When she gets a lad of her own, she won't tell her Ma when she goes home.
Let them all come as they will, it's Albert Mooney she loves still.
Singing the chorus with all she can muster, Abigail glances at Mary and her family; Mary's still smiling and clapping, the little girl now humming along with her singing. Her brother seems to have relaxed, and is bobbing his head with the beat, and even their mother looks at ease now. Abigail allows herself another smile as she finishes, and Mary reaches to tug at her sleeve, "Is that all?"
"No, the song repeats again, but how 'bout we save the song for once we're well shut of this place?" Abigail feels another grin tugging at her lips as Mary nods, a big smile on her little face.
"… alright, that about does it. Give it here, Mary."
Abigail grins as the little girl hands her the strip of canvas, torn from the larger length encircling her arm. She'd just finished braiding her hair, not wanting stray strands getting in her eyes should violence become likely, and Abigail ties the end tightly with the strip. "Thank ya, Mary. Almost ready ta' go?"
"Yep!" Mary holds up a bag she'd stuffed with her most precious belongings, though most were simply toys and dolls. Glancing around the room, Abigail nods as she tosses the braid over her shoulder. The rest of Mary's family still busy themselves packing 'essentials', the brother squeezing a pair of toy soldiers into his bag while their mother packs more sensibly; clothing, Silver Eagles and some food.
Rising from where she sits with Mary, Abigail retrieves her Repeater before looking her weapons over, her nerves jittery from thoughts of what may happen once they step out the door. "Lookin' fine… damn, hope nothin' happens." Glancing at the shuttered windows, Abigail heaves a sigh, hoping the barge comes soon. "And that the pilot isn't opposed to my course…"
"Miss Abigail…" She turns as the mother speaks up, raising an eyebrow in surprise; this' the first time the mother had called her by name. "We… we're ready to go… whenever you are, of course."
"Alright, just… just call me Abigail." She breathes a quiet sigh, holstering her Hand Cannon and slipping the Repeater over her shoulder; she's not accustomed to being responsible for another life, much less the lives of children. And to make matters worse, Abigail can tell the mother is still leery of her motives. "Not that I blame her…" She sighs again, turning to step out of the bedroom as she mutters beneath her breath.
Turning to motion for the family to follow, Abigail feels a smile forming as she finds Mary hot on her heels. Kneeling so she's eye to eye with the child, Abigail brings a finger up to her lips, "Shh… keep as quiet as a mouse. Let's go."
Stepping out of the home and onto the street of Market District, Abigail unslings the Repeater, peering about the empty street with the weapon raised. But there's not a sign of life; no angry Vox, no scared civilians, and no Booker and Elizabeth blowing through like a force of nature. But the bodies… those still lie on the street where they fell.
"C-cover their eyes…" Abigail backs up to the door just as Mary steps through, turning to the mother, "Ya don't want 'em to see this." A look of horror crosses the woman's face as she peers over Abigail's shoulder, nodding slowly as she finally tears her gaze from the sight.
"C'mon, Mary, Peter, let's do what the lady says…"
"Peter." Abigail thinks as she turns and steps out onto the street, "So that's the boy's name, huh?" She can hear Mary and Peter object as their mother covers their eyes, but she's busy looking about the street, trying to find the best path to avoid the bodies of civilians and soldiers alike. "Down the stairs nearby looks the best... Alright, let's get goin'!" The family hurries from the darkened doorway, the mother doing her best to shield her children from the scenes of carnage strewn about the street.
"C'mon, keep your hand over your eyes, Mary." Abigail picks up the little girl as she comes within reach, the mother doing the same with Peter and the group hurrying down the stairs. A gasp sounds, and Abigail winces as she glances to her right; the men and woman who'd been captured had been lined up against a wall, the shots she'd heard before just what she'd thought they were. "At least the bastards who done it were put down…" A trio of Vox soldiers lay in crumpled heaps, left in the wake of Booker's passing.
"Can I open my eyes now?"
"Not just yet, Mary. We're almost there." Running down the street, Abigail breathes a sigh of relief; no new corpses litter their path, and she doesn't see anyone to oppose them, Vox or otherwise. "Alright…" Looking around as she runs up to the dock, Abigail finds the Wilson Bros. shop open, the lock picked and left on the steps. "So the Infusion was for them… alright, let's wait in here. Mary, you can open your eyes now."
The girl takes her hand from her eyes and blinks repeatedly, Abigail chuckling as she puts the child down. Peter appears a second later, and the siblings take a seat behind the counter, playing some sort of game. Abigail breathes a quiet sigh as she looks on, the top of their heads just barely visible above the counter.
"Miss Abigail… I just… thank you. I never thought someone like you would try to… try to help us." Abigail turns to the woman as she speaks. Now that they stand in the light of day, Abigail finally gets a good look; the woman can't be more than a few years older than she is, and if Abigail had to guess, she's in her early twenties at most.
"Don't thank me just yet… we're not safe till we're out of here…" A low droning sound comes from outside the shop, like an endless gust of wind, "Speak of the devil… wait here."
Running out of the shop, Abigail nearly cheers as she sees the cargo barge flying towards her, and she yells and waves as best she can, "Down here!" The barge still moves like a drunken mule as it descends, and Abigail breathes a quiet sigh, "It's almost over… oh… no…"
Her cheer is short-lived; Abigail can make out the forms of a half dozen Vox soldiers, all armed and ready for battle. "Why… why are they here? There's nothing left in Emporia…" As the barge pulls up beside the dock, Abigail's gaze darts back to the shop, seeing the mother peering out through the window and the children playing with something or other. "Dammit…" biting her lip in frustration, Abigail turns her attention back to the soldiers as they jump off the barge, the pilot stepping out onto the deck as if to get a better look, "is this day going to get even worse?"
Author's note: Good question, what do you think? A few things: first, it might be a bit before Abigail's story explicitly links back to Unbroken; second, I spent a good deal of time looking for a period appropriate Irish folk song, and this is the one I found (the version I listened to was by the Young Dubliners). Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, and feedback is most welcome. What do you think is going to happen next time?
We'll see what I upload next week, have a few ideas kicking around in my head, most of which are at least partially written.