Author's Note: Hello fellow Infinite fans! Welcome to "The Girl for the Debt," the sequel to "The Girl in the Tower"! I am so glad you're here! I hope you all enjoyed the last story and thank you so much for your support, patience, and most of all, reviews! I really appreciate all of your encouragement, which has really inspired me to write more for you guys! Anyway, before we begin, I just want to make a quick note for anybody who has just started reading this story. If you're reading this now, I recommend you read the first story before continuing this one, so that way you will have a good idea of what's currently going in the plot. And of course, for those that have not yet played the game or have not beaten it yet, I highly recommend you play it or finish it first before reading. There will be lots, and I mean LOTS of spoilers throughout the story. And just so you are all aware, this is AU so that means that Booker and Elizabeth's relationship has changed from biological to unrelated, for reasons. In other words, they're not father/daughter in this universe, which opens the door for a sexual and romantic relationship to occur between them. I hope that clears everything up! Now without further ado, I present to you "The Girl for the Debt"! Please review, follow, and favorite! Thank you so much and enjoy! Much love!

All Bioshock & Bioshock Infinite characters are all property of Irrational Games and Ken Levine, except for any OCs that I create myself.


Chapter One: Boys with Guns


Columbia, 1912...

Bring us the girl, and wipe away the debt; that was the deal. The details elude me now, but the details wouldn't change a goddamn thing.


Hours Earlier Before the Rescue...

One man down, five more to go... That's how many men are shootin' at me from all angles. There's a sniper at 12 o'clock while there's a guy waiting to blow my damn head off right there and then. He's standing just a feet away from where I'm hiding, which is behind the provisions crates. I better run soon or I'll be a dead man for sure. And I can't forget that girl... That girl.

I remember the photo they had given me. A young girl trapped in a tower. Heh, what are the odds of someone like me saving her from that situation? Well, I would say they aren't exactly in my favor. More than a hundred guards roam the streets of this goddamn city, and there are people out there willing to die for her. This city ain't a place for sinners seeking a dunk in the water, it's a place for fools, and this city's got a fair share of 'em. I've seen the bullet-riddled soldiers and bloodied faces of war, but I've never seen anything like this. I've never even heard of Columbia before I came here. Not a single word. I must be behind the times because something like this ain't some secret to keep.

Damn it, Booker, keep your head on...

Guard, 3 o'clock!

I jump up from my crouched position and quickly shoot a round into his chest. I then search his body, finding a full box of ammo and a phial of salts. Nice.

"In the name of the Prophet!" A guard screams as he jumps down from a near-by skyline. I don't hesitate to light his ass on fire this time. I watch the poor bastard turn into ash at my feet.

Then another one follows, and yet another, all hopping from the skyline.

God help me.


North Dakota, 1889...

"Boys with guns, girls with dolls." A phrase my mother would repeat over and over, reminding me of my place in this world and the man my father wanted me to become. My father was no more a man, but no less a monster than his drinking buddies were. I've heard truth and I've heard lies, but I think I know which were truths and which were lies. The lies were few, but the truths were many, my mother once told me.

I wasn't my mother and father's only child. I had my sisters who were younger than me. Like my father, my mother would repeat that same ol' phrase over and over, reminding them of their place in this world. Housewives, caretakers, and childbearers. Me? Hunter, fighter, and soldier. Nothing more and nothing less than what Mr. DeWitt expects of his own son, his own flesh and blood, his heir to a damned legacy. A legacy? The man had nothing but a full bottle and a few cards on the table! Like father, like son.

I was a boy of fifteen years, living out near the woods of North Dakota. I was playing cowboys and Indians with the other boys from a near-by town. This area was mostly secluded, so I'm thinking they must have traveled several miles from their homes. My father preferred living in the forest next to all the game you can catch with a single bullet and net. My mother, on the other hand, preferred living near the loud townsfolk. She raised herself to be a city girl, though her own mother and father grew up in the woods. She ran away with a man twice her age to live in the saloons before she met Mr. DeWitt. However, there was one thing she never left at home: her tongue.

I liked it here. It was quiet and opened but surrounded by thick patches of green and wildlife. My father would take me each morning to hunt and fish with him. We would come back hours later with a week's worth of fresh game. Mrs. DeWitt and my sisters pitched in to prepare the supper, which was the usual fish and deer stew.

"Catch, DeWitt!" Saul, a local sheriff's son, was playing one of four cowboys in our game. Three others were playing the Indians, including myself.

I caught the stick that he had thrown at me, positioning myself in front of him. We stood center and looked each other dead in the eye. He was leader and I was chieftain. "Now, you here me close, redskin. I catch you sneakin' up on us again, I swear to the almighty hands of the Lord I'll shoot your damn head off! You listenin', you damn redskin?!"

I shoved the stick into his chest and pounded a tight fist against my heart, shouting into his face, "I am chieftain! These are my people and my land! The white man hear and see no mercy from us!" The stick in my hand nearly broke as I chanted a tribal mantra. My mother once told me stories of an Indian tribe that was native to the land. The Lakota, they were called. I remembered one of their tribal chants.

The two other boys that played Indians followed, but got lost in the chant. I guess they never heard it before. Like I said, they were mostly boys from the town. They had no idea of Indian tribes.

The game lasted for a couple hours or until the sun started to set. It slowly sunk into the bright orange horizon, the stars beginning to show themselves in the darkening skies. The boys and I then gathered our things and started towards our campsite. And from there on, we went our separate paths. They traveled back into town while I made my way back home alone and at night.

I founded the trail I would use to get back. The route was dirt, dead patches of grass, and dry streaks of deer blood, but it was also my father's way of knowing where the best game was. He made the trail using a stick and the animal blood, which would later dry up and be hidden under dirt and leaves. Why the blood? Well, like I said, it was where the best game was because that's where the deer made their habitats. I'm guessing most of the deer we caught were protective mothers. I think we killed their young too. We always brought home large and small game.

The route wasn't a shortcut. It made the journey a hell of a lot longer and progressed deeper and deeper into the night. I couldn't tell how late it had become but I'm sure my mother was wondering where the hell I could be, though my father probably didn't give a shit. He would think it a test of strength if I found myself wrestling a bear in the middle of the night. My old man thought I was born a coward and wished every second I would die one to prove his point. I wanted to prove him wrong everyday, but my mother would tell me to listen to his "good word." If he had any wisdom left in his head, he would know better not to drink and gamble it all away. But I was none the wiser. And if it's any consolation to me, the only coward here was him. Born a fool and died a fool with a half-empty bottle in one hand and a pipe still in his mouth. The other hand held a gun.

As I finally reached the edge of the river, which meant I was close by, I stopped and gathered my bearings. I was tired from miles and miles of trekking up hills, walking down rocky trails, and running through woods. I then kneeled over and scooped a handful of fresh water into my palms. My tongue was dry from the summer heat; it was the middle of July.

I then nearly fell into the water, caught off guard by the snapping and cracking noises from behind. It was dark as hell but that didn't stop me from drawing my rifle. It was my father's rifle; I never left home without it.

"Who's there?! I ain't afraid of you, redskin!" I screamed and cocked my gun, my finger firmly on the trigger. I was ready to blow the bastard's head off right there and then.

There was a brief silence before the old man finally showed himself. But he wasn't my old man.

"Drop the gun, boy."

I couldn't point out the dark figure that approached me seemingly unarmed, but I already knew who it was. I recognized the man's rough voice and I remembered the face that bore the scars that haunted me each night. Those scars of war. The savage face of war.

He was my father's friend, and my recruiter.

Slate.

Cornelius Slate.


Author's Note: This concludes chapter one of "The Girl for the Debt"! I hope you all enjoyed the first chapter of our new story! I also want to make note that I thought it would be interesting to write a fanfic from Booker's point of view, compared to my first fanfic, which was written from Elizabeth's POV. And I'm not sure if there've been other fanfics where Booker is the narrator, but nonetheless, I wanted to try my hand at something different this time. Share me your thoughts on what you think! And of course, if there are any inaccuracies, misspellings, and grammatical errors, please bring them to my attention ASAP! And thank you so much again for reading! Please stay tuned for the next chapter! And as always, don't forget to review, follow, and fav! Love you all! I'll see you all next time! :)