Thank you kindly for the review, favs, and follows I received for chapter 1! Here's chapter 2, and I will forewarn you: If you become even more confused as to what is happening, you are perfectly well. Hints are teased out but the mystery only deepens. Enjoy!
The first thought to cross Booker's mind was the question of why he was lying face-down on the ground. It was soon followed by the fact that he had no idea where he even was. Groaning as the world started to come back into focus, he lifted himself up enough to get a view of his surroundings. In front of him was what appeared to be a garden full of greenery and people robed in white muttering to themselves as though praying out loud. "Huh." Booker stood up, checking himself over to ensure he hadn't sustained any injuries from his sudden collapse. As his mind tried to connect the dots and answer his questions, he started walking toward one of the individuals. Perhaps he could glean some information that would point him in the right direction.
"Uh, excuse me? Where am I?"
The man sharply raised his bowed head, turning to regard Booker with a flicker of surprise, or was it alarm? He certainly didn't seem all too eager to answer his question, but the seconds that slid by turned to prove that initial assumption about the man false. "Heaven, my friend." He smiled warmly at the detective. We ain't buddies yet Booker thought derisively. "Or as close as we'll see 'til Judgment Day."
The detective had several replies waiting on his lips but decided that the reward for sharing his thoughts was lesser than the consequence of being revealed to be more of a stranger than he already was. Instead he walked away, shaking his head ever so slightly. As he neared the edge of the garden, he noticed for the first time that the ground was moving – not like an earthquake, but the faintest of moving up-and-down type of sensation. What the hell…
He pushed the white double doors in front of him open to reveal a sight he couldn't quite understand. He was standing on one of many areas with buildings that were floating in the sky. "A floating city in the sky…" he murmured, something clicking in the back of his mind. He was here on a mission. 'Bring the girl and wipe away the debt.' It made sense. He had come here to save a girl named Elizabeth and take her to New York in order to wipe clean his slate. Can't believe I forgot something as important as that. Who knows how much time I've lost by lying around. He waited for the garden to connect with the next platform before moving ahead. The sooner he got the girl and left the city, the better off everything would be. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he felt the urgency to finish the job quickly, but he understood that this city was already a place he wasn't fit to be in.
It didn't take him long to enter the fairgrounds for the 1912 Columbia Raffle and Fair, although he was a bit perplexed as to the telegram he had received before entering. He had read it aloud to himself, wondering if there had been some special meaning to it. "'DeWitt STOP. Do not alert Comstock to your presence STOP. Whatever you do, do not pick #77 STOP. Lutece.' What the…?" He shook his head and pocketed the telegram. Perhaps he'd find his answer at the raffle, should he decide to go. The other sights and activities were interesting enough, although they hardly detracted him from his main purpose in the city. He had to admit, though: the shooting games proved themselves to be worth a go. And the vigors? Whatever the hell those were, they seemed to display unique abilities that'd be great in a pinch. Not that I'm hoping to fight anyone. Seems to me that these folks haven't seen fights since they'd been here, and I aim to keep it that way. All I need is to find the girl and leave.
After a short walk he stumbled upon a girl giving free samples of a vigor called Possession. Whatever it was, it was free, and he wasn't complaining. If it'd help him navigate the city, all the better. "Gimme one of those." The girl handed him the bottle. Opening and taking a swig from it, Booker watched as his vision swam, the vendor turning into a ghostly green apparition, whispering about people being all ears. It cleared up soon enough but left Booker wondering if perhaps drinking the vigors wasn't the best idea. It didn't matter now, he supposed.
The ticket-taker automaton nearby guarded the path he needed to take. A quick use of the new vigor seemed to provide him a way through. However, it wasn't smooth sailing for him yet. On the other side stood a couple, one wearing a chalkboard with tally marks for heads and the other holding a rather expensive-looking plate.
"Heads?" asked the man.
"Or tails?" asked the female.
"Come on, let me through. I don't have time for this."
The first response he got was the man flipping him a coin. Catching it in his hand, he looked down at it before looking back at the pair.
"Heads?"
"Or tails?"
"Uh… heads, I guess." The coin flipped in the air before landing on the plate, heads face-up.
"Told you," the male responded as the woman scoffed lightly with an 'hmm' and marked another tally under heads. Booker honestly didn't see the point to any of it but kept his mouth shut. "I never find that as satisfying as I'd imagined."
The woman tilted the man's chin upward as the pair started to walk off to the side. "Chin up." The detective decided it'd be better to leave the pair alone and continue onward; if he was going to run into strange people, he'd better bypass them as quickly as was allowable.
After the fairgrounds, Booker continued to make his way toward Monument Island where the girl was being kept. It seemed odd they'd lock her up to protect her from this False Shepherd as evidenced by several signs. 'The False Shepherd seeks only to lead our Lamb astray.' Were these people really scared of one man? He noted the signage everywhere, proclaiming the Lamb as special and needing of protection. He snorted as he passed them. Crazies existed everywhere you went, even in a floating city in the sky.
It was made apparent to Booker that he'd have to cross into the raffle square itself to get closer to the angel statue on Monument Island once he hit a roadblock guarded by a few policemen; didn't these people understand the purpose of streets being open to the public? The singing of the crowd in the raffle square did little to sway his opinion either. As he stepped into the crowd with hope that he could exit through the gate opposite him, he was met with a roadblock when a rather insistent woman holding a bucket of baseballs with numbers written on them called out to him to come closer. Sighing and wishing things would actually go his way for once, he stepped closer. "Wouldn't you like a ball?" the girl asked, smiling.
"Sorry, no sale."
"Silly, there's never a charge for the raffle. You been sleeping under a rock?" She held the bucket a little higher, an indication that she would not be leaving him alone until he picked a damn ball.
Reaching in, he pulled out one marked with the number 77. Booker turned his hand to show the number to the girl, hoping it'd get her off his back. He didn't even want to participate in this raffle, not to mention the telegram that expressly warned him not to pick that number. He had the worst luck, it seemed.
The girl remained unperturbed by Booker's inner musings. "Seventy-seven? That's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you." She gave him a wink before sauntering off.
The man that had been standing on the stage took that moment to address the crowd, filled with mirth Booker hoped wasn't going to follow him throughout the city. "Bring me the bowl!" he proclaimed, gesturing off to the side of the stage. "Is that not the prettiest young white girl in all of Columbia?" He laughed at his own comment before dipping his hand into the bowl to draw the winning number. Booker prayed he'd be free to leave this area after the number was called. It would be a cruel trick of fate if his number was pulled, telegram or not… "All right then! The winning number is… seventy-seven." Shit.
"Over here! Over here! He's the winner!" That girl needed a lesson on learning not to rat out people in a crowd. Now everyone's eyes were on him, including the man's on stage.
"Number seventy-seven, come and claim your prize! First throw!" The man proclaimed, motioning to the curtains as the crowd chanted 'first throw' like it was scripted. The curtains were pulled back to show a white man and a black woman tied separately with rope, an assortment of caricatures surrounding them while the man and crowd began taunting the pair with a horrible rendition of the typical marriage song. It was enough to make Booker's blood boil. It didn't matter who was up there; all of this was a sick joke. Like hell he was going to throw a baseball at a couple being jeered at. Gripping the baseball tighter, he ignored the man's taunting, jaded words as he aimed his throw at him. Before he could launch it from his hand, an arm grabbed his own roughly. It didn't take Booker more than a second to realize it was a policeman. Things were turning out rather peachy.
"What are you thinking, son, trying to throw at Mr. Fink?" The policeman growled out, checking the back of his hand for a moment before fixing his stare on him. Right, the False Shepherd nonsense.
"Looks like some members of our flock are serpents!" declared Mr. Fink, eyeing Booker cautiously from his spot on the stage. "And we ain't lettin' no serpents into our flock, now are we? We know how to handle back-stabbing serpents like you, oh ho, indeed we do. Show him what we got planned, boys!"
Booker turned his head, watching as another policeman moved in closer, holding a bladed weapon that was inching closer to his face. There was no time to think, only room to act. Tossing the baseball up in his restrained arm, he freed himself to send one of the men's faces into the weapon, watching it dig into the skin like slicing cake. It was gruesome but it wasn't anything Booker hadn't seen before in his life, and he couldn't think about these travesties. Not here, not now. It was kill or be killed. He went for the skyhook, pulling it free and turning on the others, eliminating them as quickly and efficiently as possible. He didn't enjoy it, but when it was about survival, it was all about drawing first instead of not drawing at all.
A new vigor and several battles with policemen later, Booker found himself entering a restaurant called 'The Blue Ribbon.' A cursory sweep of the interior showed him no threats, only a man passed out drunk and the couple who had forced him to flip a coin earlier. The only thought he could care to give them was one of distrust.
"We have company," the male spoke aloud, scrubbing down the bar countertop as though it was the most natural thing in the world to do, let alone ignore the fact that all of Columbia was currently searching for the detective.
"We do indeed," replied the female, appearing from the kitchen doorway with a tray and a yellow-glowing liquid in a bottle.
The whole scene made Booker feel uncomfortable, in the defensive way. "Why are you following me?"
"We were already here," supplied the female in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Why are you following us?"
"I-" Booker began when the female abruptly cut him off.
"Aperitif?"
"You'll find that happy in a pinch," the male added.
"The difference between life and death."
Booker crossed the room to approach the woman, looking at the drink with a mixture of disdain and apprehension. Were they suggesting that this concoction could help protect him in the fighting that was sure to follow him around the city? Well, it beats getting shot at. The detective downed the liquid, feeling a burning sensation fall down his throat. As quickly as it came it disappeared, leaving no trace. "What was that?"
"Hmm. Surprising," remarked the woman.
"Surprising that it worked?" questioned the man.
"Surprising that it didn't kill him."
"But a magnetic-propulsive field around one's body can come in handy."
"If it doesn't kill you," retorted the woman.
"A fair point," acquiesced the man.
These people are crazy. Once the woman had moved away from the only exit in the place, Booker left, not taking a second glance behind him, his mind focused on getting to the girl.
Rosalind watched the detective disappear through the other door in the kitchen before letting loose a quiet sigh. "This one is quite different from the others."
Her twin, Robert, stopped his cleaning. "Well, he is the result of paradoxical corrections. One can never be sure the result."
"So you tell me, brother." She crossed over and set the platter on the countertop. "You ensured that your thought experiment was important, and while I can agree to that, I cannot agree to our meddling in the man's affairs yet again."
"We must ensure the events are the same even if the man is not. It is no different than before, dear sister. We simply repeat the experiment one last time."
"In order to protect the best outcome we had achieved previously," Rosalind added, glancing toward the windows looking out onto the city. "But it will not end the same, you do realize."
Robert's carefully neutral face faltered a sliver. "You do not have to remind me. All we can do is lead and hope the rest will follow."
"Hope is not scientific, yet I must agree. There is little else to be done." She straightened herself up and turned to her twin. "Shall we then?"
"But of course."
In the blink of an eye, the twins disappeared.
Booker wasn't sure he'd ever get the hang of using the sky-lines to move from point A to point B, but at least it provided him with a means to getting to Monument Island, so he wasn't complaining, although the police seemed keen to prevent him from getting there regardless of how many the man had disposed of earlier. He was preparing himself for a large fight with a group of policemen standing ready to fire at him from a building he was passing when a booming voice commanded, "Stand down!" The detective was amazed they so readily abandoned any thoughts on him and instead turned to kneel toward the open doors. Apparently everyone in the city was crazy.
Landing on the ground and absorbing the shock of the impact (it hurt like hell every time), Booker wandered through the men, his hand still on the trigger of his pistol should any one of them go for their weapons. He managed to make it inside the building without incident just to be confronted with the image of the Prophet. So that's why he mused, snorting as he moved forward to pull the lever for the elevator. It was then that the image decided to start speaking.
"I know why you've come, False Shepherd. I see every sin that blackens your soul. Wounded Knee. The Pinkertons. The drinking and the gambling. And, of course, Anna. And now, to repay a debt, you've come for my lamb. But not all debts can be repaid, Booker."
The detective had to stop himself from laughing. Him, the False Shepherd? According to their propaganda he should have the initials 'AD' carved into the backside of his right hand. All he could see was the smooth skin staring back at him…
He was walking down a street, hearing the laughter of people as they hurried to the raffle. For a city in the sky, Columbia was sure a bustling place. As he turned the corner, he could hear a policeman excitedly telling his comrade about a new weapon called a skyhook that they could use to rid themselves of the Vox, whoever they were. It was what was behind them down the road that gave him pause. A large sign declared, 'You shall know the False Shepherd by his mark!' Raising his right hand and spreading his fingers out, he looked from his hand to the sign. 'AD' was carved into the back of his hand, the same as the poster. "What the…?"
Booker wiped beneath his nose, pulling his fingers back to see blood. "… the hell…?" he murmured, shocked. Where did that vision even come from? He didn't have any mark on his hand, a quick glance at his hand told him as much. Regardless, he couldn't let this so-called Prophet get the upper hand on him. "You don't know me, pal!" he shouted, hoping his tone carried what his thoughts could not. Pull yourself together, Booker. This ain't no time to be going crazy.
"Prophecy is my business, Mr. DeWitt, as blood is yours. Do you know why these men will die for me? Because I have seen the future in their glory, and hence they are content. What brought you to Columbia, Booker? 'Bring us the girl and wipe away the debt'? This will end in blood, DeWitt. But then again, it always does with you, doesn't it? It always ends in blood."
The elevator was making a monumental task for itself; how long did it take the damn thing to reach the second level? Booker was more eager than ever to find the girl and leave this all behind him. He wasn't sure how or why Comstock knew about his past but he wasn't about to let the man see his backside. There were more than enough regrets littering his past to remind Booker nothing came out of dwelling on it. "I ain't taking shit from you."
There was a moment's silence, and Booker thought he had put an end to the conversation. It was only when he could finally step out of the elevator that Comstock spoke again.
"You've come to lead my lamb astray, but thy crook is bent and thy path is twisted. Go back to the Sodom from which you came! Go back!" An explosion rocked the pathway, throwing Booker against the wall. Well, it certainly looked like the man wasn't going to make the rest of the trip to Monument Island easy. Looking through the hole created, he could make out a zeppelin preparing to leave. Catching a free ride didn't seem to be a bad idea, and it could give him some much needed cover. Booker took a running leap, letting his skyhook latch onto one of the metal hooks adorning the wings. It took little work to get rid of the couple of soldiers shooting at him, despite how uncomfortable it was to be hanging in mid-air with one arm desperately ensuring he wouldn't fall to his death. The control room wasn't but a step away from there, and all he saw inside was one white-robed woman praying to a picture of the Prophet in a shrine. She paid him no attention and he likewise did the same. "Okay, I'm sure I can get this thing going." He started fiddling with the controls, trying to figure out what each part did when a rather loud alarm sounded outside. Looking up, he saw Comstock standing on a gunboat, looking straight back at him. Well, damn. Maybe he could just shoot the Prophet now and be rid of…
"The Lord forgives everything," declared Comstock, spreading his arms wide. "But I'm just a prophet… so I don't have to. Amen."
Something in his gut told him things were going south fairly quick.
"Amen," concluded the woman behind him. Booker turned just in time to see her light herself on fire, the flames spreading out to engulf the rest of the zeppelin.
"Shit! Gotta get the hell outta here!" He ran for the door, watching the cargo bay doors open. Taking a deep breath, he hoped he'd land on the sky-line below and jumped. It was a mere second later that he felt the ripple of pain up his arm that told him the skyhook had magnetized itself to the sky-line. "That was close. I don't think I'll be getting on one of those for a while."
He let the sky-line carry him forward until he could leap off onto the steps below. A look in front of him told him he'd finally made it to Monument Island. "About time." Glancing around, he was relieved to find no ambush in waiting. It didn't mean he'd let his guard down. Pulling out his pistol, he started walking forward. "Now for the girl."
