Foreword: Well, I did mention that the chapter would be a day late, due to my work schedule, and here it is; this chapter's more of a transitory chapter than anything else, a little bit of post-Comstock Columbia.

March 19, 1913, 10:55 AM

A frown begins to tug at Abigail's features, but the redhead fights to keep it from her expression; she and the other leaders of the Vox Populi have been in a meeting for nearly three hours, and all she's heard is a lot of infighting, each faction having their own grievances and problems that they would place the most importance on. All in all, there are seven leaders clustered around the large, heavy wooden table in what used to be Fink's office, the airship dock just outside and Fink's quarters off to the side. And of the seven, only two aren't arguing about some trivial matter; herself and Preston E. Downs, Abigail more than a little surprised by this fact.

Much of the man's bluster and bravado left him after his failed assault and attempted capture of the Hand of the Prophet, and the resulting casualties hadn't helped his standing one bit; Abigail had been certain one of the other leaders would have had him killed, but Downs has kept his head down since and consolidated what was left of his followers, those who hadn't perished in the attack or fled to another's banner afterwards.

"Surprised he came at all…" Muttering to herself, Abigail crosses her arms and heaves a sigh, the young redheaded leaning back in her seat as the others argue; she'd learned that trying to be the voice of reason when everyone's blood is up will only get her singled out, inviting the others' ire rather than accomplishing anything. "Best let them wear themselves out first…" The thought does little to improve Abigail's mood; this is the first meeting they've had in the last two months due to paranoia.

Looking down at the sprawling map of Columbia that's been spread out on the table, Abigail has to fight to keep from frowning again; among other difficulties, an up-to-date map of Columbia is nearly impossible to maintain, what with the buildings and districts able to separate and fly off to another part of the city. What's depicted here is a best guess, compiled from scouting reports, and there's far too much blue on it for her liking.

"The Founders 'ave pushed us outta Emporia again… even taken Port Prosperity. An' they've been seen in some of the surroundin' areas, too…" Resting her chin between thumb and forefinger, Abigail finally relents and allows a small frown to twist her features. A counteroffensive has already been planned, and there's one thing that everyone here can agree on; that it will be a hard-fought battle. "Hell's bells… this has turned into a mess…"

The state of the war has changed so many times that Abigail's lost count; sometimes the Vox Populi's victory seems assured, other times it feels as though the Founders could be knocking on their door anytime now. It's been this way since the Prophet's death, the Founders trying to find a suitable leader.

"This last push has somethin' ta' do with that monster's death… the Founders wasted enough of everyone's time claimin' the Prophet was just 'in seclusion'…" It's only been a month since news of Zachary Comstock's demise became widespread, the Founders having kept the Prophet's death under wraps this whole time. Now, they're rallying their troops behind Comstock's death, spurring the Columbian military on with righteous indignation and avenging zeal. "That was a pleasant surprise ta' face… the bastards fought harder than I'd ever seen…"

Flexing her ungloved left hand, Abigail grimaces as feathers briefly spring from her flesh and her nails turn into black, hooked talons, the memory of that monstrous bird creature in the asylum coming to mind whenever she sees the effects of Murder of Crows. "And that other monster's still runnin' 'round Columbia…" Abigail groans at the thought as two of the weaker factions' leaders nearly come to blows, the others separating them.

Commander Mercier is now a well-known figure to the Vox Populi, though only Abigail and the few she's confided to know just how dangerous she truly is; the raven-haired woman, as it turns out, commands the Founder squad the Vox have come to call 'ghosts', and has continued to harry the revolutionaries with ambushes and raids.

"Almost got a matchin' set here, last we met…" Abigail traces a finger along the scar that runs down the left side of her face, a touch of a grimace threatening to twist her expression. Since her confrontation with the woman from Rapture, Abigail's faced Mercier twice more in these past three months, and each time she'd nearly met her maker. "At least I'm getting' better…"

Finally, the arguments and insults being flung across the table begin to die down, and Abigail slowly picks herself up. "Fellas, I've got a couple a' problems myself. It's spring, an' unless we do somethin' with Arboria, we'll all be tightenin' our belts come winter. This last one was plenty rough, imagine the next without a thing ta' eat."

Low murmurs fill the room, some in argument, some disgruntled, but none interrupting. "An' we also need ta' get the factory goin' again. We're runnin' outta places ta' scavenge, an' we'll be needin' ammo, clothin', Salts…"

"Now hold on, Miss Abigail." Downs speaks up, his first words since the meeting started, "We're fighting a war, girl; you expect some of us to go back to being factory workers and farmhands?"

"You never worked in the factory, Downs, don't talk like you know a thing about it!" One of the other leaders nearly spits at Preston Downs, the big game hunter glaring daggers back at the man.

"Just sayin' we need ta' look into it." Taking her seat, Abigail rests her elbows on the table and interlaces her fingers, hiding the frown that appears; she can already tell that this isn't going to affect any real change. Being the leader of the largest faction, the others will sometimes follow her lead should she decide to make a move against the Founders, but not in any other regard. "Guess that'll be useful, when the time comes…"

1:30 PM

"Son of a…" Striding through the factory and cursing beneath her breath, Abigail heaves a long, exasperated sigh; the meeting went on for another half hour after she'd said her piece, and absolutely nothing was accomplished. She and Downs just glared at each other across the table, while the other leaders fought over living quarters and food rationing. "Bunch of goddamn fools…"

Now, Abigail's returned to the part of the factory claimed by her people, and she hadn't stopped looking over her shoulder until well inside; while the infighting between Vox factions has supposedly come to an end, the fact remains that she could still very well be targeted by one of the others.

"Abigail."

"Ah! Oh, ya' startled me…" Jumping a little at the voice, Abigail finds 'Yu' standing before her, the taciturn, older man wearing his usual, severe expression. She's been trying to figure how to pronounce his name for a fair while now, and Abigail still has some trouble with it on occasion, "Yoshiro, is everythin' ready for tonight?"

"It is." Yoshiro nods curtly, his accent thick as he continues, "How went the meeting?"

"Same as always. Lots of fightin', not a lot of much anythin' else…"

A scowl crosses the older man's face, his brown eyes narrowing as he says something in his native tongue, something Abigail can only imagine is a curse. "Unfortunate." Continuing in English once he's finished, Yoshiro steps aside, "Then we must do it ourselves."

"Yeah…" Nodding, Abigail resumes her pace, Yoshiro falling in beside her, and she can't help but peer up at the old soldier; if she had to guess, Yoshiro isn't as old as Slate was, the man's age more likely around Booker's. "The second Booker," correcting herself silently, Abigail shakes her head and chuckles, "the older one I saw in Emporia."

"Abigail, we should continue our lessons."

"Huh? Oh…" Now Abigail stops in her tracks, wincing slightly at the thought; Yoshiro has been teaching her how to use her blade, and his lessons are usually painful, involving heavy wooden swords and not a single piece of protective padding. "Not now, I've been meanin' ta' get some sleep before tonight…" Glancing up at Yoshiro, Abigail finds him watching her, his face as impassive as stone. "Maybe later…"

Yoshiro nods curtly again and turns down a corridor without another word, disappearing before too long, and Abigail can only breathe a quiet sigh; the man's an honest to God soldier like Slate was, who'd fought in actual wars. He'd be a better commander than she is, but Yoshiro seems unable to inspire or otherwise rally support, and so he simply advises Abigail on tactics and strategies while she bears the mantle of leadership. Something she's not particularly happy about; Abigail's constantly beset with doubts over her ability to lead.

Pondering the possible steps she could take, Abigail slowly wends her way through the factory until she reaches her destination; her new home, though it's just as temporary as the last one. She'd had her personal effects in here for a couple weeks now, having moved here due to it being far more secure than her old quarters.

"I'm back…" Calling out to no one in particular as she steps into her quarters, really just a slightly larger room than her old with nary a window in sight, Abigail closes her eyes as a yawn escapes her. And she's only partly surprised by what greets her when she opens them again.

"Welcome back." Robert Lutece greets her without turning to look, the redheaded scientist keeping stock still.

"Yes, welcome." Rosalind doesn't stop what she's doing either, though the sister Lutece does turn to glance her way.

"… why are ya' paintin' your brother in my quarters."

"Why not?" Rosalind looks up from her canvas, she at the far end of the room and in the corner opposite the bed while her brother stands nearer to Abigail and the door, striking his usual pose, "It is a perfectly fine room to paint in."

"Indeed, it is. Though natural light would be preferable to artificial, don't you agree, sister?"

"A fair point."

"Guh… why'd I even ask?" Slipping past the twins, Abigail drops face first on the bed, this one a touch more comfortable than the last. "I've got a long day ahead of me, so I'd appreciate a little peace." Glancing up from her bed at Rosalind, Abigail heaves a sigh into the mattress; she hasn't seen the twins since the day she broke into Comstock House and Booker and Elizabeth fled this floating city.

"We have been indisposed ourselves," Robert speaks up, almost as if he'd read her thoughts, "And we are rather curious as to how you will proceed from here."

"You've been so preoccupied keeping your people and those huddled in that church alive through the winter that you've done little towards your stated purpose." Rosalind steps back from the canvas to peer at Abigail, "Has your position and responsibilities rendered your earlier convictions as impossibilities?"

"The hell it has!" Bolting upright, Abigail glares at Rosalind Lutece, her teeth grit and hands balled into fists, "I haven't given up. I'm goin' ta' get her outta there, ya' can bet on it!"

"Then we suggest you make haste." Nodding, Rosalind turns back to her canvas.

"If you mean to rescue her, then you should make it so before further responsibilities find their way into your hands." Robert manages a quick nod before becoming as a statue again.

"But what comes next?" Another quip from Rosalind.

"Yes, how will you care for her, should you manage to retrieve the girl? She can do nothing for herself." The statue that is Robert continues, his eyes darting over to her for a split second.

"I… I don't know." Despite the surge of anger, Abigail can't help but realize the truth in their words; more and more of her time and energy these days are devoted to keeping the Vox Populi intact and to protecting the refugees as best as she can. And even worse, who's to say that her breaking this world's Elizabeth out of her cage in Comstock House's asylum is better for her than to simply stay safely there?

"Chin up." Rosalind glances over again, "I'm certain you'll make the best of it, and the girl will be better off for it."

"What's this? Careful, sister, or some may stop accusing you of being a fatalist."

"Hmph. It is simply an effort at seeing the upside to the situation." Rosalind puts her brush aside, lifting the canvas and turning it towards both Abigail and Robert, "Here's your portrait, dear brother."

Despite feeling a good measure of fatigue from dealing with the other faction leaders, Abigail can't help but smile as she looks upon Rosalind's painting, the raised eyebrow Robert's giving it not helping any; Rosalind has painted herself holding an apple up, and Abigail can't help but think there's some special meaning in her painting the fruit.

"I suppose turnabout is fair play, sister." Robert nods, and Abigail can't suppress the chuckle that escapes her.

"Thank ya', both of ya'." Once she's finished chuckling, Abigail grins up at the twins, the brother and sister Lutece now side by side with the painting and everything else nowhere in sight, "I needed a laugh. I… don't suppose you'll mind if I ask how they're doin'?"

"They are… well, now." Robert starts, seeming a touch reluctant.

"Now, yes. But a couple months ago, they were decidedly worse off." Rosalind continues, sounding the same as always.

"Huh?" Looking back and forth between both Robert and Rosalind, Abigail slowly rises to her feet, "What happened?"

"They were attacked by Splicers, the crazed citizens of Ra-"

"I know what a Splicer is, Robert." Her voice is soft, and Abigail's sure she'd be in quite a state if she hadn't already heard that Booker and Elizabeth are fine now. "But how?"

Robert blinks in surprise for a moment before nodding, continuing a moment later "Ah, that's it; you've memories of your other self. A most unlikable fellow by the name of Atlas had sent them through one of our devices."

"How the device was built and who directed Atlas to their world is another matter altogether, however." Rosalind adds, and Abigail can't help but feel like she's hiding something.

"Atlas, huh?" The name's familiar to Abigail, but what she knew for certain about the man doesn't amount to a whole lot; her elderly other self didn't pay much mind to the rabble rousers in Rapture. "I don't care how it was built, is it gonna happen again?"

"Unlikely, though it is a possibility." Abigail gives the brother Lutece a sharp look.

"The machine is damaged, but not destroyed. However, the civil war would make repairs nearly impossible at this point." Rosalind adds, though she glances at her brother when she's done.

"That's a relief…" dropping back onto her bed, Abigail heaves a sigh as she sits on the edge of her mattress, "Thanks for tellin' me… umm… I suppose I just gotta figure out who set Atlas on them." Looking up at the twins, Abigail gives the both of them a lopsided grin, "Care ta' fill me in, or are the two of ya' gonna keep it a secret?"

"We've no pressing need to." Though she looks the same as always, Abigail can't help but feel Rosalind's answer sounds a little off.

"You already know the culprit's identity." Rosalind makes a palm upwards gesture, "Knowing that, you should be able to determine who is responsible. Now, we must be off."

"Wait! I don't get…!" But the twins are already gone, and Abigail can only lie back on her bed, "Who could do all that? Someone who knows Rapture… someone who…"

Abigail's eyes begin to widen, the pieces coming together in her mind, "Who knows about Tears, an' about usin' a Lutece Device…" A grimace crosses Abigail's face, and she climbs under the covers slowly, "Son of a… Mercier, huh? Hell's bells… I'm not getting' any sleep now, am I?"

7:15 PM

A yawn escapes Abigail as she rests against the cargo barge's cabin wall, she leaving the flying to someone else for once and staying outside to enjoy the chilly night air. While it grows hot enough in the day to melt the snow left in winter's wake, at night Columbia is still quite cold out. But the wind on her face and the chill in the air help to keep Abigail awake and aware, the young redhead not getting a wink of sleep after the Luteces departed.

"Least this should be plain an' simple…" She and most of her squad are on one of their usual covert supply runs, delivering essentials to the refugees hiding near New Eden Square. She could've sent another squad tonight or just not have gone herself, but Abigail has a simple question for the refugees, so she decided to handle it herself. "Wonder how much longer they can last there… hell, wonder how much longer till the Founders find them."

One of the more recent military rulers, some Major something-or-other, had declared an edict stating that if any citizen of Columbia isn't assisting the Founders and rightful rulers of the city, then they're with those who'd see the Prophet's dream come to ruin. That hadn't inspired much patriotism in the refugees, and the roving Founder gunships didn't help that any.

"The next one put a stop to that fool's edict, but the damage was done. An' those gunships are still out there…" That's another worry for those on supply runs; encountering Founder ships, even though they're far from the front.

Another yawn escapes Abigail, and she rubs her bleary eyes, "Guh. Guess havin' ta' tinker with the ship before leavin' took a lot outta me…" The engine had been acting up, and while she's a fair mechanic, hovercrafts aren't exactly run of the mill pieces of machinery. Best she can do is make sure it's maintained, maybe fix a minor problem here and there; luckily, the problem was a minor one. "I think I'll just… close my eyes for a little while…"

"…"

"Abby?" A hand on her shoulder and a voice in her ear causes Abigail to open her tired eyes slowly, a groan escaping her.

"Ah, Viv… I was almost asleep…"

"Umm… Abby, we've arrived. We've been here for the past five minutes, actually."

"Wha…?" Scrambliing to her feet, Abigail finds they have indeed arrived, the now defaced statue of Comstock a dead giveaway; some damn fool had sent out groups on gunships and armed with Rocket Launchers and Hailfires to destroy every statue and likeness of the Prophet once Abigail and her squad returned with news of his death. Not a high point in relations with the refugees.

"We let you sleep. Even the officers over there didn't object." Vivian smiles as Abigail turns back to her, the redhead grinning sheepishly now, "Go on, you've got people to talk to, right?"

"Yeah…" Rubbing her eyes and shaking her head, Abigail shakily makes her way towards the gangplank, mentally kicking herself for falling asleep, "Stupid, Abigail… it's dangerous enough comin' out here without ya' noddin' off…"

At this point, the supply runs Abigail organized is a secret among some of her people, only those who can be trusted brought in on it, and only when more hands are needed. But if the more aggressive Vox factions were to find out, Abigail is sure the whole thing will blow up in her face.

Nodding absentmindedly at the police officers and refugees who'd come to receive their shipment of supplies, Abigail makes her way past the statue of Comstock and towards the Church without a second thought; though the Columbian police officers and the Vox Populi will never be on friendly terms, it has also been over half a year since they and the refugees have been receiving supplies from Abigail's people, and the coppers seem to at least tolerate her presence now. A marked improvement form before, when most of them would seem agitated whenever they saw her.

Stepping into the Church of Comstock, Abigail shudders yet again, despite all that's happened; even though the Prophet's dead, this place that bears his name is an uncomfortable reminder of his and the Founders' beliefs. "Ah, hell, get over it, lass…"

Inside, most of the decorations, be it plants, wall hangings or statues, have been removed for the sake of space, the green grass that had carpeted the place trampled underfoot and leaving hard-packed dirt in its place. Even the waters that had poured out of the Church proper's entrance had ceased, and the refugees have long since moved inside the main building. Still, even the massive church hadn't the room to accommodate everyone, and so quite a few still remain in the front part of the building.

"Least they put up those banners we brought 'em…" Looking up, Abigail breathes a quiet sigh; the crimson of the Vox Populi shields the former garden area from the sky, to keep other, less than friendly Vox from stumbling across the refugees.

"Abigail? I didn't expect to see you here today."

"I've a matter ta' speak ta' ya' about, Esther. Good ta' see you're doin' well." Abigail grins as lieutenant Esther Mailer steps through the rows of tents and cots; while what she'd thought of the police is equally true for their ranking officer here, she and Esther have managed to get along far better than the redhead had ever thought possible. Her smile shrinks a little as Esther approaches, Abigail thinking to herself, "Guess it is lonely bein' in charge, no matter where ya' are…"

"There's something I have to ask of you, as well." Esther comes to a stop before Abigail, the young woman looking the brunette up and down surreptitiously; she looks bedraggled, her jumpsuit faded and wearing a bit thin. And Esther's state isn't a singular one; all the refugees are looking that way, the former middle and upper-class of Columbia looking much like those who lived in Shantytown before the uprising. "Let's have a seat, there's still a bench near the back."

"Much obliged…" A yawn interrupts Abigail, and she finds herself smiling sheepishly once again as Esther chuckles, the police lieutenant leading the revolutionary through the maze of the refugees' 'homes'.

"We should be thanking you… though there's precious few under my command who'll admit it. Winter wasn't kind to us, but it could have been far worse…"

"It's nothing, Esther." Shaking her head, Abigail looks back at the people they passed, "Just stayin' true ta' what I learned from my Ma, an' a certain… fella with a complicated life an' a spirited lass of a daughter."

"I… don't quite get your meaning. But… did you ever find that girl you were looking for?"

"Ah…" Now Abigail's heart sinks, all the doubts she'd had before coming back to her, "Yes… but she's still trapped in her cage…"

"Shame." Esther shrugs as they reach the promised bench, Abigail sinking down onto the cold marble and resting her back against the wall. "Umm… Abigail… there's something I must ask of you. Can I trust you to give me the plain truth?"

"Huh?" Abigail glances back at Esther, wondering at her strange question, "I suppose… what's got ya' so worried?"

"We've heard rumors… and we can't be sure of anything, so far from anyone else… is…" Esther hesitates, and Abigail can almost hear her gulp in apprehension, "Is the Prophet dead?"

Abigail blinks in surprise; she'd thought the news of Comstock's demise had gotten around by now, "Don't ya' have a radio or somethin'? Wh are ya' askin' me?"

"We do, but we can't be sure what's propaganda or not…" Esther never takes her eyes from Abigail, her anxiety showing clear as day on her face, "And I'm asking you because you've proven to be of… uncommon character…"

"… ey, I'll take that as a compliment, I suppose. Umm… Esther... it's the truth. Comstock died in December." The lieutenant's anxiety gives way as Abigail speaks the words, and Esther looks like she's about to cry. Abigail can't bring herself to try and comfort the police lieutenant, though; the Prophet was a monster, and Abigail won't have anything to do with another's grieving for Comstock. But to her credit, Esther manages to keep the tears at bay, pulling herself up straight.

"H-How?" There's still a quaver in her voice, Esther visibly trying to keep her composure, "Was it… your people?"

"It wasn't us, though plenty of Vox were meanin' ta' do just that." Shaking her head, Abigail runs her fingers through her long, loose red hair as she takes a deep breath, "It was the False Shepherd an' the Lamb's hands that done it… but it was my squad who found him, after they left."

"The… the Lamb?" Esther seems to sag against the wall once Abigail's finished, her expression one of someone whose whole world was taken out from under them; the young redhead can relate, having experienced such a thing herself. It takes a while for Esther to recover, Abigail sitting beside the bedraggled woman for a good ten minutes before she can say anything. "I suppose it's best we know the truth…" Esther's voice starts quiet, but slowly begins to return to normal as she goes on, "What… what did you need to speak with me about?"

"Oh, umm… now that it is spring, that means plantin' season, an' we could use all the help we can get. My people tend ta' Arboria on our own, so it should be safe for any of ya' who wouldn't mind helpin'…" A chuckle comes from Esther, and she gives Abigail a small nod.

"I'll… I'll ask around…"

Author's Note: So not much happened in this chapter, just some more about the state of Columbia after the events of Infinite; the Founders are pushing the Vox harder than ever while trying to find someone to take Comstock's place, the Vox Populi are still divided, and the city's slowly falling apart from both the war and the lack of maintenance. How long do you suppose a city like Columbia could last if there's no food being produced, and all the assorted sundries needed?

I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and thanks for reading.