Cast: Booker DeWitt, Elizabeth, Jack Harkness, Asura, Dante, Vergil as themselves

They crossed many worlds in search of a place to rest. The terror and sheer wrongness of the Torn World still haunted Booker, and they were not alone. During one of their many attempts at sleep, Elizabeth had been woken by her father crying out in the dead of night. Through his terse monosyllabic grunts, she learned that the alternate future he had witnessed on his way to rescue her from Dr Powell had been waiting for him when he closed his eyes. Other futures too: one where she had died on the operating table, one where he had arrived too late to stop the procedure and she had killed HIM in her rage. And the last one, which she choked back tears of her own upon hearing, in which she had been forced to drown him to right the wrongs. His mind, like Robert Lutece's before him, seemed to be in danger of breaking from the strains of pandimensional travel.

Several moons later, Booker awoke, this time not in panicked flight from the demons of his dreams, but with a deep-seated urge to move on. The fire they'd lit as the sun went down had long been reduced to smoldering tinder and as the waves that crashed upon the shore crept closer, he lifted his slumbering daughter into his arms and walked into the jungle. The fireworks from across the island and distant cheers from the village that was made of plants and floating on the water didn't wake her, nor did his struggles against the greenery that tried to bar their path. Strangely, the deeper he went, the less foliage he found. The sounds of nightlife about him seemed to fade as well, and then, with what seemed hardly any noticeable change at all, he was stumbling along a barren featureless plain.

Suddenly, he found himself in front of a wooden door. He had no memory of seeing it in the distance as he made his way across the bleak terrain; it seemed to have come out of nowhere. He shifted Elizabeth in his arms and struggled to turn the handle...

He was in a bar. It looked nice enough, he supposed (being somewhat of an expert on the subject), but what struck him was the locale. There wasn't a single other thing in sight outside, just a grey tundra, so who in their right mind would build such an establishment here?

His slow methodical musings were interrupted by the man behind the bar, who called over his shoulder, "Will you close the door already? You're lettin' in a draft!" The first man obeyed (first in our estimation, but not his own) and nudged it shut with his foot. "Made it just in time. That's one hell of a storm out there!" the bartender said as he polished a glass.

"What storm?" the man coughed. His voice was ragged from disuse.

"Oh, she may not look like much now, but give it an hour or two and this place'll be fit to burst!" He turned around with a winning smile that quickly faded as he saw what the man was carrying. "What happened?" he asked, already hurrying around towards him for a closer look.

"Nothing happened. She's just sleepin', that's all." the man said. The bartender was next to them now and reaching for the girl's wrist, likely to check her pulse. "I said she's fine." the man growled, jerking her away with a twist of his arms.

"Hey, no need to yell." the bartender said, hands raised in the air placatingly. "If you say she's fine, she's fine. Just take a seat somewhere; I'll be with ya in a second." He went back to the bar and began to mix a pair of drinks as the other man took a look around. The room was sizable but completely empty. If what the bartender had said was true, it'd fill up soon, and he was not in the mood for conversation. He chose one of the far corner tables and hefted the girl over his shoulder, the better to draw up some more chairs. He wasn't hoping for company, quite the opposite. He just wanted a place for her to rest, so he lined several chairs up and eased her down onto them.

The bartender bustled over. "You two look like you could use somethin' warm in you, but this'll have to do." He winked broadly as he set the drinks down. The man tasted them gingerly, first his own, and then the other. He grimaced, but took a sip anyway. His expression of wary disinterest faded to one of comfortable acceptance. "Well, I've had worse." he said and knocked the rest back in one fell swoop. The bartender grinned. "My own personal recipe. I'd tell you what's in it, but you probably wouldn't believe me. Either that or you'd try to kill me. Or make out with me. I've had all three." The man glared at the bartender, who continued grinning, at least until the girl stirred fitfully.

The bartender looked thoughtful, then seemed to make up his mind. "Be right back." he told the man and hurried away. The man leaned back in his chair. He listened to the strange wind rattle against the strange building, and he watched his daughter sleep. Her brow was unfurrowed by care or worry and her lips were parted ever so slightly. He couldn't hold back any longer; he got up, circled around the table, leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. "There. That's for all those times I let you down." he whispered.

The faintest of throat-clearing noises was made behind him. He turned around to find the bartender standing there, a large blue greatcoat hanging over one arm. "Almost forgotten where I'd hidden it." he confided to the man as he rolled it up. "Do you want to give it to her or should I?" The man took the bundle which the bartender was holding out to him. "It's nothing personal. Just don't like it when people get too close to her." he said somewhat sheepishly. The bartender nodded sympathetically and the man crouched down beside her. He carefully lifted up her head and spread the bundled coat under it. The moment the fabric touched her skin, she broke out into a smile and snuggled up to nothing in particular. The man nearly smiled too as he stood up and thanked the bartender. "If you want to pay me back, the least you could do is tell me your name." he replied with another grin.

"Booker. Booker DeWitt. I'll have to ask you to return the favor, I could swear I've seen you someplace before..."

The bartender snapped his fingers. "THAT'S it. You're the guy whose head I almost blew open back in Peking!"

"There's some nights I wish you had." Booker replied matter-of-factly.

"Yeesh. Guess we won't be sitting around the fire swapping war stories when your luggage wakes up."

"She's not luggage; she's my daughter."

"Daughter? Welllll, I guess congratulations are in order!"

"Not exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Booker's response was cut short by the door banging open. A white-haired figure stood in the doorway, his bare torso decorated with strange markings, and his arms made of something that looked an awful lot like gold. He looked about the bar for a while before coming inside and slamming the door shut behind him.