AN: Hey everybody! First off, I apologize for what is going to be a massive textwall here. You don't have to read this, but I'd recommend you do, since, well, it'll aid your understanding of my intentions at the very least, and at best maybe make you want to read the story a little more!

Now then. It's important to note the circumstances under which I first played this game. I had been seeing promotional materials, screenshots, and gameplay trailers on tumblr for weeks, and as soon as the main characters became known to me, I realized I shipped them with the burning of a thousand suns. I didn't know their names, or anything about them— just that Victorian Girl and Hardboiled Detective Guy were really fucking cute together.
I made this known, until someone who had finished the game already came into my askbox and requested that I not post so much shipping stuff, because he was her father and it was making them uncomfortable.
This was the only spoiler regarding the end that I received. I did not know the circumstances by which this came to light in-game; I had no idea about the whole Double Quantum Reacharound with Comstock and Anna and blah blahblah. So, with this in mind, I played the game.
This story is the novelization of what I thought was Bioshock Infinite. For the most part, especially in the beginning, it will read like a direct transcription of the game. A lot of things will remain exactly the same.
Many things will be glaringly different. If you're willing to stick around until then, I'd like to think this will be a satisfying fix-it for what could have been a really brilliant story and turned into a massive disappointment.

Also, I refuse to give Irrational the satisfaction and stop shipping Booker with Elizabeth. I thoroughly intend to fix their relationship so that it isn't squicky, but that happens at the end of the story. The relationship, on the other hand, happens a good deal sooner. It's supposed to be awkward and gross to the audience; that's what we in the business like to call 'dramatic irony'. But nevertheless, you have been warned.

With that said, I hope you'll decide to hang around, and I really hope you'll enjoy the story!

And, last but not least, I'd be nothing without my enthusiastic and extraordinarily talented beta proserpinasacra, who does not have an account here but who you can find on ao3 (or on tumblr as themusicalbaconangel).


"In every man sleeps a prophet,
and when he wakes,
there is a little more evil in the world."
—Emil Cioran

CHAPTER ONE: From Sodom Shall I Lead Thee.

JUNE 29, 1912

Booker had known he should never have taken this job from the moment he'd first seen the portrait.

Of course, complications had been likely right from the start, and he'd been well aware that things would almost certainly go south from the moment Samuels knocked on his door. He'd gotten in deep with some less-than-savory people— not for the first time, and doubtless not for the last— and it had been Samuels that had pulled his ass out of the fire. Booker had never held any misconceptions that the man was doing this out of the goodness of his heart; Samuels was a scumbag through and through, but he had influence where it counted.

Influence, and ulterior motives.

So when Samuels rapped sharply on his door one stormy day at the end of June, Booker was immediately suspicious.

"DeWitt? You in there?"

"Who wants to know?"

As usual, Samuels took this as an invitation and sidled inside, clicking the door shut behind him. He perched himself at the end of Booker's desk and inspected his fingernails studiously.

"It's come to my immediate recollection," he said, in his smarmiest Missouri drawl, "that you owe me a favor."

Booker grunted noncommittally. Samuels's eyes flicked in his direction, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. After several uncomfortable moments in which the two men merely stared at each other with varying degrees of contempt, Booker threw up his hands, slumped back in his chair, and groaned in defeat.

"What do you want, Samuels?"

"Money's always nice."

Booker pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ignore the headache that was already forming. "And barring that?"

"There's a job I've had you in my mind for, DeWitt," Samuels said. "Nice and simple. Hell, you might even enjoy it."

That never boded well, but what the other investigator had in mind was even more repellent than usual. "A little girl? Really, George?"

"She's not all that little," Samuels protested. "Word has it she's lately passed seventeen."

"Uh-huh." What Samuels did with his spare time was his own business, but Booker couldn't help grimacing in distaste.

"C'mon, Book, it's not like that," said Samuels, practically whining outright. "She's special, this one. She—"

"—Has these eyes?"

"She could be—"

"Maybe she's got a voice like a songbird."

Samuels was glaring at him fit to boil a kettle. Booker resisted the rising urge to snicker.

The other man plowed on determinedly. "My associates think she could—"

But Booker was having far too much fun to let this drop. "I know!" he interrupted with obnoxious cheer. "It's her bosom, isn't it?"

"God damn it, DeWitt, would you shut up? There's an eminent likelihood we'll be wanting her on our side. Got some sort of talent, but nobody's sayin' what it is. Don't want to talk about it, sounds like."

Booker was made no less incredulous by this cryptic statement, but he was intrigued. He propped his elbows on his desk and laced his fingers, weighing his options carefully. Finally he said, "I'm listening."

"Good God, I think I'm going to faint. This must be the first time in your life."

"Fuck you."

"Already got a girl for that, Book, unlike certain parties in this room whom I'll have the courtesy not to mention. Hey! This girl, maybe she'll like you, huh?"

Booker gave him a long, cold stare. "You got a point to make, Samuels, or do I have to remove you from my office before someone important comes calling?"

Samuels tsked. "Touchy."

"I will hurt you."

This was hardly a bluff and Samuels knew it; he huffed a sigh and then paused as if searching for the right words. Booker watched him with dispassionate interest.

Finally, Samuels spoke. "This girl you'll be liberating. As I said, there's something strange about her. Got her locked up in some sort of tower, and as word has it, she ain't never stood under the sky in all her life. Nobody gets locked up like that unless people have a powerfulfear of 'em, or an even more powerful want. We'll benefit greatly for having that girl on our side, DeWitt. You bring her back here so's we can speak with her, your life's yours again."

Booker pondered this for a moment. "…And 'we' would mean who, exactly?"

Samuels clasped his hands over his chest in a display of utter offence at Booker's distrust. "Why, New York division as a whole, of course!"

"Samuels, I swear…"

He coughed, glanced away, fidgeted on the edge of the desk. "If pressed, I would not deny the potentiality of, ah, downright ludicrous compensation for her recovery."

"Of course," Booker said, scowling and slouching forward to rest his head against his hands.

Samuels's gaze turned steely. "Not that it ought to matter to you," he said. "Your life's in the balance, my friend. I went to a great deal of effort to save you from that jackal Delaney, and it's high time you took steps to repay that little favor."

"I thought you and Delaney were getting along well these days."

"Oh, that's right," Samuels said coldly, quietly, and Booker was quite jarringly reminded of just why he so distrusted the man. "We are getting along well. Very well, as a matter of fact. And it would be so very easy to let slip to him the fact that his belief in your current status of 'drowned' is sorely mistaken."

Booker's scowl deepened. "I take your point."

"Then you'll go?"

"Do I have to like it?"

"'Course not."

"…Yeah. Yeah, fine, I'll go, you happy?"

All traces of malice vanished from Samuels's demeanor in an instant. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together, and beamed at Booker amiably.

"Wonderful! There'll be a ship waiting for you at Providence Wharf above the Battery at seven-thirty tomorrow evening. Your contact's name is Lutece."

"Do I get any more information than that?"

Samuels rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah. Don't get 'em talking."

He hopped down off Booker's desk and headed for the door. Right before he pulled it shut behind him, he stuck his head back into the office and added cheerfully, "Oh, and whatever you do… don't look down!"