DeWitt had climbed to a rooftop of a residential building situated near the island's edge, with a skyline running over it.. He'd made a point of taking side-streets so that the damned contraption strapped to his arm didn't draw attention and was running behind schedule. It was already nearing 5 and he had to meet Fitzroy's fucking lapdogs before he did his job.
He lit up a cigarette, taking the time to smell it, and puff on it slowly, as he had in the pilgrim shuttle, knowing that if something went wrong he'd have a long flight to his death. The familiar taste of Old Gold tobacco didn't disappoint, sending a nicotine rush to his brain from the depth of his inhalations. It was time to go.
Booker stamped out the smoke and stared at the skyline, it was about 8 feet above him but Jacoby had assured him it wouldn't be a problem. Feeling the fool he aimed his 'sky-hook' at the line… and pressed the trigger.
Instantly he was pulled up through the air until the hook found purchase on the bronzed rail, a pained grunt escaping his lips when the hooks locked on. His arm ached something fierce, and he made a mental note that this was best done with inertia. Still he was flying, or as close as a man can get to flying. The speed felt incredible, the air felt sharp, cutting his skin as he sped forward.
DeWitt expected fear, but an utter euphoria washed over him! He felt reborn, adrenaline and excitement coursing through him as he was dragged along the skyline! Behind him the welcome center district was growing farther away, and above him loomed Soldier's Field. By some gravity-defying miracle he was climbing, being pulled along faster than he'd imagined possible! He turned his head right and around him the whole of Columbia stretched out, Finkton, Emporia, The smoke of the factories and the green of the parks and… the massive statue at it's center. Beautiful, elegant… and his target. Grim reality set back in as he neared soldier's field. It's tower's growing closer. He knew where to get off the skyline, and that's where a terrifying thought hit him… How did he stop?
He needed to land on a rooftop, he hadn't considered where to stop if he missed it. The skyline passed the outskirts of the floating island and the building loomed ahead. DeWitt could think of only one solution. To let go of the sky-hooks trigger.
Just as he reached the building's rooftop he swore loudly and let go, he felt himself slow down, but not nearly fast enough, his speed still excessive, and flew off the skyhook with terrifying inertia pushing him along.
He hit the ground running. Then after a few steps tripped and toppled over, sliding along the rough surface of the rooftop, tearing his sleeve to shreds, and the skin underneath it. Gritting his teeth he got up, holding his shoulder. His arm felt paralyzed, and he wondered if it was broken, the pain was certainly intense. The sky-lines would take some practise to master.
Knowing that he couldn't miss his chance he gathered his bearings, a quick glance from the rooftop proved that the map he'd studied was accurate, he quickly found a stairwell from the rooftop and made good time to street level, averting the surprised eyes of passerby's at his bloodied persona.
Bookers sense of direction had always been good, and within minutes he was at the meeting point. Two men stood there waiting. One was a tall, muscular black male, his shoulders broad and biceps bulging, head shaved bald, a red shirt stretched across his massive chest. He eyed up DeWitt with a look of distaste in his eyes, but said nothing.
The second fellow, a red-haired irishman came up with an extended hand, which DeWitt shook respectfully. He had a friendly enough look about him, though he was a bit wild-eyed, a spark of lunacy hidden somewhere within him. A red goatee was growing on his chin and where his left hand ought have been was nothing but a grizzled and bandaged stump. Blood seeping through the dirty cloth.
"You DeWitt?"
Booker simply nodded.
"Call me Irish, everyone does anyway. What'd you have to run from the cops?" the man asked, gesturing to DeWitt's bloodied arm.
"Sky-hook."
"Hah! First-timer eh? Happened to me to, trick is to let go of the trigger gently, slows you down somewhat! Anyway mate, you're late. Marlow's be done soon so you oughta hurry."
DeWitt nodded again. "Got anything better than a pistol for me?"
The irishman laughed again, "Aye, got this 'ere beauty. Tor, pass it 'ere!"
The black man grunted with displeasure but obeyed the order, handing the man a cloth-wrapped bundle. The massive man held it with one hand, but Irish, and DeWitt for that matter, both needed two. Irish unwrapped it gently, under the cloth was what looked like a portable cannon. A massive coned tip was soldered onto the end, and the entire thing looked to be held together with red cloth.
"S'called a heater. It ain't pretty, but it puts a hole the size of o' a cannonball in just about anythin'!"
He handed the heater to DeWitt, who took it with his right hand, unlike his pistol, this gun would be impossible to conceal. He debated not taking but, but decided to keep it for now.
"Look now, there' ain't no point in us sticking around, Tor 'ere might be a killer but I sure as shite ain't. We'll be on a rooftop watching, so don't get any ideas. I'm more 'fraid of Fitzroy than o' you. Meaning no offence o'course Mr. DeWitt."
DeWitt nodded, seemed Fitzroy's name pulled more weight than he'd thought.
"How many of you Vox are there anyway?"
Irish laughed again, "you wanna get a feel for that swing by Shantytown, you'll see all ya need tah."
"Right… Hey Irish, what made you turn revolutionary anyway?"
"Me? Hah! I ain't got nothing to lose no more!" His voice went borderline erratic, "Me boys got killed in an accident at Fink's yesterday, same time I lost me hand!" He screamed, waving the bloodied stump around. "Me youngest's missin! Hahah! Missin' he is!" The irishman's eyes went wide, "Who'd want to harm a shoeshine boy eh DeWitt? Who'd want that? What'd he do to anyone? Anyone! Kill em all I say! Slice their throats all bloody! Hah!"
It was like a blow to the gut. DeWitt's eyes got wet, his stomach twisted into knots. He watched as 'Tor' stepped in to take hold of his comrade and drag him away. "Get it done." those were the only words the man offered.
DeWitt turned and walked away, shaking slightly as he thought about the incident last night, with the child and the police officer…
Booker DeWitt had forced himself to swallow his feelings of regret, push them out mind. He knew that whatever he felt was paltry in comparison to Irish's grief. From a rooftop he observed the scene, it was well past 5 now and the target would be gone soon. He'd missed the presentation now there was a crowd of people lined up to buy the 'vigor'. T. Marlowe stood in the center, watching as a rancher watched cattle. Beside him stood two bodyguards, they seemed small compared to Tor, but they both outweighed DeWitt by at least 30 kilos, if not more. He knew there was no chance he'd get close enough, and neither of his weapons were suited for distance shooting. Debating his approach he realised Fitzroy must have failed in killing Fink, that sort of news would have spread through Columbia like wildfire, and that it hadn't been publicized, or Marlowe's guard would be much heavier. He realised the duality of the plan, not only would it have lessened the defences around the monument, but the political impact of two major figures' deaths would have been massive… and if Booker failed then Fitzroy wouldn't lose one of her men. He debated calling it all off, simply going back and refusing given that she'd failed on her end. But he knew he still needed her, much more than she needed him.
Then he saw it, right above the stage ran a skyline. It would be easy to access, he wouldn't even have to let go of it, he could kill the man and keep flying. After all it couldn't be harder than shooting from horseback. In a split second he'd leapt forward and squeezed the skyhook's trigger, connecting with the skyline and zooming towards his soon-to-be victim.
Booker's approach didn't go unnoticed, he heard a scream and panic ensued; the crowd ran in every which direction, away from the stage. The only men who seemed at a loss were the bodyguards and Marlowe, staring at Booker unmoving. They were deer caught in headlights.
He lessened the pressure on the sky-hook's trigger, slowing down slightly, raising his arm he lined up his shot. Finger on the trigger… exhale… twist!
The skyline had turned, and Booker hadn't counted on his body's movement from the inertia, his shot went just wide, the lead shot tearing into a bodyguard and letting loose a cloud of blood. The second bodyguard sprung into action and pushed Marlowe to the floor, covering the man with his body.
Booker let go and flew off the skyhook, landing into a roll and popping up properly this time. He pressed the trigger again but the chamber was empty. Irish hadn't mentioned that the damned cannon only chambered a single shot! He dropped it and pulled out his pistol.
Not hearing a second volley the bodyguard got up and ran at Booker, but his charge had been left unprotected. Booker's hand was already trained on Marlowe, he squeezed the trigger, and watched the balding man's head jerk, blood splattering his clothes as he went limp.
Then the bodyguard tackled him. It was like being hit by a train, the behemoth of a man took Booker to the ground, the gun flying from DeWitt's hand. Booker gasped for air and raised a hand to protect himself from the oncoming punch. His left was numb from the using the skyhook so he could only block with his right. Soon the bodyguard's hands wrapped around his throat, cutting off air. Booker could feel his trachea being crushed by the thick fingers, his own hand grabbing at the man's wrist but failing to do anything useful.
A blackness crept around the egdes of DeWitt's vision, and he could feel his face burning from loss of blood flow. his legs kicked the air and he struggled.
He raised his left arm and hit the man with the skyhook, but the bodyguard seemed not to feel it. In a final desperate attempt he shoved the hook into the man's face… and pressed the trigger.
The rotors came to life, the sharp hooks spinning, digging into the man's skin, fracturing the skull, going through the eye socket! The bodyguard screamed in agony and let go, but Booker kept the trigger pressed down, it dug through the bodyguard's face and cracked through the man's skull, the hooks working like shovels, sending the inside's of the man's head flying, splattering all over DeWitt. Brain matter, shredded skin, bone fragments and blood all covered DeWitt when he finally released the trigger, still gasping for air.
He pushed himself out from under the mangled and collapsed corpse of the bodyguard and started to run.
His lungs burned for air but he didn't stop, sprinting off stage and into a nearby alleyway,subconsciously following one of many escape routes he'd imprinted into his mind. He passed one building, two, three, he tore off his bloodied vest and shirt and threw them to the ground, chest heaving. Finally he rounded a new corner and leant against a wall, he couldn't stop himself. With a grunt he threw up. Retching all over the dirty floor of the garbage alley. All the memories he'd repressed in his life came flooding back, everything he'd tried to suppress with alcohol flew to the forefront. The scalpings, the executions, shooting and slaughtering innocents, burning tents and hearing the screams from within them! He threw up until there wasn't even stomach acid left inside him and he was simply retching and trying for air.
Taking a couple more steps he collapsed to the floor, back to the wall, wiping blood and more off his face with his forearm. Looking around he saw a little alcove. He'd hide there until it was dark. He'd sleep.
Dreams brought Booker DeWitt no respite. The white injun was all he saw as he slept.