A/N: I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I delighted in writing it.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters from Bioshock. They belong to 2K Games. ; 3 ;

"When you needed my starlight, I illuminated you."

Sander Cohen's face and voice was no anomaly. In many ways, he was Andrew Ryan's songbird, speaking to the masses. His voice soothed several of Rapture's denizens. It was his work that they came to witness every day. His art spoke to them in a multitude of ways and fashions. He saw their eyes glow with sheer delight as they walked through his gallery. His chest swelled with pride at the notion. He was pleasing both Ryan and Rapture's people.

If Ryan was pleased, then so was Cohen. If Ryan was irked, then Cohen was furious. His work needed to be perfection in its finest craft. Stacks of papers were blacked out with notes, varying in size and content. They were spread across his desk. He hovered over them. Hazels orbs were frantic in their search for reason, meaning, and purpose.

The door swung open, taking Cohen by surprise.

"The ice man fucking cometh, Sander baby."

The gravelly voice of Martin Finnegan did little to deter Cohen. The artist simply grunted an unintelligible response to his disciple. Granted, Martin would have none of that. With a flick of his wrist, ice covered Cohen's mahogany desk and papers. The dark-haired male gasped with audible surprise. He pushed back from his desk, glaring at his disciple. Naturally, Martin ignored Cohen's line of profanities, dragging the man to the bar to join the other disciples.

They adored him.

For the time being, it was enough.

"But now I rot, waiting for an audience that will never come."

Young Fitzpatrick had it at first. The pianist's fingers ghosted over the ivory keys, but not fast enough. Not nearly whimsical enough. It was disappointing. His disciple had shown such promise. Cohen rested his head in his hands, leaning forward in the uncomfortable, velvet chair. It emitted a nasally squeak in response. He sighed, loud enough for Fitzpatrick to hear. The young man looked up, clearly started. His thin frame shook as he took the piece from the top.

Impressive, but not perfect.

"Presto," Cohen admonished his disciple. He rose from his velvet throne, striding towards the stage. He waltzed up the few steps, imagining the audience with their lavished applause and wolfish whistles. A thin smile curved his painted lips. Cohen bowed, swiping an arm across his chest. His fingers caressed the wilted rose that was pinned to his tuxedo jacket. The illusion faded. The artist hovered behind Young Fitzpatrick.

He rested his hands on top of Fitzpatrick. His pointed chin rested in the crook of the other male's shoulder. Fitzpatrick held his breath. The feathers on his maroon mask swayed ever so slightly.

"Like this," Cohen mumbled. His words ghosted over Fitzpatrick's hunched frame.

Together, they played.

"I'm writing something for you, Andrew Ryan. It's a requiem."

The looking glass in his room told Cohen that he was a canvas, waiting to become something new. He searched the contents of his dresser drawers, pulling out a variety of cosmetics. First, he applied the white, stage makeup to his face. The mascara swooped through his top and bottom lashes. Eyeliner lengthened the effect. A tube of red lipstick dived across his mouth, smearing as his hand shook.

The mirror told him he was perfect.

His critics were wrong, faulty in judgment.

Ebony lashes fluttered like a cautious moth. Two stray locks of hair fell over his brow, caressing his face. He rose from his chair, pivoting on heel. Cohen pushed open the door. His shoes tapped across the wooden flooring. Young Fitzpatrick's music filled the halls.

Young Fitzpatrick's music filled the halls. He would show Andrew Ryan what he meant. Art was to be made. Marble statues adorned the hall. Each figure was bent at an odd, twisted angle. Their faces were masks of ghoulish horror.

It wasn't just a requiem.

It was his masterpiece.