Columbia's Finest
AN: FYI this story is set in an AU World, in which Booker and Elizabeth are NOT related in any way. I don't own Bioshock Infinite or any part of the franchise (just in case someone's an idiot)
Story is currently under rewrite. Expect discrepancies/lack of consistancy for a little while.
Oh and one more thing: at the bottom of most chapters is a little "Intel report", with details on characters/items/places/etc. These DO contain some spoilers (though you might not understand them until later in the fic), so read at your own risk. You have been warned.
So let's begin.
In the final years of the 19th Century an Injun known as Wovoka, a false prophet, claimed that the Messiah would be returned to Earth, alongside the spirits of all Injun's ancestors. When this happened he believed that the White man would disappear and the Bison, now nearly extinct, would return as well.
Allegedly, this 'miracle' would be brought about by the performance of a special dance, named the Ghost Dance. When the United States found out that many tribes actually believed the nonsense, they decided to act first to prevent anti-US attacks by native believers.
The ensuing conflicts came to a close at the Pine Ridge Reservation in late December 1890; the final days of the Indian Wars.
It was called the Battle of Wounded Knee.
CH1-Special Assignments
December 23rd
1890
0730 hours
Half a mile and several hills away from their camp, the morning peace was broken in an instant by the crack of a rifle. Birds flew from nests in a panic, confused and terrified by the sudden bang of a bullet going off. Quieter, but still distinct enough to hear, was the sharp ping of thin metal being pierced on the far side of the field. Booker Dewitt groaned as the shooter, a now grinning Corporal Yates, handed the rifle back across to him.
Both were relatively new to the camp and a mixture of banter, opposing personalities and plain old egotism had caused something of a rivalry to form between them. Today they hoped to prove once and for all who the better shot was. Whoever missed the can first would owe the other ten dollars and a biscuit ration.
Well there was that, but behind their little rivalry they were just bored. Booker had been a soldier for only two months, and he was already sick of the job. His days were filled with nothing more than tedious duties, target practise and waiting. So when Yates had quite publically challenged the whole camp the previous day, and put the hard cash on the table, Booker had been the first to take him up on the offer.
Besides the two of them, around twenty other soldiers were gathered in the field watching the contest. Many had also placed bets on the competitors. Thanks to his longer career, and thus experience, it was expected that Yates would be the victor, but more than a few had put money down on Booker winning. Whether it was out of belief or just good sport was a mystery.
Dewitt bit his lip as he reached over and took the rifle from his opponent. It was not his own and was not fitted for him, but it was close enough that he reckoned he could make the shot… as long as he was lucky. The crowd's constant noise and fidgeting made it impossible to concentrate properly on the tiny target. They were too loud to tune out entirely, forcing Booker to accept that he'd have to put up with them during the shot. Settling into a stable stance, legs apart and butt in shoulder, he lifted the sights to his eye and focused on the can, before lowering them again. Too low, so he adjusted. Another check revealed the slight motion had paid off. As far as he could tell the gun was centred perfectly.
The crowd began to chant as he steadied his breathing and again took aim.
"De-witt! De-witt! De-witt! De-witt! De-witt!"
Booker zoned them out as best he could, breathed out, and fired. Faster than the eye could see the bullet sped across the distance to the target, piercing the side of the soft tin before ripping through the far side as a jagged ball of lead and debris. Seeing the target fall backward from its platform, Booker's supporters cheered, whilst their counterparts began to grumble or yell in outrage.
Now with a slight grin of his own, Booker handed the gun back to Yates. Like those who had bet on him, the older soldier was mumbling a curse under his breath. They had to wait a minute while one of the others rushed down to move the target back a few yards for the next round, which Yates spent checking the weapon wasn't dirty or off-centre. The target changer had returned by then, and Marcus wasted no time in setting himself up in the same kneeling position Booker was in.
Jamming the butt into his shoulder, he lifted the gun.
"Oi! What the hell's going on here?!" boomed a voice behind them.
The group whirled around to see Staff Sergeant Kilburn pacing towards them from the hill. Everyone groaned when they realised that the noise of the shots must have carried further than expected, and been heard in the camp.
Kilburn stopped a few yards away from the group. He was looking right at Booker. "Private Dewitt, just how many of our precious, expensive bullets have you wasted here?!" he yelled, finally reaching the assembled men.
Booker glanced to his left and right. "Uhh, what th-" He scowled when he realised Yates had already fallen in with the others, leaving the rifle conveniently at his feet for the Sergeant to find. Kilburn had obviously been too far away to spot him before he hid. "-Sir, not many at all, Sir!," Booker said sharply.
"I'm not sure I believe you Dewitt. So now I'm gonna ask why, Private, were you wasting them on that innocent can over there?" Kilburn asked.
Booker risked looking at the faces of the others. After a beat, he replied "Sir, because I wanted to practise, Sir!" It was a poor lie and everyone knew it, but he wasn't going to rat, even on Yates.
Kilburn just looked at him, as if unable to believe he could think that might work. "And who else were you-"he highlighted with air quotations "-practising with, Private?"
"No-one, Sir. Just me, Sir," Booker answered. He could practically see the gears in the Sergeant's head turning, wondering whether to call on the sorry Private's bullshit.
Finally he came to a decision. "Alright, I'm feeling generous today," He turned to the others. "All of you get back to the camp. If I see anyone of you lot here again I will personally see you cleaning the Mess tent for the next six weeks! Now doesn't nobody want that?" They shook their heads, "Good. Now all of you dismissed. Duties are set in at oh-eight-hundred minutes."
As they meandered back towards the miserable camp that was their home, Booker edged his way over to Yates. Quiet enough that the Sarge wouldn't hear, he whispered, "You owe me ten dollars."
"It was a tie, dammit!" the Corporal hissed.
Booker smirked. "Not for that. It's for me covering your ass just then!"
"Urgh… Fine. Fine! But we're even after that. Deal?"
"Deal, until I kick your ass again."
Kilburn glared at them from the front of the column. "What're you maggots yapping about back there?!"
"Nothing, Sir!" they replied in unison.
00000
Half an hour later, the men of the 7th Cavalry stood assembled in the centre of the camp for their assignments, arranged in a rough circle around a trio of officers - including Kilburn -yelling orders. Formality was mostly dropped here, and though acceptably quiet Booker could easily hear the conversations between soldiers alongside the bellowed orders.
As time went by and more men filtered off, having been given their tasks for the day, Booker began to grow a little nervous. The duties usually worked on a weekly rota, and if that had been followed Booker would have left about a minute ago with the other soldiers assigned to guard duty. His name not being called up then either meant he'd been moved to fill in another role, or something was up.
Given the events of the last hour, he doubted the latter would be anything good for him.
"Privates Cosby, Manley, and Blain as well as Corporal Yates are to report immediately to Sergeant Tucker for patrol," shouted the middle officer. With that order the last of the soldiers filed out, leaving Booker alone to face the three intimidating figures. He decided it would be best to just wait it out until they addressed him.
After a few seconds of angry glaring, Kilburn finally spoke "Private Dewitt, Lieutenant Slate's requested you be at the Command Tent ASAP. No doubt to see the fruits of your practising..." he left the statement hanging.
Booker suppressed an involuntary gulp. He had met Slate only twice thus far. The first had been when he had been first assigned to the 7th Cavalry, and to Slates command. Then there was the day he watched the Lieutenant personally flog a man who'd been drunk on guard duty. Corporal O'Neil was still in the infirmary tent, and Booker still had the image of Slate's gleeful smirk as he cracked the whip against the unfortunate drunk's bare back. Booker prayed he wasn't about to face a similar punishment.
His impression of the man was both one of respect and fear. From the stories he'd heard the older guys tell the man certainly knew how to lead and could probably pick a fight with the best of them, but in his opinion that wasn't necessarily a fair trade for the madness that may have come with it.
Brushing those thoughts aside, he saluted the three men before turning on his heel and all but sprinted across the encampment, knowing that if half the rumours were true then Slate was probably counting every second Booker kept him waiting, and he'd pay them back tenfold if things went sour.
The Command Tent was similar to most of the other "utility" tents; cheap and simple. From the exterior it was a roughly square-shaped shambles of muddy cloth, fabric, and rope. There was a metal sheet attached to one side to form a makeshift door, which was flanked on both sides by a couple of thoroughly bored troopers armed with relatively modern Carbines. As Booker walked towards them, one glanced at his fellow before opening the scrap door and ducking down into the tent. Booker looked at the other who jerked his head back; a go ahead to follow the man.
The inside of the Command Tent was little better than the exterior. Rotted wooden planks had been dragged in to form a rough floor, but it was all too noticeable that the recent weather had rotted right through. Sopping mud squelched up through the cracks, and in places the floor was nearly an inch underwater. Several older looking soldiers, veterans from previous engagements and the higher ranking officers in the 7th Cavalry, were clustered around a rickety table, the wood faring little better here than the floorboards. Booker spied several maps - presumably of the nearby area -alongside what appeared to be letters or reports to Slate's superiors. It was all well above Booker's pay grade though. The guard flashed a crisp salute towards a middle-aged man hunched over a desk, who Booker recognized as the lieutenant.
His thoughts involuntarily snapped back to the first time he'd met the guy, on his first day out of Boot Camp:
"So you're the new recruit I'm taking into my command? Hmm, yes, you should do nicely. Private Dewitt! While in my command you will find out quickly that I don't care about the hows and whys in the job. I don't care if you're sympathetic to the enemy, or if you want to tear them limb from limb like a rabid dog. I don't even care if you look at your comrades the same way! What I do care about, is that you do whatever it is I say, and the job gets done. Remember that, and you'll be up in the ranks in no time...forget it, and I'll have you in front of the firing squad by dawn."
"Ahh, Private Dewitt." Booker shook himself as he was brought abruptly back to the present. "Glad to see you here in one piece," said Slate, conveniently forgetting that absolutely nothing had injured anyone in the camp recently but him.
He looked Booker up and down. Slate's hands were joined behind his back as he spoke and his chin was held up, as if trying to appear superior or aloof. "Dewitt, I've got an important job for you. It's dangerous, and you've yet to face any real combat situations but if our information is right..." Booker just caught the glance Slate gave the reports, but the Lieutenant continued before he could question it, "-we'll need every veteran here in camp for the coming days. Besides, this one requires some subtlety, and you're the closest thing to a scout that's left, so this job falls to you."
"Sir?" Booker quietly questioned, still in the dark about what the 'job' actually was. The more he thought about it the less conventional the situation seemed. Even the manner with which Slate delivered it seemed off.
"What you're about to hear, Private, will not leave this room. Am I clear?" Booker nodded. "While travelling through the forest area a few dozen miles from here, the commander of our regiment, Major Comstock, was believed to have been captured by native warriors." Booker nodded in understanding, coming to realise why the situation was so hush-hush. "Needless to say, we cannot allow this to go unpunished. More importantly we need our commanding officer back. We're sending you to recover the Major and kill any natives you find along with him. Teach the red-skinned bastards a lesson!"
Slate paused as he took the map from the table top. The assembled officers looked at Booker with weary and almost pitying eyes. Booker got the feeling he wasn't expected to return with the major, or even at all.
Slate pointed a pencil-shaded section on the map. "This is where we expect them to have taken the Major. You are to focus your search on this area. Be careful though. Our scout barely avoided being spotted and there is reportedly a large presence of hostile natives throughout the area." Slate stepped away from the map when he finished, pacing slightly in front of the Private.
"You can take no more than three other recruits with you. The less of you there are, the less chance that you'll be spotted. Not to mention if the bastards catch wind of a full squadron in the area they'll probably execute the hostage on the spot," said another officer, slightly younger than the Lieutenant.
"And one more thing, Private," Slate spoke again, "Comstock was on his way to visit his family. We don't know if they were with him when he was abducted, but if they were, do your best to save them as well. They're secondary, but it would be a hell of a better situation if you got them out. Look for one woman - his wife - and a little girl. She should be about ten or eleven years old. If memory serves me then the wife's name is Helen and the daughter's name is Elizabeth. Now get out of here, gather your team and bring them back safely."
INTEL REPORT
7th Cavalry: During the late 1800's, the 7th Cavalry was under the command of none other than the Prophet, then a Major in the US Military, and primarily stationed in the Pine Ridge area. They were instrumental in several operations targeting the Native populace, most notably Wounded Knee.
Following the end of the American Indian Wars, many surviving members of the 7th were transferred work as officers in the newly formed Columbian Security Force (C.S.F). Due to connections stemming from Wounded Knee, these men and women were typically elevated above and beyond most servicemen at the Prophet's request. Many found themselves rising several ranks before they even deployed to their new positions. As US soldiers go, these men and women have the most recent experience of full-scale conflict, and are certainly the most modernised regiment in service.
The 7th is held in the highest regard within the C.S.F, and for good reason. Its members are constantly scrutinised by the leadership; only the best officers and troopers are ever posted within its ranks. Simply being accepted into its ranks proves one is both an exemplary soldier and commander. Long-term members and officers are the stuff of military legend.
Cornelius Slate: Slate is well known nowadays as one of our greatest war- heroes, rivalling even the legendary status of the Songbird and the Shepherds. Born and bred a career soldier, he enlisted as soon as he was able, becoming the youngest soldier to join the 7th Cavalry prior to Booker Dewitt's enlistment. Quickly proving his worth when a lucky shot killed his CO,
Slate was fast-tracked through the ranks when it became apparent to his superiors just how useful he was both in leadership roles and in combat. Perhaps his most famous battle to date would be Wounded Knee, where he led the 7th against the Lakota tribe. Slate is remembered here for the brilliant opportunist tactics he used, resulting in hundreds of dead injuns at the cost of only a dozen or so US troopers.
Following that event, Slate was recruited onto the C.S.F as Security Commander. He continues to serve that role with distinction to this day.
Ghost Dancers: Injuns who followed the teachings of Wovoka or who were linked to a tribe that did are collectively known as Ghost Dancers.
Named for obvious reasons, Ghost Dancers are stereotypically remarkably fanatical and firmly anti-white in their beliefs. However, this hate does not, as many would believe, go so far as to cause them to be outwardly hostile to any whites they see. Veterans of Wounded Knee noted how many of the more docile Injuns turned out to be some of the fiercest fighters.
The Dancers were more or less stamped out when they witnessed the massive casualties they took at the massacre, though enclaves continued for several years after.
