AN: Hello, hello again! Firstly I'd like to thank everybody who has stopped by and read/faved/author-alerted and especially reviewed! It's such a treat to hear from people who felt similarly about the whole ending to the game. :) I am striving hard to respect the source material and integrity of the original game...but seriously BookBeth OTP OTP OTP! Your comments and love keep me going!

A shout-out to Bite-of-Biscuit again for putting up with my perverse obsession and lending me her fabbo editing talents.

This chapter is about half the length of the first one...I apologize about that. HOWEVER! It does contain some heady stuff, and the next one is gonna be one hell of a doozy...probably about the length of the first chapter. So I figured I'd put this up to tide everyone over and give myself a short break.

As a final note, I'd like to remind everybody that I am only writing parts that would change in the game...it's an unfortunate fact of life that I don't have the time or energy to crawl through the entire game, start to finish, to give it a makeover. So, if it seems a bit sudden in comparison to the last chapter...I apologize, but it's how it's gotta be. I highly recommend going to youtube and searching for Bioshock Infinite Cutscenes...there's one crafty fellow that put the WHOLE thing together so it's like watching one giant 3.5 hour movie. 333 Seriously, I owe that guy a basket of muffins.

Enjoy everybody! Love you all!


GUNS FOR THE LADY - DISTRIBUTION PLATFORM

When initiated by the inexperienced, death's process took a long time to complete. Booker had learned that years ago, watching the victims of botched gunshots, burnings, and beatings struggle against the grim reaper's inevitable collection. In his experience, the worst of them all were deaths brought on by a knife. Anyone unlucky enough to fall prey to a blade suffered terribly; unlike a bullet, which burned hot for a moment before a brief numbness set in with shock and unconsciousness, stab wounds wrought breath-stopping pain and bled hard. If the injury wasn't across the throat, it could take any amount of time for a knifed man's life to fade - sometimes blood loss could be tempered for an hour, a day, a week, a month...but nothing could stop the inevitable infection and fever that set in after.

The scenario unfolding behind the glass door of Fink's airship platform would have made Booker shudder if he hadn't seen it countless times in the past. Daisy Fitzroy's body jerked forward, her dark eyes wide as shock, realization, and fury mingled on her face. She stumbled into the glass as the force behind her struck again, reducing whatever howl of pain she was about to unleash to an estranged whimper. The pistol clutched in Daisy's hand dropped to the floor, ricocheting off the boy as he wrenched himself free of her grasp. Booker watched a pair of bloodstains swell and blossom across Daisy's shirt as she toppled to the floor. The child lunged at the wall beside the glass paneled doors and yanked on a lever, causing them to part from the copper seam down the middle. The interior lamps switched on automatically, illuminating the small, connecting space between Fink's office elevator and bridge to the airship dock. The boy was gone before the gears inside the wall stopped turning.

Booker started forward as Daisy mustered the strength to turn her body and reach for her attacker in an instinctual and ultimately futile attempt to retaliate. The woman's breathing was intensely labored and gasping, all of the blood pouring out of her stemming from the two wounds on her back. Her lungs had not been punctured; the natural structure of the ribcage was too closely knit to allow a random, unpracticed stab to penetrate most vital organs. But the damage was done...a sea of red was spreading on the floorboards surrounding Daisy's body. Even with medical treatment, she would bleed out well before the before the sun went down; the placement of the second stabbing was directly on her right kidney.

"Elizabeth..."

Booker raised his eyes from the dying Vox Populai leader to Elizabeth, pale and shaking as she staggered backwards. The horror and disbelief etched on her face was palpable as her widened eyes rolled in every direction, and the dripping pair of scissors in her hand trembled violently. Her face and clothes were covered in a misty spray of red, with blood coating her hands like a macabre pair of gloves.

"Guess it runs in the family..." she said, her voice a misery-filled whisper as she backed away from Daisy's twitching, outstretched fingertips.

The cacophony of gunfire, explosions, and Daisy's gasping breaths disappeared from Booker's ears as he holstered the Paddywacker and slowly held up his hands towards her.

"Elizabeth," he murmured, stepping over Daisy's body. Booker could see from her expression that she couldn't truly hear him. She'd acted on impulse when she climbed through the vent to save the Fink boy, and now that the threat was permanently removed, she was forced to take in what she had done. He gritted his teeth, cursing his total mishandling of the situation and wishing he could spare her from the kill's aftermath. The first one was always the worst because it filled the glass wall that separated the decent from the damned with an irreparable crack. With time, the schism would grow wider and wider, fueled by the pressures of guilt or additional kills until the barrier shattered completely, leaving whatever was left of a person's innocence to be consumed by sin. She didn't deserve to have that kind of tarnish on her soul.

"Hey..." he started, but she tensed and staggered away the moment his fingers brushed over arms. "Whoa, whoa...easy..."

Elizabeth's eyes were moving in and out of focus as they shifted back and forth between her hands and the body on the floor. Booker forced himself to keep his gaze trained on her face and not the scissors still wavering in her trembling hand - she was like a frightened mare, ready to bolt at the slightest additional stress. He reached for her again as gently as he could, trying to get his hands around her shoulders to steady her. She turned away from him then, finally allowing the scissors to drop to the floor with a rattling thud.

"Elizabeth..." His chest filled with sorrow and frustration for Elizabeth as she startled at the sound of the scissors clattering on the floor. The noise propelled her forward into a manic flight from the scene, her slender frame vanishing between the parted, heavy wooden doors on the other side of the platform entrance.

Booker seized the long, steel plated handles on the doors, feeling his muscles strain as he pried the massive weights open. By the time he was able to get through and look up, Elizabeth was on the opposite side of the brass and carpet lined bridge between the docking pier and the First Lady airship. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the wooden, cage-like blinds on the windows and mingled with the blue-green glow emanating from the oversized bell jar lamps lining the walls, casting Elizabeth as dark, graceful silhouette.

There was nothing to do but follow her at the fastest pace he could muster. Booker was grateful that she wasn't running from him this time, and when she reached the very end of the corridor she crossed the open door of the First Lady without hesitation. A burst of renewed anger and worry was released in his bloodstream as she disappeared from his sight again. He knew that she would struggle, if not outright refuse, to justify her actions. As far as he was concerned, Elizabeth had done what was needed to spare a child from a raving fanatic's wrath and delivered the inevitable end to Daisy Fitzroy's life. Sudden deaths were always destined for people like her, when the ideals driving their once-noble movement for change transformed them into a demon with the same characteristics of the ones they were claiming to exorcise. But the branded letters on the back of Booker's right hand began to burn and itch as he recalled the kind of things regret and shock made people do to punish themselves in the wake of their actions.

He would see her through this, whatever it took.

Booker forced himself to slow his pace as he skidded through the open door of the First Lady. Fortunately the main deck seemed to be abandoned, its velvet and brass grandeur draped in tattered sheets the Vox Populai used to create a makeshift hospital. The four cots that had sat in the center of the gondola yesterday had either been crammed against the bookshelf or overturned to create a barrier against an armed onslaught. Bits of white and red stuffing drifted through the air like dust mites around the ruined, bullet-riddled mattresses settled over the bodies that hid behind them.

Booker ignored the slaughter, looking in the direction he'd seen Elizabeth turn when she'd boarded the airship. A pair of high, polished brass gilded doors stood closed, blocking the gondola's main room from the private parlor in the back of the deck. He crossed over to them, picking his way across the fallen books and shattered debris of flower vases and sconce glass. Beyond the heavy doors he could hear Elizabeth, her breathing sporadic with half-stifled sobbing as she moved around the room.

Booker raised a fist and knocked hard on the smooth, gleaming surface. "Hey...Elizabeth, I think you should talk to me..."

He cursed under his breath when she didn't reply or open the door, and he raked a hand through his hair as his mind scrambled for something to tell her. But what helpful thing was there to say? Don't think about it? Even if she managed to distract herself during the day she would dream about it at night. Take as long a bath as she needed? A baptism from the fucking Pope wouldn't cleanse the overwhelming guilt she would feel for the rest of her life...or the memories of Daisy's blood covering her hands and the sounds of her dying breaths.

Booker closed his eyes and knocked again, harder this time. His fist hung in the air before it fell against the door with a deadened thud, and he leaned his forehead against it. "I know how this feels...Elizabeth, open the door."

There was a slam somewhere within, then quiet. He tried to turn the doorknob, unsurprised when it didn't budge an inch. "Damnit," he growled, straining his ears to pick up some hint of what she was doing.

When a few minutes passed and nothing changed, Booker turned away from the doors and returned to the airship's main entry hatch. Once it was pulled shut and the turn-wheel locked, he crossed the expanse of the gondola to the navigation deck. The sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floors seemed unnaturally loud as he walked up to the trio of small steps that led to the elevated platform where the red velvet pilot's chair and the control panel sat. He raised his eyes to observe the world beyond the spread of windows above the helm and found an endless blur of pale gray smoke rising up from the destruction in the factory buildings below the pier. In the distance were the faintest outlines of Columbia's structures beyond Finkton Manufacturing and the occasional, murky shape of a transporter platform.

Booker braced his hands at the base of the number-entry levers that powered the coordinate controls and leaned his weight on his arms, hanging his head. He didn't know when he'd lost control of the situation but it was far too late to get it back. His heart was drowning in a hot, inescapable cocktail of hatred for Columbia, Daisy Fitzroy, Comstock, his unnamed employer and himself. He'd spent most of his life inflicting injustices on thousands of innocent people…the overworked and impoverished factory workers of Portland, the natives of Wounded Knee…but none of it affected him as deeply as the days he'd spent with Elizabeth.

Booker had never felt much guilt over telling lies to make his job go easier, and he'd told her everything she'd wanted to hear from the time they washed up on the artificial beach of Battleship Bay to the moment she called him out on it all the first time they'd boarded the First Lady. Now, he was consumed with it, wishing he could go back and do it all again. Before she had trusted him simply because she could…but afterwards? She had more choices than she gave herself credit for. She was smart and resourceful enough to disappear forever if she wanted to, yet she still relied on him to take her away from Columbia and keep her safe from Comstock, his brainwashed flunkies, and the Songbird. It was like some demented test put before him by God, just to see what he would ultimately do with her. Others would have been quick to call her choices foolish naiveté, but it was far more than that. The belief she had in him shone through her wide, cerulean blue eyes every moment she looked at him.

Booker raised his head as the image of her smiling face came to mind, accompanied by the joyful, almost musical sound of her laughter. It had been nearly two decades since he felt the desire to sacrifice his own interests to make someone else happy. All hope for himself and life had passed out of him when Annabelle and their daughter had died, and now it had returned in the shape of a beautiful, free-willed, intelligent young woman who could literally pull reality apart at the seams. Stranger still was the fact that he didn't mind they could never be anything beyond what they were now…reminding him of what it felt like to care for someone would be enough.

"Fuck it all," Booker muttered as he took hold of the levers and began to push and pull them to dial in the appropriate numbers – north forty-eight by two thirty-four east. It didn't matter what happened to him now. He would get this one thing right.

The soft click of footsteps behind him brought Booker's thoughts back to the present. Elizabeth had emerged from the parlor at last, but the sight of her stopped his breath. She'd stripped off her ruined clothes and put on a cobalt blue velvet day-gown that fell to her ankles with a single flounce on the side that revealed a mischievous peek of lace trimmed underskirts beneath it. Covering her arms was a cropped jacket of the same material with long, tight sleeves and pale cuffs that folded back over her wrists. The white, corseted bodice was low cut and square, the stays trimmed with black silk ribbons that outlined the elegant curves of her torso and pushed her breasts high.

Booker swallowed hard – clutched in her hand was the severed length of her hair, still tied in the whimsical blue ribbon. What remained of it fanned around her head in a choppy bob, the shining, dark brown locks a few inches shorter at the base of her skull where the scissors had cut.

"Elizabeth…" he started as the ribbon and hair fell away from her hand and onto the floor. Washed of all the blood and soot from the day's mayhem, there was nothing to hide the bleak anguish that clung to her like a second skin.

"This…is all they had," she said, raising her arms in a defeated shrug, as if she needed to excuse herself for pilfering a chiffonier.

"Listen..."

"How do you do it?" she asked suddenly, her arms falling limply to her sides as she stared at a fixed spot off to the side.

"Do what?"

"Forget. How do you…wash away the things you've done?"

The question nearly broke his heart as she wrapped her arms around herself, as she had in Shantytown when she'd seen the vandalized poster that had damned her as a reason for the Vox Populai's suffering. Booker clenched and unclenched his fists as he battled the urge to take her in his arms and pull her tightly against him. Although he'd expected her to ask that question, he still wasn't able to think of anything to say that could dispel her grief. All he could do was be truthful…now, until they parted ways.

"You don't. You just…learn to live with it."

He watched Elizabeth's eyebrows draw together in a sorrowful knit as she hung her head lower, her hair to falling over her eyes like a curtain. Christ, how he hated the world in that moment. Booker silently called down a variety of curses on himself as he stepped closer to her and raised his hands. He pushed the knowledge that he would heartily regret what he was about to do aside and laid his palms across her shoulders. With the caution of a priest handling a holy relic, he gently pulled her into an embrace, relieved that she was didn't resist and seemed receptive to the advance. He felt her shift her arms away from her body, her hands coming up and gripping the lapels on his vest as she'd done in the streets of Shantytown. She tucked her head in the crook of his neck and heaved a deep, trembling breath as she leaned heavily against him.

Booker's eyes lulled shut as he dropped one hand around the small of her back and cupped the nape of her neck with the other. Her body was supple and plush against his – a woman's body, more of one he initially gave her credit for now that most of it was on display in that dress. The softness of her breasts made his head go light and his heartbeat heavy, and for a moment he marveled at how well she fit in his arm; her long, delicate torso and curving waist were the perfect complement to the hard rigidness in his build. The sole awkwardness was one he dared not adjust…the narrow barrier his knees created was the only thing preventing her hips from sliding between his legs.

Moments passed. Holding Elizabeth affected him like a night spent with a gin bottle. He felt so completely engulfed in the warm, heady fog that the world outside their stillness seemed nonexistent, and he nearly missed her unhappy whisper.

"I didn't want to kill her..."

" 'Course not," he replied, not unkindly and added, "But you did the right thing...you saved that kid's life."

Booker met her gaze then, removing the hand on the back of her neck and framing it around the side of her face. Her high, aristocratic cheeks were warm and lightly flushed as he gently brushed his thumb over her eyelid, collecting the small tear that had beaded on the raven black lashes.

"Come on, don't cry now," he murmured. "Daisy Fitzroy ain't worth it."

Elizabeth sucked in a breath and nodded, blinking rapidly at the remaining moisture in her eyes. "Thank you," she said, the corners of her mouth turning up in the barest hint of a smile.

Booker felt a rush of heat collect in his face as her eyelashes fluttered down and her head came forward, bringing the downy textures of her hairline against his mouth. The scent of warm, female skin and lavender wafted up his nostrils and caused a violent tremble to move through his legs. The sensation of the baby-fine hair and creamy smoothness of her forehead should have sent him reeling backwards like a man scalded with hot iron, but he'd never been particularly good at resisting temptation. He parted his lips and brushed them downwards, traveling across one elegant brow and to the still-damp corner of her eye. The taste of the stray tear's salt was an exotic opiate to him, her soft intake of breath stoking the high of renewed physical touch. Elizabeth tilted her head upwards then, the innocent, rose-colored bow of her mouth an offering his lust-riddled mind was too weak to refuse. Raw desire saturated his entire being when his lips finally touched the petal-softness, and he tightened his hold around her waist. A quiet, feminine sound emitted from her throat as one of her hands drifted away from his chest and hovered somewhere beside their faces. The feather-light scrape of her fingertips against his jawline sent sparks through his pores and shooting down to his gut.

Booker couldn't suppress a groan when she gripped his shoulder, each erratic puff of breath a strike of heat on his face. Using the hand still on her face, he gently urged her to tilt her head, his heartbeat a thunderous rhythm inside his chest as she immediately followed, leaning more weight into his fingers. He used the heel of his palm to gently push the tight clutch where the line of her jaw connected to her head, making the seam of her lips shift as he finally brushed his tongue over the plush surface. She tensed and leaned even harder against him, finally forcing him to widen his stance and allow her body to fully mold against his. Booker's knees buckled violently when her hips pressed hard against his and turned his blood to fiery, undiluted Devil's Kiss. He caught her lower lip in a brief nibble and when they parted, he dipped his tongue inside her mouth. He could taste hints of the caramel apple she'd eaten earlier, mixed with her natural ambrosial taste.

"Booker!" she gasped against his mouth, clutching fistfuls of his vest's fabric as she tentatively stroked her tongue over his. For a few scalding seconds he slanted his mouth over hers and kissed even harder as she let out a high-pitched moan, her body arching even deeper into his arms.

Her sweet, ardent movements centered his thoughts on the tiny, barely-aware part of Booker's brain. He ripped his mouth away from hers and swore violently, practically shoving her out of his arms. He turned away from her and slammed a fist down hard on the polished countertop of the helm. Time passed at a lethal slowness, punctuated with the sounds of the impassioned friction of their breathing.

Holy Christ. What the hell had he been thinking? She had every right to clout him over the head with a wrench again, and shove his unconscious body out of the zepplin. Every day he seemed to find a new level to stoop to, but a going to a hair's breadth of sexual deviancy? Unacceptable. He'd just robbed her of an experience that should have been beautiful for her, in some French park and with a much younger man, with the blood, death, and destruction that surrounded them a fading memory. The hot, sweet storm he'd been swept up in had turned to a frigid sea of self-hatred, and it took ages to calm himself enough to speak.

"I'm sorry," he growled through clenched teeth. "God damnit, I shouldn't have done that."

"Booker," she said, taking a step towards him and raising her hands. "I…"

"Don't," he said, more roughly than he intended to as he moved out of her reach. He kept his eyes firmly planted on the navigation panel, holding up a hand in the universal gesture for stop. "What just happened...can't...won't ever happen again."

"Why?"

The simple word was filled with innocence, stubbornness, frustration...it devastated Booker even more than her distress upon killing Daisy. Because he couldn't stop his heart from leaping for joy as it was filled with the foolish hope that Elizabeth would want to be with him, that there was a possibility he would know happiness again. He fought the notion hard, forcing it into some dark place in his heart to never be examined again. She was young and had no experience whatsoever with carnal lusts. Any desire she felt for him was an illusion or a product of their adrenaline-fueled time together. Whereas his feelings for her were nothing more than his body's rebellion against his long, self-imposed abstinence...a lecherous, aging man's fantasy.

"Booker...these coordinates..."

Booker forced himself to look at Elizabeth as her attention settled on the navigation equipment. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes heavy lidded, and her lips reddened as her breasts swelled above the hemline of her corset with her breathing. He winced and looked away again, his mind barely registering the airy, rapid-paced flute melody coming from somewhere in the room bend them. She looked every bit as handled as a whore passing a group of sailors on shore-leave. What a piece of work he was...

"These coordinates aren't to New York..." she whispered, her tone quivering with disbelief. "They're for Par-"

The statement was abruptly cut off when the air outside was filled with the Songbird's haunting screech. Booker cursed as the airship was struck, his body thrown hard against the control panel.

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no!"

Booker looked up in time to see the mechanical terror swoop ahead of them, it's hulking, grotesque body and leather-clad wings fit for a creature of Hell. Its dark, hideous form faded into the smog and buildings ahead as he forced himself back onto his feet. Elizabeth had already pulled herself up from the floor, her face pale with terror and dread.

"Damnit! Come on, you gotta help me find a way to make this thing go faster."

"There has to be some sort of throttle or a thruster of some kind!" she exclaimed, frantically running her hands over the helm's counter surface as she looked at the coordinates lever on the navigation dial.

Booker glanced out the window and saw the Songbird had circled around and was flying directly at them, the eyes a pair of hellish red glows as it unleashed a second, ear-piercing shriek.

"Do you know what that looks like!?"

"I don't know!"

"Help me find it!"

Too late. The Songbird landed on the front of the zeppelin, one huge, taloned hand piercing the royal purple envelope while the other ripped the bronze figurehead of Lady Comstock away. The glass windows shattered and Elizabeth was thrown backwards as the Songbird threw its weight downwards, pulling the entire airship into a barrel role with it. Booker felt his stomach vanish when his feet left the floor and everything that wasn't nailed to the floor went airborne. Books, vases, lamps, shards of glass, crates, and the red velvet chair bounced around his vision as he searched for Elizabeth. She was floating a few feet beside him, her arms flailing around in desperate search of something solid to grab onto.

"Elizabeth! Hang on to something!" he shouted as loudly as he could as his body hit the gondola ceiling. Something cold and oddly shaped connected with the back of his head, causing Booker's vision to blur as he was thrown back down to the floor. There was a defeating crash that shook the world violently, and all he could see was Elizabeth's unconscious form lying just out of his reach before darkness swallowed him whole.


AN: :D Woof that was hot. The next one will be even hotter *winkwink*