Tympans of Temples Held

September 8th, 1958

Audio Transcript – 'Choice'

[Suffice it to say, I see the universe a little differently than most people, the Luteces notwithstanding. I understand that reality is fractal. Decisions have the effect of cleaving worlds in two, until there are similar patterns recurring at progressively smaller scales in progressively more alternative realities. Every decision... each tiny moment... Andrew Ryan said that we all make choices, but in the end, our choices make us. He was right. But what if you never made a choice. What if the penitent stayed in the baptismal waters forever, caught in a liminal space between action and consequence. Neither sinner nor saint. Would he be a person at all? Would I?]

One iteration of Comstock had lead Elizabeth to New York City in 1925. Before stepping through the Tear, what little she knew of the city had come from Booker, from the meager scraps of detail he'd deigned to share as they tore through Columbia.

It had been raining on the night she stumbled onto the corner of 120th Street in lower Manhattan. The brownstone buildings and the lights of Broadway were reduced to watercolor smears behind the rain. Cars splashed through the streets, cutting across the adjacent silence with horns and screeching tires. The entire city was loud and colorful, filled with people who were equally loud and colorful. Along Broadway, a phantasmagoria of lights flashed against the night, beckoning her towards avenues of clubs and theaters promising every manner of earthly fulfillment. By the time Elizabeth reached Comstock, she was exhausted. She felt so small, alone in the canyons of busy streets, searching for stars hidden behind the glare of streetlights, breathing in car fumes and sewage and cigarette smoke. New York fed off the energy of its people.

As Elizabeth navigated the circular atrium of Fort Frolic, she was reminded of her first visit to New York. Decorated in neon lights, with its torchère columns and checkerboard floors, Fort Frolic was a glamorous place –– Broadway crushed into a singularity within a small, bright corner of Rapture. The district featured everything from the fine arts to vaudeville theater to more salacious distractions: casinos and peep shows and strip clubs. Patrons leered at Elizabeth from open doorways. Women, and some men, led guests into velvet booths circled by heavy red curtains; Elizabeth caught their silhouettes gyrating to the music, pulsing and surging like the lights of Broadway long ago. Fort Frolic was a rhythmic fusion of pleasure and art and music, something so stimulating that it made Elizabeth nauseous. Humanity had abandoned most of Rapture. But in Fort Frolic, there was too much of it.

The Fleet Hall was on the second floor of the main atrium. Whereas most of the boutiques and bars in Fort Frolic were filled with people, the Fleet Hall looked dark and abandoned. Someone had stuck discarded show bills to the doors. The bulletin board advertised a play several months old. Inside, the lights had been turned off.

As Elizabeth stood in the corridor, debating whether to knock or simply return to Point Prometheus, a young man scuttled out of the shadows. He gestured for Elizabeth to approach the door. He wore a mask like Sander Cohen's: a white rabbit rimmed in velvet. As Elizabeth drew nearer, she saw that the young man's face was swollen, his skin shingled and enflamed. His pupils were a fulvous yellow, like sulfur.

... it's all a game... Cohen, Ryan! Two old birds pullin' on each other's milk sticks...

Elizabeth knew the man's name: Silas Cobb. She wasn't sure if he remembered it anymore.

"Sander's expecting you..." he said softly, haggardly. Cobb stepped aside, and allowed Elizabeth into the Fleet Hall.

There was no one in the foyer. The ticket office and the projection booth were empty. The entire venue was very dark. On a billboard adjacent to the main theater, a line of turbo bulbs illuminated a sign: Do not disturb; auditions in progress.