It began a few days after the incident.

A migraine comprised of sharp, brief flashes of pain. The splintering of wood. A fierce crack, too tortuous to be human. A child's laughter, her taunting jabs, so quickly brutalized, twisted into an agonizing shriek. In the black haze, he heard a woman's voice calling out her name–his own shaken with grief and lacerated by his helplessness.

And in the grave moments before the misery, he yelled:

"Don't jump!"


December 31, 1959

His father would have laughed if he were alive to see him. The wayward son, once so proud and arrogant, was reduced to a lowly P.I. and a bundle of flesh in possession of nothing but debts, regret, and a well of luck long dried out. A time existed where there was hope, money–plentiful–and his mind untainted by the follies of mankind. Then, alas, sentimentality had plagued him and he had spiraled downwards from there, for once he cared for something other than himself, he handed himself over to devastation. The litany of self-reproach has since become a bothersome companion.

He wiped his bleary eyes, still reeling from the pains that pestered him ever since that day. It was as far as he was willing to ponder the matter and once he did recall, he popped open a bottle and drowned himself in third-rate whiskey, the drink so terrible that even the Prohibitioners wouldn't dare take a sip. Nonetheless, the bottles were piling up, as were the cigs in the ashtray and the betting slips that cluttered his desk, scribbled in hastily, unthinkingly.

A groan escaped him as he lifted his throbbing head, and the first thing he saw was a doll, though it would be quite generous to refer to it as such. The ragged thing sat on top of the mess and ruin and filth, its head hanging on by a bare thread to its body.

It was all that was left of her.

He took another swig of whisky and shoved the damn thing in his pocket.

Just as he was ready to be done with it, done with the girl, the door swung open, and slithers of light pierced the dingy, smoke-filled room. Upon the threshold stood a woman, the dimness granting the sight of her silhouette only, though he saw, between her fingertips, a Pall Mall waiting to be lit. The number she had on was ripped straight from a Hollywood picture and he would have let himself enjoy the sight had it not been for the precise calculation in which she swayed her hips or tossed those curls. Having dealt with his fair share of clientele, he recognized this sort of practiced seduction that would make a much more foolish man ignorant enough to surrender.

He grimaced when realizing that had she come at an earlier moment, he may have been doped up enough to be that fool.

"I'm closed for New Year's, Miss," he drawled. "Didn't you see the notice on the door?"

The minx ignored him and waltzed her way to the window as if she owned the damn place.

"I'm not blind. I saw the sign. But this job, I know you cannot refuse."

"Because you know me so well? Thank you, but I'd like to have a say in matters I am to refuse." He plucked a cig from his pocket and lit it. "What is it?"

She crossed her legs. Then uncrossed them.

"Before that, could you give me a light?"

Sighing, he stood up and finally felt the full effect of his drinking habits, his head killing him even more than it did before.

"Damn…" he muttered and approached the girl, whose face was well-hidden–only a glimmer of her eye was seen, a speck of murky green amongst the dark abyss. Raising his hand, he flicked the lighter and watched every fine detail sharpen, like Dorothy to Oz, from noir to Technicolor, her beauty presented to him in its intended clarity. She placed the cig between her lips, arresting with its bright red color, and leaned in slightly, her cat-like eyes shaded by those long, feathery lashes. Then she leaned back and he saw her through the faint flare of the burning filter.

Her eyes were like Paris Green.

He was in trouble.

The ache intensified briefly and he looked away as if burned.

"Who are you? And out of all the lousy P.I.'s in New York, what made you come to me?"

A cloud of white smoke wafted from her lips and veiled those secretive eyes.

"Call me Scarlett," she clipped and reached into her pocket.

He reached into his.

"And I came here because you're the only P.I. acquainted with this girl."

The hand gripping his gun relaxed as she handed him a torn photograph and he looked at her skeptically before taking it. For the next few moments, he stared at nothing else. His jaw clenched and handed the thing back, shoving his hand in his pocket.

"What is your business with that girl?"

"I want to locate her. Bring her back to her family."

He laughed, derisively. "How charitable of you. But, sorry to say, the girl you want is dead."

Oh, to hell with it. Turning around, not giving a damn that she was still there, he poured a glass from the decanter and took a generous swig.

"No, actually. The girl is lost."

"Dead. One of my informants told me so."

"Lost isn't dead."

"What makes you so certain?"

"You are not the only one with informants, Mr. Butler. Contrary to your belief, the girl is very much alive."

"Well, where is she then?"

"That I don't know. But I do know who to ask."

Scarlett puffed out one last time before snubbing the flame in the ashtray. She strode languidly back to the door from which she came and looked back, her eyes daring him.

"You coming?" she lilted with a calculated tilt of her head. He couldn't believe the nerve of this woman.

"Look here, I don't follow random dames to places without knowing all the sordid details. Now, will you be straight with me or not?"

"Fine. Suit yourself," she uttered carelessly and walked out, the echo of her heels like a hammer to his head.

Instinctively, he knew he shouldn't trust her one bit—that her temptress act was just a facade to lure him out of the security of his shabby excuse of an office. Every bit of the situation reeked of trouble, but she knew the girl, and gambling was as natural to him as breathing.

He cursed under his breath and grabbed his coat on the way out.


Author's Note: Yes, I know I shouldn't start a new story and focus on the ones I haven't completed, but I couldn't help it. This one just wouldn't come off the mind. It is based on Bioshock: Infinite - Burial at Sea Episode 1.