Tympans of Temples Held

August 16th, 1958

Audio Transcript – 'Faces'

[Columbia and Rapture aren't so different. Always a lighthouse... always a city. As above, so below. But in Columbia, at least we could get from place to place with a clever turn of phrase or a lock pick. Or a few well-aimed bullets; your prerogative, Booker. In Rapture, the almighty Ryan dollar is more than a currency. It's the city's lifeblood. I can't do what needs to be done without a way to travel, and if this Fontaine can set me up with work, and an income, then perhaps he will be my way into the city. The only problem is... behind every Door there is a face, and inside each face there is another face, recursive and eternal, like an infinity mirror of reflections. Immediate concerns tell me to make contact with Frank Fontaine. The Doors tell me to stay away.]

The Manta Ray Lounge was in the Bathysphere DeLuxe showroom of Fontaine's Department Store. Several men with loaded weapons stood guard outside the front door, watching the security bots cagily. When shoppers passed the lounge, they walked a fraction of a degree faster, staring at their shoes as though there were something incredibly interesting ingrained in the floor.

Elizabeth moved against the flow of the crowd. Tears pulled at the edges of the Manta Ray Lounge, like lenticular film superimposed over reality. A small moment passed, too quickly for the world to remember it, and Elizabeth saw high ceilings, large windows, the sound of fine liquor being poured, a phonograph churning out classy music and people dancing. And then she saw slivers of chipped glass and empty bottles of wine. The maroon liquid ran in rivulets across the countertops, until it was indistinguishable from the bloodstains.

Elizabeth took a deep breath and approached the largest bouncer. He held up a hand.

"Lounge's closed."

"Are you Reggie?"

"Depends who's asking."

"My name is Elizabeth. I have business with Frank Fontaine."

"Don't care if your name's Brigid Tenenbaum, you ain't getting in here. Boss's orders."

"I'm looking for work," Elizabeth insisted. She focused on something in her peripheries, something behind the Doors... a black hand imprinted on a stack of boxes, somewhere deep in the dripping intestines of Rapture; wet ink smeared across beer bottles and bibles. She recognized the boxes as smuggler's crates. "And something tells me Frank Fontaine is going to need all the help he can get in the coming months."

"Oh yeah? What makes you so sure––"

"Andrew Ryan knows about the contraband goods. The fisheries are a smuggling front, aren't they?" Before Reggie could interrupt her, she continued, drawing on her past and future memories: "Fontaine Futuristics was something Ryan could tolerate in his laissez-faire dreamworld, but how long do you think Ryan will let Fontaine and his plasmids nudge him out of a profit before he brings the whole empire crashing down? And you and I, and Frank Fontaine... we all know you can't win an outright battle against Ryan. At least, not yet."

Reggie snorted. "You're awfully well-informed."

"I see a lot," she replied.

"You'd better learn to see something else if you know what's good for you."

Elizabeth glanced up at the security bots. "Well, Ryan has his eyes. Perhaps what Frank Fontaine could use is a few more."

Reggie considered her for a moment. The walls between worlds were like wet paper, and behind them, Reggie had already turned her away and Reggie had already taken her to Frank Fontaine. The future existed in duality, as equal possibility. Elizabeth did not know what was going to happen.