"Fallen, that's the way we all begin:

Imprisoned by the evil fate we're in.

How can we from this hard world of sin be saved?"

Oh shit, he thought desperately as he collapsed to the ground gagging, his heart thumping like a drum in his chest. This is the end. With that single thought, it truly hit home how dire the situation was. He felt his lungs constrict painfully, and in his peripheral vision he saw his arms and legs began to flail wildly. In vain, he tried to draw in air, but was only met with failure and the familiar taste of blood. Was it just his eyes playing tricks on him, or were there two people standing above him and watching? They looked practically identical, so maybe it was his dying double-vision messing with his head. It's too soon… I'm… I'm sorry, Anna. At last, his movements stilled, and he was no more.

Meanwhile, the two people (for there was, in fact, two) examined the body closely like it was a mildly interesting pamphlet, albeit one that stank of alcohol.

"Hmmph," huffed Rosalind, annoyed. She prodded the dead man's face with her toe to check if he was alive. Motionless bloodshot eyes stared blankly at her in response.

"Hmmph indeed," remarked her partner-in-dimensional-crime, Robert. A comfortable silence fell between them, or as comfortable as one can expect while in the company of a corpse. Around them, the hustle and bustle of everyday Columbian life continued, undisturbed by the situation nearby. All of them have seen far worse, after all.

Rosalind broke the silence with a tone of indignation in her voice. "Well, I did not see that one coming."

Robert glanced at her, amusement written plainly all over his face. "Quite the contrary, I believe. It was obvious once the vendor placed double cups of relish on the dog. Fairly intimidating stuff; enough to deter even the bravest man. Even Heimlich would approach it with hesitation."

Rosalind rolled her eyes in exasperation. "What matters now is what we do next. This one didn't even last half as long as the others."

Robert turned away from the corpse to look at her fully. "We do the same, correct? Send in another and hope he dies a better death than… this." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the body. "At least the others died a real death. Even Comstock would get a chuckle out of this."

"I see no source of humor in this." Rosalind replied icily. "I see, instead, another life wasted in a botched attempt of some sort of redemption, and as a result, more of my time wasted in this experiment." She spat the last word out with venom. Robert merely lifted an eyebrow in response. "It's not as if we could do anything differently. In fact, I suggest that we give up on this mission of ours." Rosalind grumbled, crossing her arms.

Robert ignored her and instead tapped his lip with his finger, deep in thought. "Would it be possible if…?" He trailed off, staring at the clear blue Columbian sky. In the distance, he could see Songbird circling the girl's statue.

Finally, he snapped her fingers. "I've got it!" he declared triumphantly, a genuine smile forming on his face. "We send in a younger version of DeWitt." He spread his hands out wide in a "you see what I did here?" motion.

Rosalind's face looked unimpressed as she considered her twin. "Is that even possible?"

Robert's face soured a bit. "You don't get it?" he asked, slightly crestfallen.

"I don't get how it would help," she retorted.

Robert closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. "It's simple. Take, say, a decade away. The when would be irrelevant, so long as we send in one that has gone through the prior ordeal. Well, maybe not all of it. Anyway, not only would he be fitter, but – "

Rosalind's eyes widened in understanding. "Ah, I see! The girl – "

"– Would still be gone, yes – "

"– And his hand – "

"– So now you understand," Robert finished, looking quite smug and satisfied.

"I still think it won't change the result," Rosalind said, still unconvinced, as Robert glared at her. "It is a waste of time. We are better off not doing this at all, as it will only end in failure with every single attempt."

"Just one time, Rosalind," Robert said hotly. "Dear Lord, can you not take a bloody chance for once? This could be the solution we've been waiting for! We owe them too much to lose faith in this. Please, Rosalind."

Rosalind pursed her lips at his small outburst, and turned away, silently fuming. Robert let out a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. He'd gotten upset her, but won this battle. She would follow through with his idea, no matter how unwilling she seemed to be. The question, he mused, looking one last time at the dead lonely man, was if he would win the war for himself.


1912 - Coast of Maine

"Goddammit, ten years younger and he weighs just as much as before," griped Robert, struggling to walk towards their dingy with the heavy load on his back. Rosalind simply watched impassively from the small boat, holding her raincoat together as the wind whipped it around furiously. Around them, the storm continued to howl, just as it had eighty-some times before.

Panting with the effort, Robert finally lowered the man carefully into the back seat of the boat. "Whew," he breathed out, wiping off the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his forehead. "I appreciate the assistance," he shot at Rosalind.

She shrugged, quite unperturbed. "This is your idea, your responsibility, your specimen. I've made this quite clear, haven't I?"

Robert shook his head in exasperation at her words, before stepping back to examine the "specimen" in front of him, who looked wholly reminiscent of the man from before.

But yet, they were not the same. The overall appearance was similar, yet there were fine details that separated the two. This face was relatively untouched by scars, and much of the frown lines and wrinkles from before were now replaced by smooth, tanned skin.

The most obvious difference was the badge on the breast of his jacket. A black-and-white eye, with Pinkerton's National Detective Agency written around it. Just underneath the eye was a tiny inscription that Robert had to bend over to read: "We never sleep."

The past ones had all been beasts of killing and destruction, but they were raging, alcoholic beasts. This was a man in his prime – a well-oiled machine compared to the others. Hopefully, this one was more of a man than they others, but Robert knew better than to think too optimistically. And as he watched him mutter in his unconsciousness ("…Bring back the girl and wipe away the debt…"), he just had to smirk; some things never change.

"He is quite the looker," remarked Rosalind, almost having to yell to be heard over the wind. Robert turned to look at her rather quizzically. "What?" she asked defensively. "I am simply stating a fact."

"You're stating an opinion," Robert amended. "Though he does look much better than usual."

"I suppose ten years does that to a person."

"Hmmph."

"Hmmph indeed."

A pregnant pause followed as they both stared at the slumbering form in the boat. A bit of déjà vu for both, though the type of déjà vu that accompanies going through the same thing dozens of times before. Finally, Rosalind spoke, a bit hesitatingly. "Do you... suppose that – "

"– he's too young?"

"Precisely. I feel as if – "

"– She would – "

"– We'll address that issue when – rather, if – it arises," Rosalind interjected. "Now let's this bloody boat going."

Robert acquiesced and clambered in, grabbing the two oars. Rosalind sat expressionless with her face towards him, making no move to help. She was still peeved with their earlier argument, though that was nothing new.

Groaning, Robert painstakingly forced the oars against the current of the raging waters. With slow progress, the boat began to rock in the direction of the light house they knew so well.

And so the circle started anew.


"It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over."

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

Booker woke up to a face full of water.

Shit shit shit, was the first thought racing through his head. Not the baptism, no damn it all to hell!

Eyes closed, he frantically smacked the air in front of him, trying to get the priest off, who was yelling at him to hold still. "Stop moving, you fool!"

"No, no, no, no, no - I don't want to do it!" he yelled, spluttering through the water on his face. He felt the priest grab his arm, and quickly twisted so that he could pull him into a headlock. Oddly enough, he noticed that the priest had an awful lot of hair for such an old fellow…

He felt he could open his eyes suddenly, and when he did, he was met with the sight of a very disgruntled woman, and a very amused man.

For a few moments there was silence as the boat was rocked by the wind.

Finally, the man clucked his tongue a bit disapprovingly. "Well, that certainly makes thinks awkward," he said lightheartedly, ignoring the tension between the two. He picked up the oars and began rowing again. "Let's get a move on things, dear," he said, directing his words at the disheveled woman in front of him. "Go on now, give him his luggage!"

The woman obeyed and broke her gaze from Booker to retrieve an object, returning with a small wooden box. When she held it out stiffly for Booker to take it, he met her eyes. "Um, sorry about that, ma'am," he said a bit ruefully, trying to apologize. "Had a bit too much the other night, y'know?" He grinned a bit weakly at her.

The woman returned the look with a completely stony gaze. It didn't take a genius to know that she was pissed. She turned around, her only response to Booker's apology a muttered curse. Her hat had fallen off during their scuffle so her hair whipped around in the wind, only serving to irritate her further.

Booker shrugged and pried open the case, examining the contents with quick eye. Random shit, useful shit, coded shit, gun. "That'll do," he muttered, checking the safety latch. He placed it in his hip holster, enjoying the sense of security the familiar weight gave him.

With that done, he sat back in the boat, relaxing as much as he could in the chilly weather. The man and woman were having a conversation of their own – or rather, the man was struggling to multitask between breathing and rowing. Booker considered offering assistance to the poor fella; there was easily three hundred pounds on the boat, and the storm wasn't doing much to help. But there was only one pair of oars on the boat, and he sure as hell wasn't going to use his hands.

A lighthouse and a small dock soon came into view, breaking through the wall of grey fog. Slowly, the boat drifted towards a small ladder located at the side farthest away from the tower. With a grunt, Booker hauled himself up, his soppy clothes weighing him down. He straightened out his body and examined the area around him. "Is anybody going to meet me here?" he hollered at the couple below him. They were already several yards away by then, and going farther every second. "I sure hope so," called the man. "I sure hope not," countered the woman, her voice fading away. Even from a distance, Booker could hear the ire in her voice. "Hopefully the rain will knock some sense in that big loaf."

Booker could feel his temper bristle at her words. Just as they disappeared into the hazy mist, he cupped his hands to his mouth and drew in a deep breath.

"Bitch!"

Booker wasn't religious, but he sure hoped to God that she heard that.


Booker walked amiably toward the raffle, his head swiveling back and forth as he tried to process everything he was seeing; his prior annoyance at the earlier botched baptism was mostly gone. His self-control was being tested - this was a whole new world to him. What the hell, how is there a damn city in the sky? Everything - from the advertisements of "Vigors" that decorated the walls, to simply the atmosphere of the area - just seemed alien. He wouldn't be surprised if one of the citizens turned into a bloody bird, by the way things were panning out.

But deep down inside, he felt a sense of childish wonder that just wanted to go and explore this place, which he quickly suppressed. You're here for a job, he thought, scolding himself. Get yourself together, DeWitt.

Abruptly, the gentle background music from the radios was replaced by a voice. Around him, the festival-goers all halted to listen. "This is your Father Comstock, with a reminder to the beautiful city of Columbia.

A wise bishop will one day say, 'Ever since the days of Adam, man has been hiding from God and saying, 'God is hard to find.'

This is what the False Shepard does to us."

Booker furrowed his brow as he listened and walked, still staring absentmindedly at the impossibly blue sky. This city was getting creepier by the second. "A false wha - ?"

CRACK!

Booker grunted in surprise as pain blossomed across his face. Instinct and training quickly took over and he settled himself into a defensive stance, hands poised against danger. He blinked.

It was just a sign he had run into. Nearby, a small child giggled at his blunder.

Shaking his head slightly to clear it, he examined the sign a bit closer. "The mark of the False Shepard! Beware, Columbians!" it read, displaying a demonic hand with a tattoo of two letters – AD.

Booker cocked his head curiously as the announcement continued.

"HE pulls the covers over the eyes of the innocent, and HE guides us away from Salvation.

HE is the bane of existence.

HE seeks to ruin the circle of life.

And yet these are not the worst of his sins, for he seeks our holiest and most prized and most pure being of our group: our lamb.

He will lead her to a place darker than the depths of Hell itself, and he will leave her there to rot for the wolves.

So I ask of you, my dear denizens of Columbia, to keep on the lookout for this Shepard."

Booker rolled his eyes in disgust. "Everybody's a politician," he muttered under his breath, checking a small cut that he received on his knuckle when he ran into the sign.

Suddenly, his vision turned grey, and a mark – the Shepard's mark – appeared on his hand.

What the hell?

A symphony of voices started in his head, all of them speaking at once.

Will you be rebornthe False Shepard has come to lead my lamb astray – we ain't letting him join our flock – Anna, Anna, Anna –

A drop of blood fell onto his finger.

The voices stopped as Booker looked around, a bit breathless. Nobody seemed to have noticed his momentary lapse. He checked his hand for the mark. Clean, other than a new bloodstain.

Booker rubbed his temple vigorously with his palm.

City must have some damn nasty pollution, he thought tiredly.


He just wanted to get past this damn raffle place. That "sample" the lady handed him scared the living shit out of him. What the hell do these people do in their spare time? Get others to do their freaky shit against their will? Sounds like a recipe for disaster.

Booker walked past the machine he had just fooled, feeling a little disgusted with himself. Sure, he wanted to get this debt paid, but he sure as hell wasn't going to turn himself into some type of real-life monster. You already are one, his mind whispered accusingly, like a personal devil's advocate. He flinched and swore under his breath - the drink was already making him jumpy.

Ahead of him was the same couple from the boat, blocking the path in front of the gate. With their neon raincoats off, he could see their faces clearly for the first time. As he walked closer and closer, they made no sign of budging. Booker rolled his eyes in annoyance; clearly, they weren't going anywhere until they got something from him.

"Heads?" asked the man, a chalkboard hanging from his shoulders. Dozens and dozens of tally marks were scratched onto the surface. He stopped counting after twenty, his eyes a little out of focus.

"Or tails?" said the woman next to him, a stoic expression on her face. It seemed like she hadn't forgiven him yet. They were nearly identical to each other, and for some reason seemed awfully familiar to Booker, but just thinking about that made his head pound uncomfortably. Wincing slightly again, he rubbed his forehead. "Excuse me?"

"Flip the coin, please." With a single fluid motion, the man flicked a coin towards him. Acting more out of instinct, he caught it and examined it under the sun. It was a standard silver eagle; nothing peculiar about it.

Booker glanced at the couple, thoroughly confused. "What the f… actually, let's just start with why?" he asked, rolling the coin in his palm.

The woman frowned at him and sighed impatiently. "Will you just flip the damn coin?"

The man cast her an alarmed look but said nothing. Obviously this was something important to them. Booker smirked slightly; now this was something he could have fun with.

Grinning cockily, he slipped the coin into his pocket and shoved his way between the two, making sure to "accidentally" bump into the lady. He set off at a brisk walk, leaving them in the dust.

He chuckled inwardly at her open jaw. Those stuck-up upper-class slobs should learn not to trust strangers with money, especially not people like him. What did they think he was: some kind of saintly prophet?


Rosalind's mouth was still wide open.

"Well, I did not see that one coming," Robert said patiently, trying to gauge her reaction, while deep inside he was holding back laughter.

Silence.

"Hmmph."

Still silence.

He couldn't help it any longer. He snickered into his hand, shoulders shaking, and walked as far away from Rosalind as he could.


Booker ignored the roar of the man leading the raffle, trying to get to the gate unnoticed. A lithe hand grabbed his arm with surprising strength, stopping him in his tracks. "Hey, mister!" shrilled a young lady, carrying a basket full of baseballs. "Why don't you try your luck at the raffle?"

Booker had to squelch a moan. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? He sighed in defeat. "How much?" he asked, fingering the coin he filched from the couple.

The lady laughed at his response, lightly hitting his shoulder. "Oh, aren't you silly!" she exclaimed. "Have you been living under a rock? The raffle is free!"

Booker shrugged, reached in the basket, and grabbed the very first one. A dark "77" was etched in with a black marker. His mind flashed back to the telegram before - "Don't choose 77". Oops.

"Oh," the woman whispered, glancing at his choice. "That's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you." She winked at him with a flirtatious smile, and then disappeared into the crowd. Booker raised an eyebrow in amusement. She definitely wanted to get in his pants.

"Attention! The moment you have all been waiting for! The 1912 raffle is about to begin!" boomed the man on the stage, maniacal glee sparkling in his eyes. Clapping erupted in the air. A different woman from before walked onto the stage, holding a basket filled with slips of paper. The man gestured to her, his arms spread wide. "Is this not the prettiest white girl in all of Columbia?"

Booker rolled his eyes and snorted. Now this man definitely wanted to get in her pants.

The man reached in and swiftly pulled out the winner.

"Number seventy-seven! Our lucky winner! Please step up and claim your prize!" The crowd filled the air with the moans of the losers and the cheering of the eager bystanders.

Well, I'll be, mused Booker. Today keeps getting better and better.

He stepped forward confidently, leisurely tossing the ball in his hand.

And then the curtains were opened, revealing what was inside.

At first, all Booker could register was shock. How the hell was this a prize? Why the fuck are these people cheering? Rage clouded his mind just as quickly. The choices were clear as day: throw the ball at the couple like the piece of shit he is, or be a man and teach these sick bastards a lesson.

But just as Booker poised his body to throw, a quick thought raced across his mind. Is this really the only option I have?

Things shouldn't just be this black-and-white, he reasoned. A random memory flashed by, and he remembered, just a few weeks ago, a particularly nasty strike that broke out in the steel factories that he and his men were sent to shut down.

Twenty strikers and soldiers dead (you killed them), forty plus wounded. The situation got sorted out and he got his paycheck, but his buddy, Kerry, was forced to amputate an arm and was blinded in one eye (all your fault). He remembered Kerry turning to him, half of his face covered in a bloody bandage, and saying, "You know who really won there? The ones that didn't fucking fight." Booker was left to drinking for a straight week afterward to wash away the memories and guilt.

How was this situation any different? If he attacked the announcer, how would that accomplish anything, other than letting the world know he was a supreme asshole? If you choose not to play, you don't win… but then again, you don't lose either.

Hesitatingly, he lowered his arm, and the crowd began booing with displeasure. The announcer, noticing Booker's discomfort, began taunting him into action. "Let me guess: you're taking your coffee black these days?" he sneered, spittle flying from his mouth.

He felt something tug on his pants leg. "What are you waiting for, mister? Didn't you win?" chirped a small boy, his eyes filled with innocence.

He made eye contact with the doomed bride: "Please! Please, have mercy on us!"

It was too much, too much going on, and every single thing was plain wrong. Without a word, he turned and shoved his way out of the crowd, making sure to give every one of them a strong elbow to the chest. The angry mob turned their attention to the couple, and their screams were like a stab in his heart.

He was going to need a drink after this.


"He is utterly destroying this experiment!" Rosalind was absolutely furious.

"Mmm," was Robert's only response.

"What happened to the constants? The variables?! He is ruining everything!" she threw her hands into the air, nearly smacking Robert in the face.

"Mmm?" The corners of Robert's mouth twitched upward, but otherwise he remained rather stoic.

"Why are you not helping?!"

Robert sighed, the slight smile disappearing. "Because I know."

"You know what?"

Robert shrugged. "Why ask what," he murmured. "When the delicious question is when?"

Rosalind almost hit Robert upside the head. No wonder Booker looked so irritated whenever they say that to him.


"MONUMENT ISLAND GONDOLA RIDES: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE."

Booker almost jumped off the boardwalk. He'd been walking through this damned city for hours, and now he couldn't even get with a hundred yards of the girl, because this damned sign said so. If there was one more thing he had to hate about this city, it was that every-freaking-body he's seen here followed the rules like a pansy.

Fuming, he turned around and his eyes landed on a small dingy bar, mostly devoid of any visitors. He just needed some time to drink away and relax, before giving up. I wouldn't mind being baptized in beer, he thought darkly, as he headed towards the front door.

Inside was dank and sketchy, but pretty much home for Booker. The bartender didn't even glance at him as he slid a beer down the worn counter. The other guests were either incapacitated or in their own world, swaying slightly to the radio's music.

Booker had just sat down at an empty table, when a hand shot into his line of sight and grabbed his drink from him. "Now, now," a familiar voice chided, almost like a schoolteacher scolding a child. "You have a job to do, Mr. DeWitt."

Booker's head shot up, and he was surprised to find the couple… no, just the man. He was like a sore spot in the building, with his smooth and unwrinkled tan-colored tuxedo. "Sir," Booker grumbled, reaching back for the glass. "This isn't your business. I don't want trouble."

The man raised an eyebrow, scooting the alcohol out of reach from Booker's outstretched arm. "Mr. DeWitt, it would be best if you knew that all your business is, in fact, my business. Now, if you want to find the girl – "

"Why're you concerned about the girl?" Booker shot back, getting a little frustrated. He just wanted his beer, dammit! "Don't you have your own girl to deal with?"

The man winced slightly. "Let's… not discuss her for the time being." He pulled a chair over and sat down so he was facing Booker. "I feel like you and I have gotten off on the wrong footing," he said a bit sheepishly. He stuck out his free hand. "Robert! Pleased to meet you."

Booker narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He reached out and grasped Robert's hand. "I'm Boo – "

Robert waved Booker's attempted introduction away, rolling his eyes. "Please, please – I already know enough about you, Mr. DeWitt." He released the semi-awkward handshake and folded his arms in a sophisticated sort of way.

"What I'm more concerned with," he began, leaning forward in his seat. "Is how you plan on getting to Monument Island."

Booker reached over and snatched the alcohol, now that Robert had abandoned it. "Don't have one," he said carelessly, taking a swig.

"And why not?"

Booker shrugged. "I'll find a way to pay my debts. I've still got a job. I've got time."

Robert frowned at his indifference. "But no wife. No kid. No –"

"- how the fuck do you know about that?" Booker's tone came out quietly, but there was no denying the underlying deadliness. His beer glass cracked under the pressure of his hand. The air between them instantly became thick with tension.

"Mr. DeWitt, I understand you are going through difficult times," Robert said quickly, recognizing the danger. "But I hope it has occurred to you, that maybe – just maybe – your debts can't be settled that easily. You came here for a reason, Mr. DeWitt. A wise man once said, 'A man chooses – '"

"– a slave obeys," Booker finished automatically, almost without realizing it. Like an instinct or something. Immediately, he felt nauseous, just like at the False Shepard sign.

Robert looked startled for a second, and then beamed brightly at him, not noticing his discomfort. "Very good! But as I was saying, you have two options. You can choose to remain a slave to your inner despair and wallow in your guilt and indecisiveness… or, be a man, and do something about."

"A man chooses… a slave obeys," Booker murmured, still a bit dazed.

"Uh, yes, that's the gist of it," Robert said, a little concerned about Booker's behavior. An awkward silence followed. "So…" Robert fidgeted a bit in his seat. "I'll be outside if you change your mind." He got up, patted Booker gingerly on the shoulder, and left.

Gradually, Booker came to his senses and put his head in his hands. "This place is fucking me up," he lamented with a moan.

The radio began playing a new song, an angelic sound that clashed with the harsh setting. "Follow me there," the woman crooned softly with a piano. "We'll both be surprised. If we forget anything, hopefully nobody will remind us."

Physically and mentally exhausted, Booker slowly rose from his seat and walked out of the bar. Outside, Robert was standing near an edge with no fencing – a drop straight towards death. In the distance, the huge tower of Memorial Island stood almost serenely amongst the puffy clouds.

"Quite a marvel of engineering, isn't she?" Robert queried, his back to Booker.

Booker merely grunted in disinterest. "How the hell do I get there?"

Robert clapped his hands together. "Right to the point, you are!" he said gleefully. He pointed out into the sky, in the general direction of the tower. "Do you see that?"

Booker turned his head to follow. "I see… the statue?"

"Well, yes, but do you see that?" Robert gestured harder with his hand. Booker squinted, a little confused as to what he was looking for. Everything seemed normal – wait, why was there a grey blur in the middle of the sky? Booker motioned towards the blur. "Is that it?" he asked gruffly.

"Atta boy!" Robert exclaimed. "Now, normally, those don't mean a thing, but in our case…" Robert snapped his fingers once, and a flash of bright light came from the sky. Booker was blinded by it and covered his eyes, spots dancing in his vision. Once he had recovered, he looked and was stunned to find a set of looping rails that had appeared from nowhere. And they appeared to go from –

"From here, straight to Monument Island," Robert said proudly. "This might prove useful to you," he added, pulling out a strange metal contraption from behind his back. It had three hooks on one end attached to a rotating gear, and what looked like an arm socket. "A Skyhook, the main method of transportation on these rails," Robert explained, seeing Booker's look of confusion.

Booker slid his arm easily into the Skyhook's sheath, firmly grasping a handle located inside. It seemed secure enough. He swung it around a few times, feeling its weight. A small knob was located near his thumb, and when he pressed it, the three gears began spinning fast - very, very, fast. If the blades were any closer to him, they would've taken his head off.

Robert winked at him. "Enjoy your trip on the Lutece Express!"

Booker turned towards the rails, his legs shaking slightly and his heart pounding. Heights had never bothered him too badly, but this was borderline suicide. Hell, this was suicide. "Hey, how do I - "

Booker swiveled his head around to ask Robert a question, but Robert had disappeared, apparently without making a sound.

He gulped. "Well," he muttered, trying to bolster his self-confidence. "Nothing ventured, nothing gain – OH GOD!" As he jumped towards the rail, the Skyhook had started spinning wildly and magnetized itself toward it, jarring his shoulder with the impact. For a split second, Booker felt helpless – "Damn thing must be magnetized!" Unbeknownst to him, a few specks of blood flew off his face in small droplets.

Initial terror was soon replaced with a spike of adrenaline as he slowly got the hang of it. Holy hell, this was actually fun. He whooped, the sound lost in the rush of wind.

As he flew farther away from the bar, he heard the radio's last few lines, almost like a farewell.

I don't know where this is going
I'm taking a ride on a wing and a prayer
Follow me there
We'll both be surprised.

Songs belong to Over the Rhine and the hymn Fallen is Where We All Begin.

The next stop on the Lutece Express: Elizabeth. If this felt like a slow start, I apologize, but it's necessary for the plot.Thanks for reading!