Disclaimer: I do not own Bioshock or any of the related titles.

Chapter 3: The Liberty Fair

The Luteces excused me shortly after, and Rosalind escorted me to the side door. Although Robert claimed to be retreating to the laboratory once more, I knew he stood just inside the sitting room, listening to our conversation.

"I suppose I don't have any choice now, do I?" I asked, standing just inside the doorway. They had told me too much already. Even if I swore not to speak a word, they couldn't risk such a secret being exposed to the public. I didn't want to end up working in the Prophet's kitchens for the rest of my life.

"You always have a choice," Rosalind responded. "Whether or not your decision is influenced by something greater is an entirely different story."

"Fate," I suggested.

"Some may call it that," Rosalind tilted her head, the expression on her face almost unreadable. Sympathetic, perhaps. Sorry, even. "In these worlds, these different lifetimes, we often find a series of constants - things that never change, no matter how a situation is presented. And a series of variables - those events that change, but have no direct affect on the outcome."

"Constants and variables," I breathed.

"You have a choice," Rosalind explained. "You'll just never know if it's all part of a constant or a variable."

"And if I choose not to return?" I ventured, a little afraid of her answer. "What then? Will I end up in the Prophet's mansion?"

Rosalind blinked slowly, inhaling deeply through her nose before speaking. "You act as though we know everything, my dear," she said quietly. "Do not put so much faith in us."

A strange remark, especially for someone who could change or end my life in a matter of minutes if she so chose to. I would have rather thought they would want me to have the utmost faith in their abilities.

"Rest on it," Rosalind instructed. "Think over everything you've heard, and everything you've learned - not just here today, but what you've read in those books you surround yourself with every day. Think of the things you've overheard in school, or between your Mother and Step-Father, or erupting from a preacher on the streets. Think of how you felt upon coming to Columbia, and how the Prophet portrays the Sodom below. Make an educated decision, my dear. That is all we can possibly ask of you."

I nodded, unable to think of anything more to say. She closed the door behind me, and I made my very reluctant way home. Upon arrival, I slipped into the kitchen where my Mother sat at our small table, her head in her hands. She jumped slightly as I entered the room, holding a hand over her heart as she realized it was only me.

"Oh my dear," she said. "You startled me."

"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I didn't want to bother you."

"Where have you been?" she asked, clearing her throat.

Something was wrong, I could tell. She wasn't worrying about me coming home late. It was something else. What, exactly, I didn't know, and I was certain she wasn't about to tell me.

"Work kept me late," I lied. Sort of. "I'm sorry to have worried you."

She shook her head fervently. "No, no," she said. "You're perfectly capable of handling yourself at your age. I needn't worry about you. I know that."

She stared down at the wood graining in the table, and I crossed to the cupboard, reaching inside for something small to eat. I only then realized just how late it must have been, and how long I'd been sitting in the Luteces' own kitchen. Even with all the nerves coursing through my body, I still found myself famished.

"There's a stew in the pot on the stove," Mother said, noticing my searching. "Your Father - " she stopped short as I shot her a look. "Your Step-Father has not been home yet. I'm afraid it might be a tad cold, but still good."

"Thank you," I accepted, turning toward the stove. "Do you want to tell me what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Mother asked innocently.

"You've been crying," I pointed out. "I'm not stupid, Mother. I've learned how to read you fairly well over the years. Something is wrong. Tell me."

"It's nothing," she insisted, waving a hand absently. "I'm just tired is all. Lots of preparations today, what with the festival happening tomorrow."

The festival? I nearly dropped my ladle on the floor. I had entirely forgotten that the Liberty Fair was tomorrow. The bookshop would be closed, and all of the people of Columbia - those of good fortune, at least - would turn out into the streets, cheering and singing. There would be wonderful food, and marvelous displays of Columbian inventions, and music - so much music. It was disgustingly wonderful, but even I had to admit I often enjoyed myself.

That being said, I still didn't believe a word my Mother said. She worked the Liberty Fair every year. She loved it every minute of it.

"Anything else?" I pressed.

She rose from her chair, and appeared to be heading for the door before she turned and crossed to my side. I set my small bowl of stew down as her hand came in contact with the side of my face. She stared at me for what felt like an hour, and I did my best not to blink too much in return, or look the other way. As many secrets as my Mother had, I had infinitely more, and I did not want her to know I had anything to hide.

"The Prophet speaks of disaster," she finally said. "He speaks of uprisings. He speaks of the Sodom below. A man - this False Shepherd - coming to us to bring in an age of death and despair. He speaks of such terrible - such awful things, my dear Charlotte. It's enough to set any woman's nerves on edge, especially when they have so much to lose."

I stared back at her, suddenly feeling almost sorry for my Mother. Upon arrival in Columbia, she had such a strong mind, and a formidable sense of independence. What had happened to her since then frightened me. She was no longer the woman I remembered, but a trembling mass of skeptical, superstitious fright in front of me.

"You know the False Shepherd does not exist, Mother," I told her. "We've been here for years, and no one has ever spotted him."

"He is deceptive," Mother said, fearfully. "He walks among us every day. He hides his mark with gloves."

"Mother," I grasped her face in my own hands. "Do you know how crazy you sound?"

"It's not craziness, my child," she said. "Father Comstock says that the False Shepherd will come for the Lamb - our only way to salvation - our lady Lamb who resides in the -"

"Father Comstock is not an all-knowing being," I said firmly, holding her face tight. I wanted her to look me in the eyes while I spoke to her. She had to understand. Someone had to tell her the truth. I had promised the Luteces I wouldn't, but she was family, and I couldn't see her go down like the others.

"The angel of Columbia tells him all -" she fought.

"Father Comstock is a fraud!" I shouted.

I felt her hand come in contact one more time with the side of my face, however this time with much more force behind it than the time before. I tumbled backward, landing hard on the floor. Touching the spot where she hit me, I gazed up at her, both stunned and horrified. She did not appear at all sorry for her actions, and instead, enraged at my comments.

"You will not speak such blasphemy in my household!" she roared. "Do you understand me? Do you know what I've gone through for you? It is because of you - because of your filth and lies - that I must hang my head in shame while in public. Why I must attend church multiple times a day to beg the Angel of Columbia for forgiveness for your wicked ways. Why I have asked Father Comstock himself numerous times for his forgiveness above all else."

As she shook with anger, I rose to my feet, backing away from her. I was right about the changes in her. This woman was no longer my Mother, and in that instant, I knew exactly what my choice would be in regards to the Luteces. Change was coming, as Rosalind suggested, and if this False Shepherd meant to overthrow Father Comstock, then I knew who I had to find. And once this Booker DeWitt arrived on the soil of Columbia, I knew exactly who to introduce him to first. Together, DeWitt and the False Shepherd might just stand a chance to stop him.

Allowing my hand to fall to my side, I stared at my Mother for a long silent moment before daring to speak: "I never asked for his forgiveness, Mother," I said, my voice quiet, but grounded. "He could never grant it."

And I left. I shut myself in my room the whole night, ignoring the sounds of my Mother storming up and down the stairs, and shifting the furniture in the kitchen. When my Step-Father finally did return home, I could hear them loudly arguing below. I expected him to knock on my door, insisting I come with him to the sitting room where he would berate my beliefs for hours on end. On several occasions, when Mother wasn't home, and I was much younger, he would remove his belt, insisting that a child of sin must be taught the error of their way through beatings. Bloodletting was an ancient form of punishment and repentance for those with bits of the devil in them, he claimed, leaving me sore and unable to sit for days at a time. Mother never asked questions, nor did I believe she knew. If she did, she internally justified it, I was sure.

But he never came. I spent the evening in silence, and when the sun arose the next morning, I slipped out the front door without a sound before the others even knew I was awake. I kept my distance from the crowds already growing around the town square, and turned down the street that led to the Lutece Lab. I could see the barricades and felt a kind of excitement rush through my chest. I couldn't believe I was actually going to go through with this.

"Excuse me, Miss!"

A police officer hurried toward me, holding his hands out to stop me from moving any closer. He gestured toward the signs and several other officers waiting outside the building.

"I'm afraid this area is off-limits," he explained. "We're going to have to ask you to turn around."

I didn't know what to tell him. Standing a few feet behind him, a pair of officers pulled their guns in front of them, as though enforcing his statement. My eyes traveled to the front door of the Lab, wondering if the Luteces were standing just inside, waiting for her.

"I'm afraid I'm on my way to work," I tried to explain. I didn't know how I was going to explain walking into the Lab moments later, but I couldn't think of anything more convincing.

The officer narrowed his eyes. "Businesses are closed today," he said. "That's the law. Everyone's down at the festival. Why don't you go check it out? It's much too dangerous for a young woman to be over here."

"What's happening?" I asked, watching as a small group of new officers make their way toward the front porch.

"Nothing to concern yourself with," the officer stepped closer to me, his hands still out, as though preparing to grab me if I ran - which I admittedly had already considered. "Just a little trouble with old wiring."

Old wiring, my heel. The Luteces had already started their experiment and I was late for it. They must have assumed I wasn't coming, and went ahead without me. A little hurt, I frowned, but didn't move.

"Miss," the officer repeated. "We're going to have to ask you to turn around."

I nodded and, for a split second, considered once again running toward the building. I knew exactly where the door on the side of the building was, and I could find it easily. If I managed to get inside, however, the officers would do anything in their power to get inside as well. I would be putting everything at risk. With a sigh, I did as the officers told me to, and started back toward town square.

As the music met my ears, I tried to drown myself in the bustle of the crowd, pushing all thought of the Luteces from my mind. It was my way out - out of what, I wasn't entirely sure, but perhaps Columbia itself. Even if the plan had failed, they could have helped me. They could have placed me anywhere - and I mean, literally anywhere - and it would have been better than here. Knowing there was a way to be transplanted, without any real notice at all, I suddenly felt trapped.

I approached a young woman with a basket tied around her neck. She stood in front of a small tent, soliciting gentlemen as they passed by, offering them a bottle from the basket. Spirits, I assumed, of a sort. I had never a drop in my life, but the temptation remained. As I drew closer, I realized it wasn't a spirit after all. The bottles - emblazoned with a pierced heart - resembled the bottled vigors I'd seen before.

"How much?" I asked, reaching for my bag.

The girl turned to me, frowning suddenly. "I'm afraid it's not for sale," she declared.

"I just saw you give that gentleman a bottle," I pointed after a tall blonde man who had just spoken with her moments before. "How much is it?"

"I told you," she replied, her lips growing tight. "It's not for sale."

"Then what is it?" I prompted, genuinely curious. "A vigor?"

She nodded, allowing me that much information. "It is," she said. "But it is for gentleman only. It is much too dangerous for a lady. Manufacturer's orders. We're not even allowed to charge for it. It's at the interested man's own risk."

I eyed the bottles sitting on the counters behind her, noticing the large sign atop the tent. "Posession" it read, in dripping green letters. A small diagram behind the counter displayed what I assumed to be the effects of the Possesion vigor in an almost childlike cartoon manner.

"What does it do?" I pushed.

"That is none of your concern," the woman refused to answer. "As I said before, it's not for ladies and that's the final word on the subject. Carry on, now." She turned suddenly, accosting the nearest gentleman. I noticed a drastic change in her tone as she attempted to convince the man to take one of the bottles, despite the obvious danger of doing so.

With her back turned, I decided to do something I never would have had the nerve to do before. I snatched a bottle from the counter and slipped it into my bag, hurrying hastily in the other direction before she could take notice. I only hoped those nearby had turned a blind eye as well. After all, it wasn't really stealing if they were already just giving the item away.

"The lottery will begin in five minutes!" a booming voice sounded over a speaker nearby. "Five minutes!"

I had never witnessed the lottery before, although everyone spoke highly of it every year. This time, I knew it was only the gentlemen allowed to participate, but it didn't mean I wasn't allowed to watch. Women, who looked very much like the girl with the vigors, walked around with similar baskets, filled with baseballs. On each baseball was a number scrawled across the white center. I watched as several men claimed their number and started toward the growing crowd in front of an elaborate stage. A man in an elegant tophat stood at the center, calling out:

"Seventy-Seven! Number seventy-seven!"

One of the many young women wandering the square with a basket stepped forward, pointing out an older gentlemen in front of the stage.

"Right here! He's number seventy-seven!"

The man stepped forward as the host on stage gestured toward the backdrop. As the curtains parted, loud music started and a couple appeared, pulled forward by a small cart. It took me a moment to notice that the couple were tied to the cart, and crying for help. The couple, a white man and a dark woman, were being punished. Relations between the races were strictly forbidden. As the audience howled with laughter, the host decreed the man in the audience privileged with the first throw. Horrified, I tried pushing my way forward, coming only to a halt when the man aimed to throw instead at the host. As he raised his hand, officers on either side of him cried out, grabbing him by the arm.

"The False Shepherd!" they shouted. "It's him!"

Chaos broke out among the townspeople. I couldn't see what the man did next, but several people screamed, and suddenly the officers opened fire, shooting after the man they claimed to be False Shepherd. His disappeared up a nearby path, firing in return, leaving large pools of blood upon the stones. I considered following him, but thought better of it, taking into account I had nothing to arm myself with against the officers, and no way of assuring the False Shepherd I wasn't going to turn him in. Instead, I darted down an empty alley, listening close to the sound of gunshots in the distance. If I could, at least, keep close by and catch him when his guard was down.

I looked up to see him fly by on one of the skyrails and I darted into a nearby building. Home to a family of much more fortune than I, I was surprised to find the house empty, and unlocked. Toeing down the main hall, I was careful to keep quiet as I searched for a back door.

I fell backward as something came crashing through a high window, landing hard on the floor in front of me. The man scrambled to his feet, brushing away the broken glass. As he turned around, I recognized him as the man from the lottery.

"It's you," I gasped.

"Don't scream," he said quickly, holding out his hands innocently. "I swear I'm - "

On the back of his right hand was a brand of sorts, the letters A.D. carved into his skin. The warning signs around town all decreed the same thing: He will be known by his mark! Mother had been right all along.

"You're him," I said. "You're real. You're the False Shepherd."

"I'm not the False Shepherd," he insisted.

"But your hand!" I pointed out. "You have to be. Father Comstock said - " I stopped myself. I had lived this long without buying into the Prophet's beliefs, and I wasn't about to change that. Perhaps the man in front of me was telling the truth.

"I'm just here for the girl," the man explained. "They just told me to bring them the girl. I don't know anything about a goddamn Prophet."

I got to my feet, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. "They?" I asked. "They who? Who sent you?"

"The twins," he said. "They came to my office and asked me to find the girl. Told me - " he stopped short, as though reconsidering his story.

But I didn't care much for anything else he had to say. The first part of his sentence clicked and suddenly, everything made sense. Father Comstock knew everything the Luteces knew. If they had performed their numerous experiments before, Father Comstock would also know the arrival of the man they sought. He would be expecting it, therefore, in order to protect himself, would make it so all of Columbia was looking for him too.

"The twins?" I said, just to be sure. "What twins?"

"I don't know," he answered, clearly frustrated. "Never met them before in my life. Didn't introduce themselves. They're the ones that brought me here."

I shook my head in disbelief. "Then it worked," I said. "You're Booker DeWitt."

A/N: Thanks to everyone reading so far! Please let me know what you think. :)