Above the Clouds

The windows in Comstock House were huge, and plentiful, and Rachel liked to stand at one, or the other, and look down upon Columbia as it floated serenely through the clouds.

At least, it was serene from up here - if she ignored the columns of smoke and occasional explosions. Down there, she knew, the False Shepherd had once again left a trail of death and destruction behind her, kicking aside the carefully constructed veneer of civilisation, and allowing anarchy to reign. The Vox Populi had taken control of key areas, and was still decimating the Authority, under the command of that scurrilous Fitzroy woman.

Still, Comstock House had never been beached, and would not be this time either.

She sighed. Brother Daniel had already informed her that the Shepherd had fallen. Was she even trying ? It was disappointing but hardly surprising - at least, not anymore. Songbird always did his duty.

If she ever made this far, well. She might be worth facing again.

The silver of her left eye glinted in the window reflection and one hand reached up, fingers hovering just to the side of it, fluttering slightly in the glass. Then it dropped back to the cane, and her thumb rubbed over the top, as she contemplated the next course of action.

For now, she headed back to the viewing room, the thump of her cane alternating between the thick, lush rugs, and floorboards. The elegant white gown reached up her neck, and down her arms, and trailed along the floor behind her.

Small figures peered out of doorways in the long, long hallways. They disappeared

as she drew closer, then reappeared as she passed, eyes glowing in the shadows.

They weren’t here for her . They were here for the other one. One by one they slipped

back through the flickering tear in a disused room.

Rachel reached the end of the hallway, paused, leaning on her cane. Then her head snapped around to study the area behind her.

But there was nothing. Just shadows, and the howling wind outside the windows.

She continued on, pressing her lips in a tight line. She knew when they were around - it was like a slight shiver in the air, with the soft pattering of tiny footsteps, and the barest of whispers - but she couldn’t see them, and as yet she wasn’t entirely sure what they were.

And Rachel hated not being sure of things.

The door to the viewing room was small and carved with a simple pattern, a far cry from the general ostentatious air of the mansion. Rachel appreciated luxury, but it didn’t have to be so…gaudy. She closed her eyes for a moment and remembered the elegance of Rapture - it was far more her taste than this Edwardian flouncing. And the terrible open sky that went on forever.

She shuddered, delicately.

Going out into the open to confront the False Shepherd had cost her some comfort - not that any of the Founders knew. To show weakness was to be weak. She understood that.

And so, over the past year, she had fed them a careful meal of lies and vague allusions to the miasma of sin that hung in the air, even the high, pure air of Columbia. That the Prophet needed to keep her mind and body free of the impurities that people - even the good, God-fearing folk that made up this city in the air - were helpless to stop emitting. That she needed to spend hours in prayer and meditation every day.

That she needed to be as close as possible to the top of the sky at all times so God could whisper into her ear.

Her mouth twisted in a smirk.

The fools, they believed every word. Of course, she did spend the occasional few hours in carefully prepared districts - just a few days ago she had been in the welcome centre. Rachel had always found that place surprisingly restful - something about the dim lighting and the water everywhere that reminded her of home.

It had been the anniversary of the day Rachel, and the Lamb had arrived in Columbia. Naturally, she needed to show herself to the faithful.

And oh, the adulation had been worth every moment of discomfort.

The old man had been preparing them for her, and he hadn’t even known it. Back in Rapture, Andrew Ryan had been defeated by his own free market, but he had been right about one thing - religion’s only value was as a means of control. Establishing a theocracy had been one thing, but the lack of an heir to carry on his work had been Zachary Comstock’s weakness. Rachel had seen the way into Columbia in more ways than one, and so she had taken the abomination, snatched her from her sister’s arms, and brought them here.

The injury had at least been useful - proof of the ill intentions of her enemies - and she had thrown herself on the mercy of Father Comstock, allowing herself to be baptised, playing the part of a martyr still able to be saved, later fitting herself neatly into the role of daughter.

He had already been dying, talking about his tumors like they were both a reward for his faith, and a punishment for his sins.

However, he had lingered on...and on...and on, and finally Rachel had taken his fate into her own hands. He had been so eager to meet his god, she thought, but so oddly reluctant to die.

In the end, of course, her will was stronger than his.

And then Columbia had been hers. Her ‘sister’ had already been quarantined - the purity of the Lamb had to be maintained, after all -  and remained so until Rachel could be sure her memories were what Rachel needed them to be. There were things that had shifted when they moved through. Some sort of symbiotic exchange had taken place that she hadn’t foreseen, and the plasmid she had used to open the doorway here had been diluted to the point of uselessness, the power somehow transferred.

And the other girl had become an abomination of a different kind.

She was held at bay, at first, by a wall of false memories...with a tiny crack built in.

Another safeguard, a leash, that would keep her in the confines of the city - that had been child’s play, an old trick learnt from old monsters.

And finally, the Siphon. A new and much more powerful trick...although it didn’t prevent the Tears entirely, it stifled them, suppressed the girl’s power just enough.

It had been simple to keep her isolated, slightly trickier to develop the Siphon, harder still to hide her intentions from that damnable Lutece woman and her suspicious brother.

They’d had to go.

It was almost a shame. Rosalind had been interesting. Robert, however, had held her back with his conscience, weighed her down with his good intentions, and she had, foolishly, loved him enough to allow it.

Once the Siphon was in place and Helena contained; once the sabotage on the Device had been reversed and the Device moved to Comstock House; once the crack opened wide enough to allow through a sliver of Helena’s past life to swim through her dreams - she could cease pretending to care about the girl, and leave her in the tower, a beautifully broken piece of bait, just waiting to be saved.

Rachel had confidence that the other one would come for her. Eventually. And then...she touched one fingertip to the side of her left eye.

And then...

Rachel pulled an ornate key out of her sleeve, opened the door and entered the room, locking the door firmly behind her, then moving into the centre of the room, where the Device sat. She leaned on the cane as she contemplated it.

A large circular web of metal hung from the high ceiling, with a support on either side, forming a kind of arch. Cables as thick as her arm ran up and down the supports, thrumming with electricity. The air in the middle of the arch flickered slightly, responding to her presence like a lazy cat to the possibility of food. She ran her fingers over the small panel of switches and buttons, then pressed in a sequence and watched the tear grow and flex and open.

The cane pressed into the thick carpet as she leaned forward, mouth open ever so slightly.

As the image shimmered and stretched and then grew stable enough to study, her eyes widened. Slightly grainy at first, the tear showed her the entrance to Emporia. There were small figures moving towards the doors and they looked like…

Rachel’s fingers moved quickly over the buttons and the figures grew larger. For a moment the image flickered, then it stabilised.

The suggestion of a smile flitted across her face.

It was her. The False Shepherd. Alive. And Helena too, but that was of no consequence.

Her thumb rubbed against the silver top of the cane, slowly, back and forth.

Then she quickly punched in another set of numbers and opened another tear, then another, and another, until...there it was. The half-fallen tower, still smouldering a little, outlined against the blue sky.

The smile grew wider.

She had made it, at last. And made her way here.

Sarah.

Her fingers tingled at the very thought of her, and so Rachel lifted her hand and snapped her fingers, letting the flames out to dance over her skin. One of her holy gifts...so they all believed. She longed to see these flames reflected in Sarah’s eyes as they widened in fear. She wanted to hear her beg. Sarah would come to heel.

Eventually.

No matter how many tears they ran through, Rachel would always be there, waiting.

And the other? She would take care of herself.

Rachel smiled at the flames, wider and wider until her teeth shone and her cheeks hurt. Then she clenched her fist and the fire dwindled away to nothing. A small white light was flashing on the top of the panel, and she rubbed her thumb over and around it before pressing it down.

Another tear opened, and she looked at the figure looking back at her.

“Rachel,” she said, inclining her head slightly.

“Rachel,” replied the other, repeating the gesture.

They gazed at each other, allowing themselves a moment of contentment. Then they began a conversation of two halves making a whole.

“She escaped you this time. And now she is here.”

“Yes. The Songbird failed.”

“And yet, my success will be our success.”

A nod, a curve of the lips.

“The uprising is crushed.”

"The uprising continues.”

“The Lamb?”

“Secured. And also with her.”

“It will be quite a shock for her.”

“It will be... illuminating.”

“Yes.”

Rachel stared at her mirror image, her other self, and as one, they both reached out a hand, fingers hovering just either side of the tear. If only they could…

But they had seen the toll it had taken on the Luteces, and until all the variables were fully worked out - divided they would stay. All of them.

Two Rachels sighed. Two Rachels inclined their heads in farewell. Two Rachels pressed the button that powered down the Device and closed the tear.

And then she was alone again.

That familiar emptiness settled in the pit of her being. After her realization that there were, in fact, an infinite number of Rachel Duncans, and all she had to do was rip a tear in reality to find them, it hadn’t made her feel insignificant, or scattered. Instead, it had made her stronger, more sure of herself, more...entire. She was a singular mind in infinite bodies, every one of her bent to the same purpose.

To make her pay.

To make all of them pay.

                                          ✫                           ✫                            ✫

After leaving the viewing room, carefully locking the door and secreting the key back in her gown, Rachel made her way to the east wing. Parts of it reminded her of home - not just Rapture but very specifically DYAD. White floors and glass walls and the peculiarly medical smell of chemicals, blood, and death.

The faithful provided an endless array of subjects. She was still a scientist at heart.

Her steps were slower than before, and her reliance on the cane greater. She suspected the Device had some effect on her injuries, possibly a temporary reversal of the traces of ADAM that still lingered in her system. The healing was - unreliable. But the pain was bearable.

And she could never stay away from the Device for long.

The central door had a very special lock, a panel that matched her hand and could only be opened by her hand. As she raised her hand to press it against the metal, something made her pause. She lifted her eyes to the small hatch in the door, and silently opened it, peering through at the chamber within. Her face froze.

It was empty.

Rachel’s eyes blinked rapidly.

It was impossible.

But the bed lay vacant, straps dangling down to the floor.

The doctors stations were idle.

She realised now that the entire wing was eerily silent. Something had occurred. Something had changed. Something had gone…

...wrong.

As she turned and started down the hallway again, as fast as the pain would let her, cane tapping on the white tiles, she could feel the air around her vibrating, as if the frequency of a billion atoms was changing.

As she reached the door at the far end, closing her fingers around the handle, Rachel saw the solid wood disintegrate in front of her, and the metal of the doorknob melted away in her fingers. She lifted her hand and saw the skin begin to glow, softly golden. Her other hand gripped the cane, willing it to remain solid, and she slowly turned to see what she could only think of as a collapse of reality, with her in the centre.

Nothingness surrounded her and shrank down until she herself was -

                                              ἄπειρον
                                                                                                             
                                                                                                             πεῖραρ

Rachel stood at one of the hundreds of windows of Comstock House, looking down upon Columbia as it drifted serenely through the clouds...