Jack

The plane cabin's air was thick with smoke and the taste of ash. The dim buzz of nicotine was almost sweet.

Then in an instant I am on my feet and I can feel the cold steel of the gun in my hand. The flight attendant stood up and screamed as I aimed my gun at her, and I am sure that given the chance she would beg for her life.

"AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

I try to will myself to put the gun down; every fiber in every muscle of my being struggles to prevent what is about to happen next, but it is to no effect.

I open fire, shooting her once in the head and a second time in the chest.

Would you kindly not open until 63° 2° N, 29° 55° W ...

As the others on the plane scream and panic, I tread mechanically down the isle while internally begging my body to go no further. In the isles full of panicked innocents I can women and children sobbing. Some look at me as if to ask why I would do such a thing as I have just done.

I shoot at on or two, ensuring the others do not block my path. Already I am covered in blood.

Would you kindly not open until 63° 2° N, 29° 55° W ...

When I reach the pilot's cabin, I lower my gun barrel at the head of the first pilot and paint the controls a disgusting crimson with his blood. The second pilot is only able to turn around in horror before I shoot three times into his chest. It is at this point that the plane begins to lose elevation and I begin to head to one of the escape doors. Screams fill up my ears as I begin to open fire on those standing in the plane's isle.

Would you kindly, would you kindly, would you kindly-

I wake up, sticky with my own sweat and gasping for air as I did when I first pulled myself out of the water surrounding the plane crash. The only dry part of my body is my mouth; every inch of me is sweaty and I think my eyes are watery.

But when I look around, I see that I am not in Rapture. I am in my bed, in my room, in my home.

"It is over, Jack. You got out of there. You're safe now." But even I do not believe my own hollow words. My voice sounds flat and unconvincing, no matter how many times I tell myself this. Perhaps if I repeat it enough I will believe it, but it is clearly not working right now.

Not daring to go back to sleep and return to my nightmare, I climb out of bed. The hands on my alarm clock read One Thirty Five, but I doubt I would be able to get much sleep anyway.

This is not the first time I had this nightmare; it's happened so many times I no longer even attempt to keep track. It's usually The Airplane Nightmare, and if it's not that than it's The Andrew Ryan Nightmare, and if it's not that it's The Water Nightmare, and if not that it's The Harvest Nightmare, and if it's not that than it's one of the dozens of other ways my mind tortures me when I most need rest. That last one is the worst: I would endure anything to keep my daughters out of harm's way.

Accepting that I sleep is just not going to happen tonight, I push myself out of my bed. The old wood floor feels like ice underneath my feet but I am just thankful it is dry: I do not like the feel of water on my skin, I do not like it one bit. Even though I have a shower I still prefer to clean myself using a wet cloth; I still flinch and tense up but it's at least something I can manage.

I hear the dim rhythm of tip-tapping against the sliding glass door which separates my room from the patio, and walk over to look at it. When I pull the curtains aside, I can see that the salty sea rain is coming down outside, pitter-pattering against the glass as a large rainstorm rages outside. I can see it past the cliffs: the large grey-blue expanse stretching as far over the horizon as the eye can see (and a few thousand miles more than that!).

I shake my head and look away: the only good memory I have of The Sea is when the Bathysphere reached the surface and my daughters were able to see the sun for the first time in their lives. Even I, who must surely have the Sun before that day, felt an immense combination of awe and relief when I felt it's gentle caress upon my face; I could only speculate on just how amazing it must have appeared to the five Little Sisters I brought to the surface with me.

My daughters.

Back in that Watery Hell known as Rapture, they were physiologically altered and stripped of their free will - like I was. Thankfully I was not forced to cause them harm: I could actually do something about their plight, and I chose to protect them at my own expense. I am not a Guardian Angel, and I am certainly not a Hero - I am just a man who chose kindness over cruelty.

I can honestly say it was the best choice I have ever made.

Staring out at the stormy sea, I sigh in relief that my daughters and I are on the surface. Perhaps now I can give them a normal life, a better one than I had.

My thoughts are interrupted by a small hand pulling at my pajama sleeve. I look down and see Masha, one of my daughters.

"Daddy, I couldn't sleep ... I had a bad dream."

I look hold her hand in my own, and smile gently at her.

"It's ok. I have bad dreams too." Very very bad dreams ... "How about I make you a some hot chocolate. Would you like that?"

Masha nods, "Can Sally have some too? She likes hot chocolat."

Sally already had enough sugar for one night ...

"Sure. In the morning I'll make a cup for her too. I'll even make one for Leta and Susie and Veronica."

Masha shakes her head astonishingly, "Leta doesn't like chocolate! She always puts syrup in her milk!"

"Well then, I'll make Leta a cup of syrup milk."

"And Susie likes coffee."

This time it is my turn to shake my head. "Coffee in the morning gives Susie an upset stomach."

Masha pouts, but she's giggling again when I ruffle her hair with my hand.

Hand in hand, I walked with my daughter down the short hallway from my bedroom to the kitchen. I fill a kettle with milk, heat it up on the stove, and let it heat up. Once it is hot, I pour two mugs -one for Masha and one for myself- and begin to mix the chocolate powder in with a spoon. I will make a second batch for the others in a few hours when they wake up, but right now I will let them have their sleep.

Masha sips at her milk for a few minutes, and soon it makes her feel better. Once she is calmed down, my daughter tells me about her nightmare.

"It was about my parents again. I miss them."

I feel a pang in my stomach. I can still remember the remains of her parents; lying dead on their bed and surrounded by pills. I told Masha that her parents are Angels now, but that's all I told her: she does not need to know they took their own lives. If I ever do tell Masha the whole truth, it will be when she is older and able to understand it.

"It is ok to miss them. They were nice people, and I am sure they are proud of what you have become."

Masha holds my hand.

"Leta said you are an angel, and that you were sent to rescue us. She said she knew it the first time she saw you."

Well, I was sent to Rapture with a purpose, but it was hardly a good one. Rescuing these darling little ones is just the mission I made for myself while I was down there.

"I'm just a man who loves his daughters."

We drink hot chocolate in the kitchen together, chatting until Masha is tired. Eventually she falls asleep in her chair, at which point I gingerly pick her up and carry her to her bedroom. Her sisters are all fast asleep, so I tuck her into bed and pull the blanket over her so she will be warm.

I still can not sleep, so I return to the kitchen and begin to make myself a pot of coffee. There is nothing so rewarding as being a parent.