It's a dark and stormy night, on the surface anyway. In Rapture, it's much like any other night, despite the fact it's Christmas Eve. Though the city has no official religion, its founder Andrew Ryan states "I have said in the past that I believe in no God. That remains true. And yet I also believe that the people of this city, indeed the people of all cities, are at their finest with as little interference on the part of government as possible. All of Rapture's residents are free to worship whomever and however they see fit, in the privacy of their own homes." A few last-minute shoppers bustle back and forth, but most people are out late celebrating. There's a sense of electricity in the air, though that might just be the Plasmid that's got everyone talking, Electro Bolt.

A young woman makes her elegant way past The Satyr Lounge. In another life, she might have paid attention to the gossip about philosophy or compromise or Fontaine or what men really want. Now though, she has a job to do, and a job to offer. A job he won't be able to resist. She heads up a curving flight of stairs to a virtually unmarked door tucked away at the top. She fumbles in her pocket for a purloined package of cigarettes. She pulls one out and places it between her fingers. That, at least, comes easily. I'm as ready as I'll ever be, she thinks to herself and knocks upon the door.

"We're not open" is the response, quicker and more coherent than she's been led to expect. She knocks again. "Go away." His voice is painfully familiar with its sudden terseness. She tries the handle. Locked. As anticipated. She can soon take care of that.

A moment later, it opens. She hears the click of a safety being thumbed off in the darkness in front of her. "What's the matter, you deaf or somethin'?" the man asks. "I said we're not open." She knows it's only a show; even Rapture has laws against murder.

"I have a job, Mister..." She pretends to read the name upon the door. "DeWitt. A job I think you're preeminently qualified for."

"This ain't the kind of night for a job." DeWitt says. "Come back in the mornin'. Or better yet don't come back at all." She can dimly make out his shape. He's leaning back in his chair, a Mauser C96 pointed casually in her direction.

"It seems we've gotten off on the wrong foot." She strolls on over to the window. He swivels to watch her. She notices that the blinds have been drawn for a while. There's a thin layer of dust visible on the slats at eye level. "What do you say we start over with a light?" She holds her cigarette out to him.

He snorts. "Awfully eager to make my acquaintance, miss...?" She's silent until he sighs and sets the pistol down on the desk and leans forward. With a snap, his first two fingers are alight, which doesn't bother him in the slightest. He casually touches them to the tip of her cigarette, and her eyes seem to gleam as the fire takes hold.

"Elizabeth." she says, taking a drag upon the cigarette. It's her turn to sigh now, as she breathes the smoke in his direction. "You can call me Elizabeth."

"Is that it?" he asks. She's silent again. "All right. What kind of job brings a girl like you round so late at night?"

She draws something else from her pocket. A picture. "You know this girl?"

DeWitt takes it. "Knew her. Past tense. She's dead."

"What if I told you she wasn't?"

He hands it back to her. "I'd say you're a damn liar." he replies coolly.

She motions for him to keep it. "Maybe. Not this time though." She takes another drag. "How did you know her?"

"That's my affair. How'd you know her?"

"That's MY affair." she shoots back.

DeWitt sighs. "Well that's not gettin' us anywhere. Give it to me straight, 'Elizabeth'. What do you want?"

"I want the girl. I'm prepared to pay for your help in finding her. Double your usual rate. Time is money, as they say."

"What's the catch?"

She gestures towards the ceiling. "There may be trouble ahead..." Sinatra sings. "But while there's music and moonlight and love and romance..." She saunters toward the door. "Let's face the music and dance." And with that, his mind's made up.

She waits for him outside. She leans against the railing, her back to the large port-glass window. Even the residents haven't gotten used to the view, but to her it's just another cage.

DeWitt comes out less than a minute later, wearing a tan trenchcoat and fedora. It's repellent how hard he's trying to fit in, but she keeps her face carefully neutral. "Where shall we start?" she asks.

"You don't got any leads?" he asks, his hands in his pockets. She can tell how much he's craving a cigarette. Why doesn't he just ask for one?

"If I had any leads, do you think I would have bothered to hire you?" She continues without waiting for a reply. "You're the detective. I expect you to do some detecting."

He grimaces. "Playing dumb don't suit you." he says. Instantly she's on her guard. Like her, however, he moves on quickly. "'fore we get started, how 'bout somethin' to drink? There's a little place down the street I used to go to-"

"Used to?"

"Yeah. Used to. Wouldn't mind one last visit."

"I don't drink."

"You're kidding."

"No Mr DeWitt. No I am not."

"Well, suit yourself. I'm still going." He heads off down the staircase. She follows at a respectable distance.

A whale swims past the window. DeWitt and Elizabeth can't help but overhear a snatch of conversation as they pass by two women in matching red dresses who are looking out at the creature. "Do you suppose they can see us?" one asks.

"Probably."

"What must they think?"

"Very little, I imagine. Whales are dreadfully dull. They swim around and eat plankton! What kind of a life is that?"

"Doesn't seem to be doing that one any harm. If anything he looks like he's healthier than you."

"Oh, what nonsense. I'd rather eat meat and die young than live to be a hundred and fifty living off PLANTS!"

The little place turns out to be a division of Sinclair Spirits. There are only two other people there, not including the bartender, who looks up as Elizabeth and her escort pass through the curtain. "Glass of Arcadia Merlot." DeWitt tells him. The bartender nods and moves away to the shelf full of different bottles of wine. DeWitt sits down at the bar. Elizabeth sits down next to him. "How come you don't drink?" DeWitt asks idly.

"My father was an alcoholic. Among other things." Elizabeth puts the dying cigarette back in her mouth while she searches for another one. "I consider myself lucky I never acquired the habit."

DeWitt nods. He doesn't tell her of his own history with the stuff, though he's unaware she already knows. "But you smoke." he says after a while. "Smokin's worse than drinkin'."

"If we're going to compare vices, you might at least fill me in on some of yours. Doesn't seem fair otherwise." She gestures for an ashtray, which is soon supplied, and grinds her first cigarette into it for a moment before lighting a second.

"Rapture's not about bein' fair. It's about stayin' on top." The bartender returns with the drink. "Cheers." DeWitt puts some money on the countertop.

The man places it somewhere below. He seems to be in a good mood, as he hangs around to chat. "Ryan's a big fish in an awful small pond, you ask me!" he says, apropos of nothing.

"Anything you say, pal." DeWitt takes a sip of the Merlot.

"If I was running things, I'd say, 'Why just one city? Why not two? Hey, why not three?'" This prompts a spirited debate between the bartender and Elizabeth. Elizabeth is allegedly of the opinion that Ryan is best suited by making sure one city is in order and capable of self-sufficiency before considering others, while the bartender declares his idea to be the true way of demonstrating support for the Great Chain, making the unspoken assumption that the people of each city would be capable of supporting themselves and would not need a Central Council to make all their decisions for them. DeWitt maintains silent neutrality throughout the debate, nursing his glass and grunting whenever one of them tries to gain his support. Eventually the bartender moves off, frustrated by Elizabeth's calm but relentless insistence.

DeWitt tosses back the last of his wine in one gulp. He gestures to Elizabeth. As he turns to go, his eyes pass over one of the posters of missing children that are scattered around the establishment. The wine and the many puzzles his partner poses dull his senses long enough so he doesn't begin to put the pieces together until they're about to pass by the Little Wonders Educational Facility. He spies a group of girls in two single file lines outside and slows to a stop. They turn to look at him, almost in unison. There's something unnatural about the way they stand at attention, made all the worse by their garish face paint. "Mister DeWitt." Elizabeth says from his side. She conceals her own emotions admirably. "It doesn't do to stare at the Little Sisters." she tells him. He frowns and starts walking, edging past their black-clad teacher, who pays him no mind.

Once they're out of earshot, he mutters, "Those girls can't be more 'n' 8 years old. Kids that age should be runnin' around makin' life miserable f'r their parents. Not whatever the hell that was."

"Without Andrew Ryan, those girls would be out on the street. At least in there they get fed." Elizabeth replies, keeping her true feelings on the matter well hidden once again.

"Get fed what?" DeWitt asks darkly. "The things I've heard go on in there..." But he cuts himself off as they move past another small crowd of people. As if to add insult to injury, the intercom chimes in with a public service announcement: Rumor is the tool of the Parasite. Fontaine is dead; Rapture lives. "You see all those posters in the bar?" DeWitt asks. "Makes me wonder just how many 'orphans' Ryan's boys are actually pickin' up."

"If you want to ask him yourself, I've heard he might be at a party up on High Street a little later." Elizabeth says.

"Is that so? Maybe he wouldn't mind answerin' a couple questions... Elevator's a ways ahead. Let's see if we c'n figure out where this party's going t' be."