Ding.
"Need a ticket to New York, now." Eleanor handed her documentation to the man, but he sure was inefficient.
"Yeah, just a minute, friend," the guy behind the desk replied, quietly talking on the phone to someone as if he did not care about the girl.
"I'm not in a hurry, sir, but I would like to get going."
"Yeah, yeah, but... You're just sixteen years old..."
"So?"
"Well, are you with any parents?"
"No."
"I can't sell you a ticket if—"
"Give me my ticket, for fuck's sake!" Eleanor slammed her fist on the desk and casting a petty Electrobolt. The Plasmid frightened the clerk, dropping his telephone, leaning away, small masses of electricity zapping about. Whoever was on the phone, continued talking, then asked if Henry was still there.
Despite being baby-faced, Eleanor had quite the evil look when angry. Not even her cute, black student uniform and little black shoes helped. She just continued glaring at the man.
Sitting in a plane wasn't fun, and flying over the Atlantic didn't help, either. At least she had her seat for herself. Unlike most people, Eleanor kept her suitcase by her feet. Most passengers were middle to upper class, well-dressed and quiet, some sleeping. The whirring plane engines and inactivity of everyone gave Eleanor some quiet time to herself, and felt rather peaceful.
She thought about Rapture. Homesick again, Eleanor? Or maybe I'm just... Lonely? Nostalgic? Or something else? She sighed, but just wanted to get her mind off that fever dream. Crossing her arms, she leaned against the window, trying to get some sleep.
It didn't work. Eleanor occasionally moved a bit, trying other positions, but everything was uncomfortable and restless. Eleanor sighed again, then realized the place was dark, the lights on the ceiling flickering sometimes, the plane shaking now and then.
Eleanor turned her head, seeing a woman weakly walking up the aisle. She was a beautiful woman with a chiselled face, but with a stature quite small for an adult. She had large blue eyes, narrow eyebrows, and perfect black hair. She wore a white shirt ripped open below the right shoulder and at the end of the sleeve, and a black miniskirt. Blood leaked down the woman's forehead, mostly on the left side, some dripping onto her shirt. She looked beat-up and depressed.
Eleanor wondered what was going on. She looked up the aisle, seeing the back of a man wearing a woollen shirt, holding a revolver, aiming it at an unlucky woman. The man slightly turned his head, a few papers flying around amidst the panic.
Eleanor stood, wondering why everything seemed so...slow? She had to do something, otherwise the petite lady would get herself killed, approaching the terrorist without even being quick or sneaky. Eleanor pushed the woman onto some seats and approached the gunman.
The gunman turned around, just enough to see Eleanor. Her vision became blackness, accompanied by an odd whirring, windy noise. Ms. Lamb's guts swam up her throat as the plane plummeted, engines screaming, everything crashing and water flowing...
Eleanor opened her eyes.
She looked down, her suitcase by her legs. She looked down the aisle, then up the aisle. No mysterious woman or gunman. The plane shook a little from wind turbulence.
Ms. Lamb sighed, slouching in her seat and trying to make herself comfortable. "Hunh... First, Spirry starts haunting me. Now, it's Jack? And I thought only Rapture was crazy..."
Many hours later, the Statue of Liberty came into view, proudly standing in-between New York and New Jersey. Later, Eleanor reached New York City, landing at the John F. Kennedy International Airport that evening. She could see the sea, and the vastness of America really showed.
Eleanor's eyes widened. The airport is huge!
After disembarking the plan and doing lots of walking, then exchanging her British pounds into US dollars, Eleanor was ready to seek out the address. At long last, she would be able to find out what Spirry wanted. Thinking about that skinless, animalistic face she saw through the Lutece tear did not frighten her, and if Spirry thought he could intimidate her... Well, he'd be in for a surprise.
Catching a cab wasn't easy. There were lots of taxis, yet lots of people, too. Eleanor also saw a seventh generation, grey, Chrysler New Yorker, which for some reason slowed down as it drove past her. In fact, it slowed down so much, Eleanor thought it would stop next to her. Oddly enough, the driver just stared forwards, as did the passenger. The car drove off as if nothing happened.
Eventually, Eleanor signalled a Checker Taxi, the driver only too happy to help a young, tall, cute lady in black.
"Hey there! Where to?" the cab driver asked, a man with a very American accent, reminding her of the Sinclair brothers. "Need help with luggage?"
Eleanor shook her head, and stepped in. "I'm new in town, so I might make myself look rather awkward, but..."
"Nah, not at all! Don't worry 'bout it! We New Yorkers are friendly to foreigners. You British?"
"I...guess you could say that."
"No, really, where ya from?"
"Rapture."
"Where's that?"
"At the bottom of the Atlantic ocean."
The driver chuckled. "Welcome to America! So, where to, lil' lady?"
"This place..." Eleanor handed the driver a note with an address written on.
"Fifth avenue, 10022... Gotta drive across Queens, Brooklyn and East River into Manhattan. Shouldn't take more than about an hour. Goin' to church? It ain't Sunday, y'know. Or, are ya sightseeing?"
"I'm here to meet a friend. He wants me to meet him at this address."
"Oh? What's his name, if you don't mind me askin'."
"Michael Vay Atar. What an odd name, hunh?" Eleanor replied, feeling the cab go into gear and get driving.
"Sure is an odd last name. I have heard of that guy, actually, over on the radio, couple days ago," the driver said, surprising Eleanor. "I had a feeling you were gonna say that name. People even from Europe have been coming to New York to see him, or so folks be sayin'."
"Oh? I...did not know that."
"I think he's some sort of preacher or somethin'. He's got a cult going on, I think. But it ain't none of my business. If you're meeting him at St. Patrick's Cathedral, guessin' he's a Catholic... I hope I ain't been too nosy, but what exactly is goin' on with him?"
Eleanor shrugged. "I'm here to find out. But also to visit friends."
"Speaking of names and friends, the name's Jasper. What's yours?"
"Eleanor."
"Pretty name, fits you perfectly."
"Thanks."
"You've got a pretty necklace, too," Jasper complimented.
Eleanor figured he meant her medallion. "Thanks, it's very close to me."
Eleanor found it peculiar that Americans drove on the right side of the road. She did talk about it for a while, and Jasper commented that he would never be able to drive in England.
The driving turned out to be longer than Eleanor expected, and heavy traffic made everything so sluggish. Eleanor felt nervous at how much slower things turned out to be. She sure was going to pay a lot for this taxi! On the bright side, the driver was friendly, and spoke of various things of New York and its people.
Up ahead, Eleanor could see a giant bridge going across a big river and a narrow island.
"That be Queensboro Bridge and Roosevelt Island. For lots of folks, New York is nothin' but skyscrapers. But we have rivers, beaches, lakes, islands, parks, forests... There's somethin' for everyone here!" Jasper explained. "Ain't it a beautiful bridge?" He sure loved his city.
"Yes, it sure is... We never had anything like this in Rapture," Eleanor replied. The bridge was very, very huge and tall, taller than almost all buildings in sight.
"And just you wait! I bet, one day, New York will even have its own city in the sky!"
Eleanor smiled. That'd be quite a sight...
After some time, the cab driver spoke, "We're in Manhattan, home of the Empire State Building! We'll reach the cathedral pretty soon. Oh, and if you be planning to stick around, stay away from the east side of Manhattan, especially Hell's Kitchen. It's an Irish ghetto, people get beaten n' stabbed all the time. No place for a young lady like you."
Hell's Kitchen? Cathal...
After more driving and blabbing, The Cathedral of St. Patrick came into view down over yonder. Eleanor sighed with relief. The cathedral truly stood out from all the modern skyscrapers around it. It reminded her of the churches in Sligo, yet the styles were different.
"Almost there," Jasper said.
Soon, across the street from the cathedral, Eleanor saw the Rockefeller Centre, and the Atlas statue in front of it. She furrowed her eyebrows. She remembered seeing the Atlas statue in her dream after escaping Rapture. Eleanor was not sure if this was why Frank Fontaine took the alias Atlas or not. Well, there Atlas stood, the world on his shoulders, whereas Father had the ocean over his shoulders. What was next?
The driver hit the brakes, Eleanor placing her hands on the dashboard as the cab screeched to a halt. A gray, seventh generation Chrysler New Yorker had steered in front of the taxi, stopping sideways across the road. A man in a gray suit and gray hat exited the Chrysler, jogging towards the cab while raising his hand for attention.
"Watch where you're drivin'!" the cab driver yelled out the window as he opened it.
Eleanor felt something strange. She heard static and tuning noises reverberating in her skull. Her brain felt like it was being slowly electrocuted. She put her forehead against the window, running her head to try and dull the pain. The frequency intensified. Eleanor felt her nose bleeding, her headache so intense she dug her fingernails into her scalp.
"Hey? What's wrong, Eleanor?" Jasper asked.
Eleanor slowly turned her head while keeping it low, some black hair hanging over her face. Both her eyes were beaming yellow, her mouth open and casting some light as well.
The driver leaned away. "Oh, God!" He took his seatbelt of—his window cracked with a bang, blood spattering across Eleanor's face.
Jasper fell over her lap, a red hole in his head leaking blood.
Eleanor did not react, seemingly zombified by her lights. Passersby gasped or screamed and ran away.
Ironically, despite the intense pain, Eleanor was quite braindead. She simply watched as the man in the grey suit walk around the car and open the right door.
"Finally got payback, Jasper. And look who else is here..." the man in grey remarked. "Quick! Get her out before she gets shot!" he shouted, holstering his pistol underneath his jacket. He unbuckled Eleanor's seatbelt and got her out of the car. Eleanor wanted to do something, but everything felt slow, just like when she met Spirry the first time in her dream. As the man pulled her out the car, she looked at the taxi's ID atop the roof: IN77.
"Someone call the police and ambulance!" the man yelled again, some onlookers confused, the entire block soon in panic.
Eleanor felt the man press a damp cloth to her mouth, the damp side sprinkled with white powder.
Amidst her debilitated state, she recognized the ingredients. Fentanyl mixed with carfentanyl? Shit.
Not even Eleanor could withstand carfentanyl. She would soon lose consciousness. Had a normal human being inhaled the substance, death would have assuredly occurred.
The man carried Eleanor to the grey car, opening a backdoor and tossing her in. As sirens echoed, the grey car drove off.
Eleanor became comatose.
What seemed to have been a simple taxi drive has taken a turn...for the worst.
Nighttime, Fort Lee Historic Park.
Someone flicked a lighter open and lit his cigarette.
Eleanor smelled the smoke as it drifted past her head. She opened her eyes. She seemed to be kneeling, but her vision was dark and blurry. She heard a river, rustling trees, distant traffic, and the sounds of late night city life. Her vision somewhat cleared, and she realized her hands were bound.
What's going on? I...can't...
"...you got what you were after, so pay up!" the voice of an African-American demanded.
"You're crying in the rain, pally," someone nearby replied.
Eleanor tried to rip her hands free of the bonds, twisting her hands around, but nothing worked. Just teleport... she thought to herself. The extreme headache returned, bleeding noise next, her eyes shining yellow again.
The men nearby noticed Eleanor's beaming eyes.
"Hhheh... Guess who's waking up over here?" a third man asked.
Eleanor weakly looked up. Three men stood in front of her. The man in the middle stood mostly sideways, wearing a checkered suit of black, white, and grey. He wore a white shirt under his jacket, a black tie, and bright baize pants. He was a brown-eyed brunette, and looked handsomely American.
To her left, stood an impatient, muscular, African American man with a big moustache, wearing black leather attire and a white headband. To her right, stood a White blond guy, also wearing black leather attire, and having a spiky Mohawk and trimmed beard. He acted like some idiot chicken, frequently turning his head as if on coke. There were several other men in the area, all wearing black leather attire.
The man in the checkered suit lifted his cigarette to have a puff, then tossed his cig away, crushing it underfoot while exhaling a mouthful of smoke. "Time to cash out." He took a few steps to Eleanor, looking at her like some predatory animal.
Eleanor wanted to speak. Throw a Plasmid. up. God dammit, Eleanor, do something! She could not.
"Would you get it over with?" the African-American demanded, spreading his arms from impatience. The man in the checkered suit raised a finger at the African American.
"Maybe cons kill people without lookin' 'em in the face," Checkered-suit replied while staring into Eleanor's eyes, then slightly turning his head and raising his eyebrows. "But I ain't a fink. Dig?"
The African American man looked angry, turning his head and wondering if he should just knock the guy out, clenching his fists.
Checkered-suit turned his attention to Eleanor, taking out something from the inside of his jacket.
My medallion...
The pretty thing glowed with static.
Raising the medallion up so that Eleanor could see it, Checkered-suit tilted his head. "You've made your last delivery, kid." Checkered-suit pocketed Eleanor's medallion back in his suit, then feeling for something else. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene..."
Eleanor's eyes followed his hand as he pulled out a beautifully crafted, silvery, engraved, 9mm handgun.
The African American scratched his head and looked off to the side.
"From where you're kneeling might seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck," Checkered-suit commented, slowly pointing his gun at Eleanor. His two buddies looked pleased. "Truth is...the game was rigged from the start."
Gunshot, muzzle flash.
Blackness.