Booker DeWitt cursed loudly as he dropped his broadsider pistol when the chair swung about; the red velvet was comfortable, the armrests hand carved and elegant, it would have been the perfect throne if he wasn't shackled to it and about to explode. He gritted his teeth as the building shook: "What kind of hellish lighthouse is this? What maniac thought this up?" He yelled, just as he finished his sentence an automated voice dictated; "ascension", and the pilgrim rocket erupted into the sky. Booker stared out the window, calm now, his hands were still bound to the armrests, he couldn't do anything now but enjoy the ride. As the rocket shot upwards the bindings were released.

"5000 feet." Stated the machine.

Booker relaxed somewhat and reached into his vest, pulling out a pack of Old Gold's, flipping it on it's side he gently extracted a single cigarette, replacing the pack carefully and taking out a box of matches. Even in a shaky rocket he took his time to appreciate the cigarette's smell, and if this was going to be the last one he ever enjoyed he was determined to enjoy it to its fullest. Old Gold's had been given to him in the military, back then it was his tobacco rations, now it was all he smoked. Just as the machine announced 10,000 feet, DeWitt struck his match lit his cigarette and inhaled, the nicotine entering his bloodstream instantly, and very, very, pleasantly.

He was surprised at how still the air in the little shuttle was, despite the shaking of the pod itself, the match had lit with ease and hadn't gone out.

"Sturdy construction, who knows, it might all work out." He said to himself calmly, taking another puff. The cigarette was halfway through when the voice announced an altitude of 15,000 feet. Booker watched calmly as he shot into a cloud, the lightning storm receding beneath him. Another puff.

"Hallelujah!" he heard, and as he shot above cloud level his eyes widened, he dropped his cigarette to the compartment floor and stared blankly at the scene before him. A seemingly endless archipelago of floating islands, each one covered in buildings, not a single space was unused, and it was all connected, by rails, skylines, bridges. Now he knew what had caused the sky to glow red when he struck those three bells at the lighthouse, but this was beyond anything he'd imagined; a true floating city. He couldn't help but admire the architecture, everything was clean, cared for, the buildings looked new, the paint all looked fresh, the myriad of flags and posters hanging across the city untarnished and not faded. His eyes jumped from island to island, this must be the size of New York, he concluded. Bigger even! His eyes were inevitably drawn to the massive statue of an angel in the city's centre, beautiful and elegant, greater than anything he'd ever seen. There was no way to deny it that statue alone must have been one of the world's wonders, and this city, the wonder of the universe! Then his eyes were treated to a peculiar sight; freight crates shot by his window along a rail line, chaperoned on either side by men riding along on some kind of strange hooked glove and… carrying very big guns. He didn't have time to get a good look, but those looked like shotguns, big ones. It was a logical choice if they ever had to use them while riding those lines he concluded, but this place looked like utopia, not a city that was prone to violence.

Still… where there's guns, there's trouble. I wonder if capital punishment here involves getting kicked out of town, he thought with a smile.

Finally his little shuttle landed, he felt almost helpless as the machine descended down a vertical shaft. Some religious indoctrination was chiseled into the walls of the shaft, but Booker didn't pay attention to that, his mind was thinking of opportunity… and his mission. Booker pulled the little chest from inside his vest and opened it, studying the contents closely, there was a note detailing his instructions, various photos, a key, and a brown sheepskin bag. He gathered the photos and put them into his inside pocket, beside the Old Gold's, then opened the bag, inside was a small fortune. 300 american silver dollars. He couldn't believe his eyes! He smiled wildly carefully taking out some of the money and checking if it was really silver; these stopped getting minted back in the 1800's! He grinned to himself, then carefully, realizing his journey might be at an end soon, he split up the money between his pockets, a compartment in his vest, and a hefty sum still in the pouch which he tied to his belt. Double checking that the box was empty he pried of the nameplate so it couldn't be traced back to him and left it, knowing lugging the thing around was pointless.

He thought to himself, why go back, why not stay here? I've got money, I have skills, I'm good with a bloody gun, and it's not like the mafia's going to come looking for me at 20'000 feet! He said out loud, laughing. Then he remembered the lighthouse, the dead man in the chair, a bullet through his forehead. DeWitt's expression darkened, he had to complete his mission regardless, then he could take his reward and come back here.

As the shuttle finally settled and the compartment door opened Booker DeWitt stepped out confidently, if slightly off-balance, he adjusted his vest, made sure the money in his pocket's wouldn't fall out or make noise, and walked forward carefully. This wasn't the first time he was tasked with finding someone, and the best way to blend in is to believe that you belong. He marched into a huge foyer and into… "A cathedral?" Booker whispered under his breath, it was massive, the stained glass windows were immensely detailed, the vaulted ceilings and endless numbers of candles… He kept walking forward and stepped into a puddle. Surprised he looked down, and noticed that the entire place was flooded. At first he panicked. Then he saw a priest in the far corner, standing calmly head down as if in prayer. DeWitt realized it must be holy water, not a flood, and crossed himself, then marched into the water, straight through the atrium and down a spiraling staircase, down which water also cascaded like a waterfall.

At the bottom was another hall, also flooded, candles floating along the water's surface as priests, numbered in the tens maybe in the hundreds all marched to a great portal on the far end. Strangely, the aisle into which he emerged was empty, he strode forward alone.

"A miracle town full of bloody fanatics." He grumbled, cursing the loss of his gun right now, feeling horribly naked. Booker reached the portal, his boots full of water now, the icy water was up to his hips, and he was terribly glad the photos were in his breast pocket, he'd need those yet. and pushed through the crowd of priests, trying his utmost to look intimidating, religious fanatics always made him feel uneasy, you could never predict what they would do next, and whether being peaceful was part of their oaths.

Once DeWitt finally reached the front of the crowd he was greeted with a strangely familiar face, he couldn't put his finger on it, but the undoubtedly "venerable sir something-or-other" looked incredibly familiar. Seeing DeWitt's ragged exterior the man called out.

"Clear a path my brothers! We have a new man among us!"

Booker had no doubt this was about him, he cringed as the priest came at him and pulled him from the crowd of worshippers; "Look pal I'm not here to cause trouble, I just want to get into the city alright? So how about you just step out of my way and we part friends?" DeWitt asked, hopefully.

"The only way into the great city of Columbia is through redemption! Convert brother! Let yourself be baptized in the holy waters of Columbia! Will you join us brother? Will you let yourself be baptized?" Answered the priest fanatically.

I want my fucking gun. Thought Booker, but knowing his options weren't many he stepped forward and took the priests outstretched hand. Instantly he felt the priest trying to force him under the water, he struggled, desperately trying to pull the photos from his pocket, to save the fragile paper. He succeeded, barely, at keeping his arm, the papers in hand, above water level as the rest of him was forced down. The icy feeling enveloping him felt strangely familiar, his vision blurred, through the clear water he could see a face, it wasn't that of the old priest, but a young girl's face, her eyes an icy blue. He was held under, and the strangest feeling of surrender enveloped him, his hand dropped, sinking, and his eyes began to shut and he imagined the face of the young girl, he'd seen it before. He knew that face, and somehow, he felt very out of place.

The next thing Booker DeWitt knew he was outside, kneeling in a shallow pool of water at the bottom of a staircase. How he'd gotten here, he knew not. Where here was, he didn't know either. DeWitt turned around and saw the exit to the portal behind him leading off into the darkness of the cathedral, its structure towering above him. But he couldn't understand how he'd gotten outside. Still, it didn't matter, he got up, legs shaking, and slowly got to the top of the stairs. On a bench he saw the photographs, his pack of Old Gold's, matches, and a pouch of money sitting untouched. He grabbed both, and found the pouch full again, he checked his pockets, they'd been emptied. He couldn't be sure how much money there'd been initially, but something told him it was all there. Falling onto the bench he rubbed his temples, and noted that his entire upper body was dry, how long was I on my knees he wondered. What the hell is going on? He found one more thing mixed among his belongings; a note, it was small, the paper was old, frayed, as if it'd been through a lot. When he picked it up it was all he could do to keep it from crumbling between his fingers.

"Mr. DeWitt, this is your last chance. Please, do not fail, for both your sakes. R.L."

DeWitt couldn't figure out what in hell the note meant, even though it was addressed to him. He shrugged it off, curious, but oblivious to it's true meaning. A thought ran through his head, the only theory that seemed plausible; his employers were checking up on him. Still, it was cryptic, and who was R.L.?

It was time to do his job, and if there was one thing Booker had learned, it was that the local barkeep was the man who generally knew everything about everybody.