The images were all so real. The fire burned at Bookers throat, sending smoke trough his lungs. He coughed, but it wasn't from the fire. It was from something else deep within him. New York burned. Zeppelins rained down on his city from the sky. Booker awoke abruptly, coughing up water from his lungs. I slowly got to his feet, and he was surrounded by three statues of the founding fathers. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and Thomas Edison. Booker raised an eyebrow, looking downs t the small pond he lay in. "That idiot priest needs to see the difference between baptizing a man and drowning one," He mumbled. He passed through the small orchard, overhearing many people in prayer. Each wore white robes, similar to those the others had on the sewers. "Just 'cause a city flies, don't mean it ain't got it's fair share of fools," Booker mumbled under his breath, "Alright, well... I still had a girl to find."

He followed the bath to two doors, and upon opening them, he as surrounded by the city. It's beautiful sun rays shined on te floating buildings, and he saw a large statue not too far ahead of him. He was in complete awe. It was different than anything he'd ever seen before. He walked down the pavement, looking around at all the stores. The statue was of a man that he wasn't familiar with. He must've been the creator of this entire thing. I ain't ever heard of this before, Booker thought to himself. He walked down further, seeing children playing and men walking by. No one payed him any attention, and he liked that. Being low key was the best at this moment. The city was suspended in a way that he had no earthly idea how.

He decided that if he asked around, it would just make more problems for him. He wasn't the smart type, so having the concept of how this city floated would be impossible. Booker walked into a shop, and there was a small box off to the side with some type of binoculars. He looked into them, watching the small movie play out. It was of an old man, the founder of the city. His name was Zachary Comstock. The movie was of his "words" with an archangel, speaking of this great city. What a loud of bullshit, he thought. When the movie was over, Booker straightened up. He cleared his throat, hoping he didn't have to come in contact with this Comstock fellow.

A young man approached him, straightening his tie. "Hello sir. Need anything?" He asked. Booker shook his head, looking up at the man. He smiled, tipping his hat to him. Booker nodded towards him, and as he walked away, stared with irritation. He left the store, walking back down the road. As he reached an opening, with a beautiful sky out stretching before him, a small boy jogged in front of him. "Telegram for Mr. DeWitt!" He screamed. Booker stared down at him, his eyebrows furrowing. The boy reached up with a paper in his hand. "Telegram for you, Mr." Booker took it from his fragile hands, reading it to himself.

"DeWitt, don't alert Comstock to your presence. Whatever you do, do not pick number 77. Huh?"

He stared at the letter for minutes, then slowly slid it into his pocket. He cleared his throat, still dumbfounded by the note and how the kid knew who he was. He walked down the long pathway, a few gentlemen stopped to say hello to him. He wasn't used to people's friendliness, so it was a surprise. He lived in the most disgusting and rude places in the United States. He kept hearing of some raffle, and had seen signs all around. After seeing a small sign, he started to get curious. Walking up some steps, he arrived at a carnival like setting. There was several booths with games and things to see. Booker walked up to one of the booths, which was a shooting game. There was a carbine lying on the booth, and the man who stood in front of it announced to everyone.

"Step right up and try your hand at the Vox! Destroy them and win extra for shooting the anarchist Daisy Fitzroy!"

Booker snorted, walking silently away. He had no time for games. He passed by another booth, which a heavy set man, and a strange looking box beside him. "Come record your voice in the past and hear it in the future!" The man called. The sign read 'Voxophone.' Booker raised an eyebrow, staring at it. "Come try it, son!" The man said to him. "What the hell's a Voxophone?" The little box stopped recording, and played his voice back to him. He moved back slightly, eyeballing the heavy set man. "Just so were clear.. I ain't payin' for this," He said. The man chuckled. "Just a demonstration, sir." Booker walked off, heading for the exit to this place. It was blocked by a machine. He tried to buy a ticket to pass, but the man said it was no longer selling. Booker grumbled, rolling his eyes. "I don't have time for this," He mumbled.

A woman, who stood a few feet away, called him over. She had a basket of some kind of bottles that were glowing a bright green. "Give me one of those." The woman handed him one, grinning wildly. He sipped it, his curiosity growing. His body began to hum, and a green mist surrounded him. The woman mumbled things under her breath, and then the feeling subsided. He stared at himself for several minutes. There was an informational video that played after he drank it. It was almost immediate, and showed from a projector. "Take control of the mechanical enemy!" It announced, showing a man taking control of a turret with the green mist. He turned, looking over at the vending machine. Walking over to it, he held up his hand towards the machine. The from mist shot from his hands and a ghost floated around it. "Oh, my apologies! It's you, assemblyman Buford! I didn't recognize you!"

The machine allowed the door to open, and Booker stared, dumbfounded. He then smirked, straightening his vest. He passed through the door, the smirk of triumph still on his face. The twins, whom he knew he'd seen before, stood in front of him. The first twin wore a blackboard on his shoulders, and the female twin stood with a plate and a silver eagle on it. Booker had later realized these were the currency here. "Heads or tails?" Both twins asked. Booker stared with eyebrows raised. He leaned forward, picking up the silver eagle. "Tails." He flipped the coin and it fell on heads. The female added it to the charm board, which already had several strikes on it. "Chin up, there's always next time," She said to her twin brother, smiling. They walked off, and when Booker took his eyes off for a single second; they were gone. He stared after them, confused.

"This place is full of fools," He said to himself. He walked off down the long street, going to the raffle. The raffle took place in front of a large stage, and on it stood a tall man with a top hat. He had a large mustache on top of his thin lips. Booker approached the stage just as the man started the raffle. A young woman stood, calling to him. "Mister! Hey mister!" Booker looked down at her. She was a young, pretty thing, with a bowl of numbered balls. "No sale," He said dryly. But he smirked just slightly. The woman looked at him with a playful grin. "There's no charge for the raffle. Where have you been, living under a rock?" Booker chucked, shaking his head.

He took one of the balls, tossing it in his hand. He smirked down at te woman. He wasn't the flirting type, but when a lovely woman initiates the conversation, it's hard to resist. Booker enjoyed toying with people. He continued to toss the ball, but suddenly looked down. He read it, his smirk fading. "77." The woman grinned, winking at him. "That's a lucky number. I'll be rooting for you." The man with the too hat called her up to the stage, with the bowl of numbers. Booker felt his hands twitch. He remembered the warning he had received. Sighing, he cursed himself for his stupidity. "Let's see who the winner of the 1912 raffle!" The man cried. He ran his hands through the many numbers, pulling out one at random.

"Number seventy-seven!"