Note: I'm not going to say anything about Infinite, because the only thing we really can say about it is that it's perfect. I guess that counts as saying something, but whatever. Now, in the interests of this making sense, this is not AU. This takes place after the post-credits ending scene, and what we all know happened in that scene (I'm neglecting to state specifically what in the interests of keeping this spoiler-free for the people who haven't beaten the game yet.) In fact, it takes place YEARS after that scene. Also, word of warning: this'll be a bit more sci-fi-y and outlandish than we're used to with Bioshock, even Infinite. But I figured, if Infinite is that clever, subtle subtitle that reveals the true nature of the franchise, the stuff I toss in can't be that ridiculous in context. So, please review and comment. I do not own Bioshock, Bioshock Infinite, nor any affiliated characters.
Stranger in a Strange Land
Chapter 1
Booker DeWitt leaned back in his chair, enjoying several minutes of inactivity and peace. He'd turned to far less riskier cases when he'd found Anna back in her crib, but that didn't mean that the work itself wasn't still draining. It paid well, though. His business had expanded somewhat over the last few years. He didn't have to live out of his office anymore; his office itself was part of a larger building on a floor he owned; he had a secretary to screen potential clients for him. Glancing at the clock, he saw he had maybe twenty minutes before Anna's school let out. He pushed himself out of his chair and was about to go grab his coat when the small phone on his desk rang.
Sighing, he pulled the receiver up to his mouth.
"What is it, Claire?" he asked.
"There's someone here to see you, Mr. DeWitt." Claire said on the other end of the line.
Booker sighed again. She must've known he was done for the day. She'd worked for him long enough to know his routine by now. He'd leave the office for good each day to pick up his daughter.
"Well, tell them to try again tomorrow. You know-"
"He says he works for the government, sir. Says it's urgent and can't wait until tomorrow." She sounded slightly worried. Whoever this man was, he must have been legitimate somehow. Maybe not a G-man, but maybe something else. Something that was just as important, but far less respectable.
"Fine. I can spare five minutes. Get them in here."
Booker hung up and walked to get his coat. He'd just finished pulling it on when his office door opened.
A man wearing a long black leather jacket walked in and closed the door behind him. His face was grizzled, slightly tanned, maybe five years younger than Booker himself. Salt-and-pepper hair with blue eyes. There was a small brown leather pouch attached to the left side of the man's belt, and what looked like a gun holster tucked behind his coat on the right side.
"The G-men relax the dress code?" Booker asked sarcastically.
The man stopped and turned in a circle, eyes sweeping the office.
"I don't work for the government, Mr. DeWitt. I just figured that saying I did would get me time with you." The man replied.
Booker slowly reached for the drawer in his desk where he kept a spare pistol for situations like this when something happened that made him stop dead.
The man's face blurred and disappeared. In its place was a full-covering black mask, made of some material Booker didn't recognize. Small, glowing blue glass pieces covered the man's eyes. Absolutely nothing of the man's face could be seen now.
The man reached down and popped off the latch on the pouch on his belt. A small line of leather, laden with gadgets and tools Booker had never seen before rolled out and down the man's leg, stopping level with his pelvis. The man pulled a small, tubular device from a slot in the line of leather. He pointed it at Booker and pressed a button. A small stick with a little blue light on the end extended out of the tube. It projected a long line of blue light, that swept up and down over Booker.
"What the hell?" Booker asked, holding up a hand to shield his eyes.
The light died and the stick retracted back into the tube. A bit of the tube's top lit up green and made a beeping sound. The man nodded, slid the tube back into place and rolled up the pouch again.
"Well, that's a relief." The man said to himself.
"What is going on here?" Booker asked angrily.
" , I'm here because I need your help." The man thought for a second, then continued. "Actually, I need the help of one of several million other yous that no longer technically exist. So I'm here to ask for your help because you're all I can get. No disrespect intended."
Booker had to wait a minute, thinking about what the man had just said.
"What?" he finally asked. He didn't know what else to say.
"Oh, come on, DeWitt. I know you know what I'm talking about. I know you still remember. You've just chosen to forget, to deny the most fundamental truth of existence that so few people ever even learn. It's sad, really."
The man was close now, at the edge of the other side of the desk.
Booker groaned in sudden pain. Something strange was happening: his head felt like it was splitting in two, and what looked like static was sliding in on the edges of his vision. He felt something wet touch the top of his lip. Reaching beneath his nose, his fingers came away bloody.
"Get out of my office." He said firmly.
The man remained. The mask shifted slightly. The man was probably smiling underneath.
Booker yanked the desk drawer open and tore his spare pistol out of it, pointing the gun at the man's head.
"Get the hell out of my office." He said again.
The man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. He reached into one of his coat pockets, and withdrew a large exquisitely crafted bottle. It was brass, colored blue in some spots, with the head of a bird forming the cap. A small brass coin was laced around the neck of the bottle. The lettering on the coin read 'Murder of Crows.'
The man set the bottle down on the desk. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a plain white business card. He set it down beside the bottle. The only thing on the card was a telephone number.
"Call me. If you start remembering in earnest." The man said.
He turned and walked toward the door, the face he'd had when he walked in reappearing over the mask. "And ?" The man offered. "While it might not quite be you in particular who is needed, some form of you is needed. Sorely. And existence can't afford to be picky."
Note: In case my description of the mysterious guest's gadget pouch is absolute butchery and hard to understand (which it kind of is, admittedly) follow this link watch?v=Amo2AWS8BhQ&list=PL0BD4DDEDB4BC7E80&index=13 and wait for Sherlock to open up his pouch of detective tools. That's how the gadget pouch works. Except it isn't placed directly above the crotch.