look up "Tainted Love" the BioShock Infinite version and listen to this Easter Egg song while you read.

Possession

Jeremy couldn't feel the strength of Father Washington as he and his brother-in-arms searched for the False Shepherd. To be honest, searching through the blood splattered pub, Jeremy suspected he never had felt Father Washington's strength. He thought he had, as a boy, when enemies were made of wood and the destruction of Columbia had been a worry, a far off threat that wouldn't happen in his lifetime, not when he and his brothers were so passionate about safeguarding Her.

"The False Shepherd's been through here," Blake noted, voice hard to hear over an abandoned radio playing one of Fink's new songs; "Tainted Love". The song felt out of place amongst the massacre. Bodies hardly cold enough to be called corpses sat at their booths, laying over tables and soaking in their own blood. Jeremy wondered if the False Shepherd had killed them. It seemed grizzly enough to be caused by that wretched creature. When he identified the bodies as Vox Populi supporters, conflict built in his heart. The Vox were dead, which was good. They deserved to die. . .but not like this. Jeremy didn't agree with this form of killing, in the midst of a late lunch. No one deserved to go out like that, not even those no good Vox.

"How do you know," Jeremy asked. "About the Shepherd."

Blake frowned at him. "False Shepherd."

"Right. That's what I said. The False Shepherd."

Blake continued squinting at him until an overturned table caught his attention. Blake poked about with his machine gun and replied without looking back.

"Take a good look around. Do you see any money? Ammunition? Food? You haven't seen him before, the False Shepherd. He's a creature of avarice and envy – doesn't stop grabbing and wanting."

"Is that why he took the Lamb?" Jeremy was surprised by how quiet his voice had gone.

Blake glanced back but soon returned to searching. "I suspect. I saw him, just after the raffle, when Father Comstock called us back. He was going through garbage."

"Garbage? What for?"

Blake's grin was cruel as he answered. "For eating."

Jeremy gagged, horrified by the image of this horrible specter pawing through filth, the Lamb clutched in his dirty claws. Jeremy doubted Father Washington ever having spoken to him but such sacrilege to the Lamb made him ill.

"Is it true what they say," Jeremy said a little while later. "The he has red eyes and black skin?"

"No. That's the worst part," Blake said, watching Jeremy in earnest. "He's normal. Handsome, even. Green eyes, white skin, brown hair. Speaks normal, too."

Jeremy felt a bite of vertigo. He didn't know what to make of this new information. It didn't feel right, that someone so evil would look like good folk. It wasn't right. Jeremy wanted to rub off his own skin to end the similarities between himself and the False Shepherd.

"I know. It was hard for me to wrap my mind around, too. Father Comstock says the False Shepherd is jealous of how prosperous we are. That's why he emulates us."

Jeremy nodded, unsure what he was supposed to say. How did one react to that? It sounded like fool's talk but it made sense. He could use Father Benjamin's guidance but he was just as quiet as Father Washington. Jeremy worried about what he was doing wrong. Blake acted like he could hear them, moved with conviction. Jeremy wanted that, wanted to know that the gun he held in his hands has a purpose other than butchering a family eating at the diner.

"Listen, what you have to remember is – " Blake started before the snap of a glass bottle caught their attention. Both soldiers turned to the noise, guns aimed on the men's washroom. There was shuffling back there and voices. Jeremy strained his ears but it was impossible to make anything out with all the blood rushing through his head.

Blake made a gesture and the two of them snuck close to the door, Jeremy on one side and Blake on the other. Praying for safety and guidance, Jeremy wondered if Father Washington could hear him. Were they both unable to contact the other or was Jeremy the one who wasn't worth enough to bother speaking to.

"Mr. DeWitt, we can figure out the code now."

DeWitt. Booker DeWitt. Jeremy's eyes seized as he squeezed his gun. With a look from Blake, Jeremy released his grip, panicked that he'd pull the trigger. The False Shepherd was just through this door, doing Lord knows what with the Lamb. They were in the Men's washroom. What kind of foul things was he having her do in there. Jeremy prayed again. Surely Father Washington would give him strength now, knowing what danger they were in and what importance these next moments would have.

Blake made a gesture. On three.

Jeremy squared his shoulders.

Two.

He still couldn't feel Father Washington's presence.

One.

Blake kicked in the door and Jeremy shot around him, aiming for the taller figure. A woman screamed, the Lamb. The False Shepherd yanked her into one of the stalls and ran to the opposite one. For that Jeremy was thankful. He didn't want to accidently harm her. Jeremy's ears rang as his bullets ricocheted off the walls, Blake drawing his own gun to attack. He couldn't hear anything over the gun-fire. Because of the echoes, soon he couldn't hear even that. His ears went dead, though the commotion was still all about.

The False Shepherd peered out from his hiding spot made a motion like he was throwing a ball. Green vapor rushed at Jeremy. He didn't have enough time to blink. Blake might have said something, he looked over his shoulder at Jeremy and his mouth was open but Jeremy couldn't hear a thing.

The green vapor enveloped him, soaked into his skin and clouded his eyes till all he saw was that bright green, beautiful and heady like too much perfume.

You are loved, it said.

Son, you are loved. Father loves you very much.

Jeremy's weapon fell slack. Never once in any of his days at church or training to be a soldier, had Jeremy felt so included, so at peace. It took over him like basking in the warmth of a flame, skin buzzing all at once. He felt it down to his marrow, contentment and love like he'd never known. Jeremy didn't even think to be suspicious of it. Nothing this good could possibly be untrustworthy. It just wasn't. Jeremy couldn't think back to a time when he didn't have this running through his blood, when he didn't feel like this.

Father loved him. Jeremy would make sure he earned that, eager to keep this feeling.

Father is in danger, the voice said to him.

Father is being attacked. Destroy those who would bring harm to Father.

Jeremy's vision snapped back to clear, leaving him ragged of breath but clear headed. He saw his Father, darting back behind cover and he spotted the attacker, the fiend who would dare harm his Father. The man spoke to him but Jeremy didn't bother to listen. Nothing this man could say would sway Jeremy's anger. No one attacked Father and lived.

Pulling his machine gun into position, Jeremy sprayed the bullets at the offender, the man jerking in suprise. He collapsed, blood oozing up as the smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh spread about the room. The man was dead before he hit the floor.

Thrilled, Jeremy turned to Father and awaited the next order.

Your Father loves you very much, son.

Kill yourself.

Jeremy's jaw fell loose as he watched his Father come out from the stall to check on a woman in another. As they spoke (Jeremy couldn't hear them), his connection to Father broke. Jeremy was sent reeling. The love was gone.

Father wanted him to kill himself.

Father took his love away.

Father didn't love him anymore.

Jeremy fell into a squat, running his burnt fingertips through his hair.

Father father father Father.

"Is that what you want?" he shouted at his Father, the man pausing in his conversation with the woman to look at him. She was surprised. Father was not. "Will you love me again if I do that?"

"Yes," Father replied, voice gruff and quick and exactly what Jeremy had been missing all his life. He whimpered, pulling at his hair. Father would love him again. Father never said anything he didn't mean. Father would love him.

"Mr. DeWitt, what does he mean?"

"Don't watch," his Father said. He guided the woman out of the washroom. Jeremy wanted Father to squeeze his shoulder, to show him how proud he was of him. Jeremy hadn't earned that, not yet.

He took the machine gun and pointed it up at the back of his skull from under his chin.

"Booker! He's –"

Jeremy was dead before he registered the sound of the gun going off. Booker pulled Elizabeth the rest of the way out of the washroom, mindful of the machine gun's bullets as the muscles in the soldiers hand carried out their last impulse, even after the man's death.

Elizabeth stared up at him, just as frightened as she'd been at the set up where he'd been foolish enough to let his hand get mauled. Then she hit him. Slapped his shoulder and shoved him away. Booker didn't mind. He deserved it.

"I can't believe you. Why would you do that? Why do you always use that vigor."

Booker scratched at his jaw, counting the moments until it was without doubt safe to go back into the washroom and loot the corpses.

"Talk to me, Mr. DeWitt."

"It's neater that way," he answered.

"Neater? Neater! I'm sorry, did you fall through a Tear back there or did you not see. . .see that man sh-shoot his friend and then himself."

"Yeah, I saw it." By Booker's tone he was trying to pull out of the conversation. Their time together had been short but Elizabeth understood him enough to know when Booker began to cloister himself off.

"Booker, I want an answer. It just. . .it seems like it's more suffering than they deserve."

"Suffering," Booker spat the word. "What do you know of suffering? Do you know what it feels like to bleed out? To burn? To watch in anguish as someone you trust in dies?"

Elizabeth tensed but stayed, wide-eyed and curious as a boy on his first day at war.

"What I give them is not suffering." He breathed hard and shook out his shoulders. She couldn't understand, not the peace he gave to them and the quick death. There were a thousand and one ways Booker Dewitt knew how to kill a man and one he preferred above all else. He saved his bullets and blood and the possession got something they'd been missing all their life. Even if it was false, Booker was happy to provide the happy delusion. It was more than he would ever have again. Nothing he deserved after Anna.

"Come on," he said after a while. "Let's go find you that airship."

Elizabeth nodded, meek and worried as the left. Booker took a moment to check for supplies and they were off again, wading through the mire that was Columbia. They passed an image of Father Comstock and Booker laughed a gaunt chuckle that died quick as it was made.

Whoever had dreamed up this city was a possessive maniac.

Originally this was fully in Booker's POV and the vigor left the victim aware of what his body did. Halfway through that, it became immediately apparent that was NOT how Possession would work, and that Booker would use it, not only because he has tendencies where he likes to control his tin soldiers, but because he wants someone to love him and experience love, even if it's false. Much like Comstock, in that regard.