AN: Hi! I just had this idea at about 11 at night, and thought I'd write it up because hey, no point letting it go to waste. I don't have a coherent ending in sight, but that's alright. I'll think of something. It might take a while to update though. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!
Swirling blackness. Dull, thudding pain. Blood throbbing through sore and swollen flesh. The darkness stretched on forever, the only movement and colour was a greyish mist at the edges. Booker knew he was asleep, probably unconscious. It was an odd feeling. Still, he felt the pain, faint, but ever present. Aware enough to know something was wrong, but unable to do anything about it. The mists ahead were beginning to take on different colours. They were pale at first, reds and blues so thin and weak they were barely distinguishable. They grew slowly more vivid, and other colours appeared without form or pattern.
"Is it a dream?" Booker wondered. "Did I hit my head? Or drink too much again?" The mists had almost swallowed the darkness now, and faint shapes became visible through the gloom. It looked like a room, tables, chairs and shelves beginning to swirl into view. A voice joined the cacophony of rushing blood in Booker's head. First, it was nearly inaudible, but swiftly grew in volume until it sounded like a megaphone in his ear.
"DeWitt? DEWITT!" Booker shook himself, and looked up. A fat, sweaty man was sitting at the desk in front of him, leaning forward with both hands pressed down. His pale blue eyes shook with fury as he slowly sat back down in his seat. "DeWitt," he said in a quietly angry voice, "I know you are a drunk, but this is frankly ridiculous." Booker nodded, too confused to reply. The man in front of him shuffled papers on his desk, flicked through them, and looked back up with a sly grin.
"You know how much you owe, DeWitt?" Memories began to crawl back into Booker's aching head. The details were still rather fuzzy though.
"A... couple of thousand?" The words were thick and slurred, and as he spoke, Booker realised just how thirsty he was. The man grinned wider.
"Twenty thousand. And you're long overdue."
"Look," Booker began nervously, "I can still get this sorted. I have some money somewhere..."
"You've been saying that for three months. Repeating yourself won't make it any more true. I might have to consider this account... closed." As he spoke, two massive guards stepped into view. They strode around the desk and threw Booker off his chair. Booker sprawled out onto the wooden floor with a sharp thud. As he fell, he heard a soft voice in the back of his head, barely audible above his moans.
"...some sort of penance..." Before Booker could think about this voice, he was dragged up to his feet by his collar, then received a heavy punch to the nose. Booker collapsed again, falling face first with a sickening crunch.
"...what's done will be done..." Booker tried to get up, pushing off the floor, when a heavy boot slammed into his back.
"Don't kill him here, please. Out in the corridor, at least." The debt collector's voice was smug. Booker was pulled back up by the collar, but was allowed to remain on his feet this time. The room was spinning wildly.
"Wait!" Booker pleaded, through a mouth of broken teeth. "Surely... surely there's something I can do..." The guard on his left punched him in the cheek for the remark, and raised his hand for another swing.
"Hold on." The guard immediately dropped his fist. "Turn him around." Booker was unceremoniously shoved in the shoulder, and spun for a second before regaining his bearings. The debt collector had his back to Booker, and was muttering. As Booker's vision cleared, he realised that the red-haired man was talking on the phone, and was apparently in a heated conversation.
"Rothwild? You sure? Goddammit. He was one of the best. No one free? Well, I might have an answer. A debtor who can't pay. DeWitt. Yeah, I know. He's a drunk bastard, but a vet as well. No, I don't. Check with him. Yeah. Call me back." He replaced the phone and swiveled back around. He grinned broadly, revealing worn and browned teeth.
"Well, DeWitt, you might be in luck. Boys, fetch DeWitt some water." The guards behind Booker retreated and left the room. Booker cautiously pulled up another chair and sat in it.
"What do you mean 'in luck'? Your goons were trying to kill me a moment ago."
"You might not be able to pay, but we can give you a chance at redemption, as it were."
"Redemption? That's awfully big-hearted." The phone rang, and the collector ripped it out of its rest before swinging around again.
"Dempsey, that you? What did he say? Shut the hell up, I'm busy. Yes or no. Okay. Great." During the conversation, one of the guards returned and shoved a glass of water in Booker's face. He drained it immediately, and as he put down the glass, the collector had turned back around.
"Well, DeWitt, we might be willing to overlook your debt."
"What's the catch?" Booker asked suspiciously.
"You'll have to do something for us first." Booker didn't reply, but stared at the man in front of him with suspicion. He sighed, and elaborated. "There's a girl. She's rather... important to my boss. Managed to escape a while ago, off the coast of Maine somewhere."
"Go on."
"We sent one of our guys, but he turned up dead. And we're stretched a bit thin at the moment. The boss said; if you bring us the girl, we'll wipe away your debt." Booker pondered for a moment.
"I dunno. Sounds a bit off." The smile on the collectors face dropped to a grimace.
"This isn't something that gets offered often, DeWitt. You're a lucky man to be given another chance. Take it, and you'll walk out of here free. Leave it, and you'll be leaving rolled up in a rug, you get me?" Booker tensed, and could feel the two guards right behind him.
"Alright... I'll do it." The tension in the room dissipated almost immediately, and the collector grinned.
"Good man, good man. Just remember..." Booker's head was starting to spin again. The room and everything in it blurred together, swirling into mists again...
"Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt."