'No no no-- I'd never hurt him! I swear, I'm looking after him! I look after all of them!'
All of them. Elizabeth's blood runs cold and her eyes slide over the doors. How many children did this man have prisoner? Who else had spent months in hell, looking for their child, paying ransom that would never end, maybe giving up...?
'I'm a good father. These kids, their parents don't look after them! They let them run home alone, they don't watch them on the playground, they're not raising them right! At least I'm here, I give them what they need, I'm more of a parent than their own--'
A solid whoosh runs through the warehouse, followed by a warbling roar as a hole opens up in midair. Tendrils of air and energy are coming off of Elizabeth, whipping around her, sparking as they seem to strike something invisible. Beyond the hole, the image of a rising tidal wave appears, wind howling, the unmistakable scent of the ocean wafting out as Elizabeth's hair and clothes whip around her. This is not new to her, she might even be doing it on purpose, she might be so far into her rage that this is involuntary.
"You don't get to decide who is a bad parent," she says, and it's anybody's guess if she can be heard over the racket of the oncoming disaster. "That's up to him."
Booker had only done his best. He'd made a mistake, and it had haunted him for decades-- and Comstock. He'd taken advantage of Booker's grief and fear, decided he would be better for Elizabeth than a drunk gambler. His presumption had cost Elizabeth dearly-- any semblance of a normal life had disappeared the day Zachariah Comstock planned to abduct an infant. Not again, not a single one more--
If this had been about anything else besides who was and wasn't a good parent, Elizabeth might have stayed in control. But the more she revisits her own abduction, the more unstable her tear's edges get.
"You're not a father-- you're a selfish, egotistical bastard. And I'm about to make it my personal mission to see you rot in hell."
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All of them. Elizabeth's blood runs cold and her eyes slide over the doors. How many children did this man have prisoner? Who else had spent months in hell, looking for their child, paying ransom that would never end, maybe giving up...?
'I'm a good father. These kids, their parents don't look after them! They let them run home alone, they don't watch them on the playground, they're not raising them right! At least I'm here, I give them what they need, I'm more of a parent than their own--'
A solid whoosh runs through the warehouse, followed by a warbling roar as a hole opens up in midair. Tendrils of air and energy are coming off of Elizabeth, whipping around her, sparking as they seem to strike something invisible. Beyond the hole, the image of a rising tidal wave appears, wind howling, the unmistakable scent of the ocean wafting out as Elizabeth's hair and clothes whip around her. This is not new to her, she might even be doing it on purpose, she might be so far into her rage that this is involuntary.
"You don't get to decide who is a bad parent," she says, and it's anybody's guess if she can be heard over the racket of the oncoming disaster. "That's up to him."
Booker had only done his best. He'd made a mistake, and it had haunted him for decades-- and Comstock. He'd taken advantage of Booker's grief and fear, decided he would be better for Elizabeth than a drunk gambler. His presumption had cost Elizabeth dearly-- any semblance of a normal life had disappeared the day Zachariah Comstock planned to abduct an infant. Not again, not a single one more--
If this had been about anything else besides who was and wasn't a good parent, Elizabeth might have stayed in control. But the more she revisits her own abduction, the more unstable her tear's edges get.
"You're not a father-- you're a selfish, egotistical bastard. And I'm about to make it my personal mission to see you rot in hell."