I am back in the dark metal pit again, the one at the bottom of The Atlantic. The one I was unfortunately born in.
Standing in front of me is Masha, my daughter. Her eyes are glowing fully yellow, and her skin is as pale as that of a corpse. This is because I had not yet cured her and adopted her as my own.
At the sight of me, Masha cowers in fear and loudly ventilates with obvious mortal terror. Given that everyone else in this hellhole is attempting to disembowel her, I would say Masha is justified in this fear.
The voice of Atlas, a man who was my captor and whom I erroneously thought my friend, came from my Service Radio.
"It's ok, lad. That's not a child, not anymore it ain't. Dr. Tenenbaum saw to that."
Everything Atlas said was a lie; even his name was falsehood. So it is no surprise that he would tell me this sweet little girl standing before me is anything but an innocent child.
Dr. Tenenbaum was behind the creation of The Little Sisters, but by this point she realized what she had done and was working to right her wrongs.
"Bitte, do not hurt her! Have you no heart?" I had a heart, but what I did not have was free will. By simply using a three word phrase, I could have been coerced into doing anything no matter how vile.
"Aye, that's a pretty sermon coming from the ghoul who cooked up them creatures in the first place. Took fine little girls and turned them into that, didn't you?" After taunting Tenenbaum over her past mistakes, Atlas then addressed me.
"Listen to me, boyo: you won't survive without the Adam those ... things ... are carrying. Now, Would You Kindly harvest her already?"
No! Nononononononononononononononononono! Please NO!
But against my will, my body steps closer and closer to Masha as she cowers in a corner. Though I struggle with everything I have, it is no use as my body ignores my pleas.
Please! I don't want to do this! I don't want to do this ...
With my left hand, I pick Masha up as she struggles for her life. I lift my other hand up as she screams-
And with a jolt, I awaken from this nightmare. Fortunately, mercifully, I awoke before the harvesting. Most times, my dreams drag me through every horrid detail of the harvesting and I usually end up crying after this dream for hours.
Thankfully, Atlas did not force me to harvest those sweet little girls. But if he had been inclined, he could have uttered three words and I would have been powerless to stop myself from ripping a slug out of an innocent child's stomach. Would You Kindly compelled me to beat my father to death with a golf club, Would You Kindly compelled me to bring down a commercial flight and kill the ninety three passengers on board.
Would You Kindly, Would You Kindly, Would You Kindly-
I shake such thoughts aside; even if I am an inhuman freak, I am still an inhuman freak with a job to do.
Attempting to get my bearings, I see that I am at the foot of a stairwell leading up from a pool. In that pool are three kneeling men in white robes, saying pious things. In the pool are three statues; I do not pay attention to them as I scramble up the stairs to get away from the wretched water.
I do not know why I woke up on the stairs; perhaps they feared I would again panic if I awoke in the water, perhaps I was fading in and out of consiousness and crawled towards the escape before passing out again. In any case, my sweater is almost dry.
As I make my way to dry land, a man in a white robe speaks to me.
"Our Prophet fills our lungs with water, so they may better love the air."
If that is true, than your Prophet is insane. Andrew Ryan and Frank Fontaine were both insane ... this Prophet can ask them how feel about people imprisoning the innocent.
I walk past this person, breathing in as deeply as I can. While I am tempted to sit down on the bench and rest in this place, I know I have a job to do. I pat myself to confirm that they did not take away or tamper with my lockbox (they did not), and then I continue through these gardens. Fortunately the pilgrims here are in contemplation or prayer and pay no notice towards me.
When I find a secluded corner of this garden, I sit down on a bench and take my box out. I place the pistol and the wrench both at my side, the coins in my pocket, and I lock the box up once more to ensure everything is where it needs to be.
Now I press forward.
Pushing the doors open, I behold what looks like a town center. All the buildings appear to float atop metal platforms, a large steel gondola lift carries box carts past at zipping speeds, and in the middle of it all is a large stone statue of the so-called Prophet.
But just because the city is not flooding with seawater and rusting away does not mean I am going to let my guard down. If this city is like Rapture, then Elizabeth's life is in immediate danger. I can not fail her, because nobody else is coming.