Chapter 7
Booker blinked, staring up at the PA in amazement. "Well I'll be…" he muttered, lowering his weapon a fraction and raising his voice so that it echoed around the room. "Slate? Is that you?"
Slate, if it was indeed him, did not seem to acknowledge or care that Booker had spoken, continuing, "You've always been different, haven't you, Booker? You crave no glory."
Booker sighed, glancing at his companions as though he expected them to have an answer for how to deal with this. Met with blank stares and a shrug from Elizabeth, he sighed again, shouting at the PA, "Look, I see you're...caught up in some kind of jam here. If you could see fit to let us through to where they keep the Shock Jockey, then we'll-"
Slate cut him off before he could even finish. "That tin soldier Comstock wants my boys dead. We won't die at his hands!" he cried. Dante imagined him shaking his fist angrily.
Elizabeth was about to chime in, opening her mouth to yell to Slate, but Booker silenced her. "Shh! There's gonna be trouble." Elizabeth's lips formed into a thin line as she took a step back, fidgeting with her severed pinky nervously.
"All my men have left is a choice: die at the hands of a tin soldier, or a real one!" As he screamed, a handful of Slate's men came into the room and opened fire on the trio, shouting similar things. The trio quickly found some cover, the two men returning to the fray while Elizabeth ducked out of sight, already searching for any kind of ammo or some health kits. After a few minutes of dodging and returning volleys of bullets, the gunfire ceased as the ex soldiers laid dead. Elizabeth remained crouched behind a stack of crates, though the other two lowered their weapons as the PA came to life again.
"You see?! You're a killer, Booker, like it or not! This boy, here...I don't know his name, but you two are cut from the same cloth, whether you like it or not, kid!" Slate addressed Dante, who pretended not to notice just to spite him. He didn't think it worked.
"Just give us the Shock Jockey," Booker demanded breathlessly, that familiar thundercloud darkening his brow again.
"If you want the vigor, Booker, you will give my men a soldier's death. They wait for you in Wounded Knee and Peking." With that not of finality, the PA went dead. Booker growled furiously, muttering unprintable words under his breath as he scowled. Dante hesitantly placed a hand on his shoulder, jerking his head at their young companion, who was pretending she couldn't hear from only three feet away. Booker shrugged his shoulder off, scowling even harder, but ceased. With that bit of business concluded, Elizabeth piped up.
"I'll try to keep us stocked with both bandages and ammo, but...the right materials aren't always at hand."
Booker didn't say anything, still fuming, so Dante replied, "We appreciate it anyways, Elizabeth. Thanks."
She nodded at him, and then followed the two men though some double doors and into the Wounded Knee exhibit, stepping over broken pieces of the exhibit and staying close to them, well aware of the dangers present. They made their way through the exhibit, seeing paintings and cutouts of atrocities committed by both Native American and US soldier alike. Dante shuddered. Columbia's definition of "appropriate for children" needed to be revised-heavily.
After only a few minutes, Slate's booming voice came over the loudspeakers. "The tin soldier has taken credit for the deeds of the real ones. Now, your older companion, young lady...he wrapped himself in glory on December 29 1890."
"What does he mean?"
Booker turned his face away from the two, effectively hiding any emotion that might be playing across his face. "You don't wanna know."
"You...you were there...at Wounded Knee...I can see it in your face," Elizabeth whispered, horrified. She stepped back, allowing some space between her and Booker, though she did not appear to be afraid of him, only morbidly curious as Slate continued.
"Tell her, Booker!" the PA cried, sounding every bit the delusional, old soldier still obsessed with the glory days. The pure euphoria in his voice made Dante feel sick. "Tell her how we strode that battlefield like the heroes of Sparta! I still hear the screams...does Comstock?" Slate taunted as the PA crackled out, no doubt expecting them to take it as a challenge. "Here's the soldier I spoke of! The kind of man Comstock pretends to be!" the ex-soldier boasted gleefully.
Numerous soldiers emerged, yelling and taunting from their various different hiding spots. They opened fire on them as Dante and Booker dodged and weaved between the oncoming gunfire. Thankfully, due to Booker's close quarter firing and Dante's long distance rifle fire, it was over almost before it started. The two finished off their last opponents with either their Vigors or slitting a throat with their skyhooks. After reloading their weapons, the PA came back on, sounding as pleased as ever with their handiwork.
"You see, young miss? The kind of man Comstock wishes he was? A real soldier!"
"I don't wanna do this, Slate. Just give me what I need."
"I will...after you do the same for me. Come and look for me amongst the Boxers."
"Who are the Boxers?" Elizabeth asked innocently, emerging from her hiding spot and rejoining her companions.
"The Chinese. He means to lead us to the other exhibit." Dante explained.
"Can you hear Comstock's tin soldiers coming to silence us? But we are the true patriots! The history that does not fit in their books!" Slate ranted before once again cutting off the PA.
They made their way out of the Wounded Knee exhibit and into the Boxer Rebellion exhibit. Unlike the former's aesthetic of the western frontier, the latter's was of a Chinese aesthetic, containing orange lanterns lighting the path, mountains dotting the terrain, and snow covering the ground. Hell, it actually was snowing in the exhibit. Dante wondered if it was real snow-it certainly felt like it. 'I wonder how it doesn't ruin the cutouts.' Speaking of which, said cutouts were of the racially insensitive kind: Chinamen with yellow skin, Fu Manchu moustache, clawed hands, and sharp teeth leered at them as they walked past. They neared the doors that led further into the exhibit as they slowly opened.
"What is this?" Elizabeth asked, taking in everything with wide eyes. No doubt she'd never seen anything quite like it before-but he wasn't exactly sure if she was talking about the exhibit or the snow. He took an obvious wild guess.
"It's the Boxer Rebellion." Dante answered, turning to her. She was looking at one of the cutouts with a wrinkled nose. She turned to him, tilting her head in curiosity.
"What happened there?"
"In Peking? It was my hand that put the city to the torch. Of course, that's not how Comstock tells it…" Slate spoke from the PA, venom dripping from every word as he recalled the memory.
The doors fully opened, but as Elizabeth stepped through the threshold, a cut out popped out in front of her which caused her to stumble and fall on her behind. "Oh!" she cried, shielding herself from the supposed upcoming danger, but one look at the cutout and she huffed, rising to her feet and dusting off the back of her skirt. "Why would they do that?" she grumbled petulatenly.
"Scare factor among other things." Dante explained, shrugging.
"As if this place isn't creepy enough," she mumbled, folding her arms across her chest.
They continued their way through the display and through a pair of double doors. Dante tried to push them open by himself, but in the end it took all three of them to even budge the massive slabs of wood. Stepping through, they came across a display depicting Comstock, with Colombia in the sky behind him, facing down the hordes of the rebellion. Dante raised an eyebrow, highly skeptical, but Elizabeth gasped.
"Oh, I read about this...Comstock led the Columbian troops to Peking and-" Elizabeth began, but startled when Slate's voice came over the loudspeaker again, cutting her off with his own booming voice.
"COMSTOCK WASN'T THERE!" Slate ranted furiously, and a loud pounding sound was heard, as though he had slammed his hand against a desk. "The Boxers took my eye and thirty of my friends! Is there even a stone to mark that sacrifice?!"
A severe sense of deja-vu washed over the trio as once again, a wave of enemies appeared out of nowhere. Dante and Booker readied their weapons, preparing for another relatively easy fight. Only now these guys were backed by…
"Burn in hell!"
"Oh crap. Fireman, move!" Dante yelled as he shoved Booker out of the way of a lobbied fire grenade. Elizabeth, thankfully, was smart enough to move out of the line of fire and ducked into cover as she stayed out of sight, though of course she kept an eye out for any spare ammunition. As for her two rescuers, they were having a hard time trying to dodge both the bullet and literal fire as Slate's men poured on the pressure. It didn't help that just as they started whittling down the regular forces, Booker and Dante ran out of their machine gun and sniper rifle ammo respectively. To buy themselves time, Dante shot out a combo of a Possession on one man and Murder of Crows on another group.
"Dante, catch!" He turned toward where he thought he had heard Elizabeth's voice as she threw him a shotgun. He caught it, checking the ammo quickly before yelling a quick "thanks!" and pumping the handle. He made a beeline toward the Fireman, firing shot after shot at the walking toaster oven. The Fireman barely registered the shots, barreling towards him again, though Dante knew that they affected him and noted that he was slower than before. He easily dodged the attack and pumped another shot into him before ducking behind some cover and reloading. He heard more gunshots and roaring, and knew that Booker had taken up the cause in his absence. His shotgun reloaded he rejoined the fray, delivering the final shot to the enemy and stepping back as he keeled over and exploded. Dante came out from his cover and scanned the area, before he found a particular object in the remains of the fire wielder. Picking it up and brushing off the ash, he smirked as he uncorked the bottle of Devil's Kiss and drank its contents. Just as he finished, the remainder of Slate's men opened fire on him. Tossing the bottle aside and ignoring the hallucination, he conjured up a fireball but held it for a few seconds. Confirming his wanted trajectory, he chucked the molten ball of fire as it landed and exploded. The radius of said explosion set the remainder of enemies ablaze, and he stumbled back, surprised by the force of the explosion. After a few moments of silence (bar the audio of the exhibit), the three rejoined near the entrance to the exhibit, to catch their breath and discuss their options.
"You did them a favor. You let them die like men," Slate spoke once more, patronizingly placating. Dante groaned.
"We didn't ask for this!" he shouted, getting really tired of this game they were playing. "We have no quarrel with these men!"
"Heroes never ask-"
"We never claimed to be heroes," Dante spat, seething.
"Then what are you? Look at your elder, boy. If you take away all the parts of Booker DeWitt he tried to erase, what's left?" There was a heavy sigh heard before Slate said, "Come back to the rotunda...it's almost over." The PA cut out with a crackle, and left an uncomfortable silence in its wake. Dante was not going to ask-he knew what Slate meant and he figured that Booker deserved at least a bit of privacy-but clearly Elizabeth had no such qualms.
"What did Slate mean? What did you try to erase?" she demanded, almost running to catch up with Booker's wide strides as he began walking back the way they had come.
"Now that you're out of yours, you might realize cages have their advantages," he said, intentionally vague as he avoided both of their gazes.
"A choice is better than none, Mr. DeWitt. No matter what the outcome."
"Yeah? What if you woke up one day and realized you didn't like what you chose?"
How were they supposed to respond to a statement like that? Elizabeth didn't know, and Dante had already resolved not to push, and so all three were silent until they reached the rotunda. Just as they passed the threshold, Slate once again made his presence known. "I've got what you need, Booker. You will find me past the First Lady's memorial."
Just as they approached the doors to said memorial, three of Slate's men came through the doors, as expected brandishing guns and hurling insults as they moved to surround them. Dante opted out of using either carbine or shotgun, so he dropped the latter and whipped his hand cannon out of his holster and shot the three men dead. "Well, that was a waste of time," he commented dryly, moving to holster his pistol again. Elizabeth whistled, impressed, and was about to say something when there was a loud gunshot and Dante grunted in pain, shooting a another shot into the downed man who now lay dead. "Son of a shit weasel!" He grunted as he emptied the spent bullets and placed in new ones. Taking a quick look, he saw that his jacket had a small tear on the arm and blood was seeping through. "Well, that's just great," he groaned, holstering his weapon and turning to Elizabeth, who had already begun searching for a health kit. "Do you see anything?"
"No," she admitted after a moment. "I'm sure we'll find one somewhere. For now, though…I'm not sure. Maybe there's a vending machine nearby somewhere."
"Yeah, spotted a Dollar Bill one near the Wounded Knee exhibit. For now, kid, plug up that wound best you can. We'll get you patched up." Booker placed a hand on Dante's shoulder-unfortunately the one that was injured-and the younger man winced. "Sorry. Shall we?"
They quickly made their way towards the machine, where Booker proceed to purchase a health kit (which he promptly handed to Elizabeth) and some more ammo for them. He checked everyone's ammo supply and distributed among them, and then reloaded his own weapon, checking that everything was working. By the time he was finished, Elizabeth was about to stitch up Dante before he heard her gasp and say, "Oh my."
Booker turned around to see what was wrong only to find his own words caught in his throat. His partner apparently had seen some action, as his torso and back were covered in various sized wounds. Some from bullets, others from knives but most of them he couldn't tell where they were from. It didn't really bother him seeing the scars themselves, but on the young man in front of him...holy crap. "Were you a soldier?"
Dante shrugged. "Probably not the kind you're thinking of, but yeah. I suppose so."
"Oh my God," Elizabeth whispered, reaching out a hand to touch a particularly nasty one on his abdomen before stopping herself. "This is…"
"Horrifying?"
"Horrifying doesn't even begin to cover it, kid. If I didn't know better I'd say you could've fought at Wounded Knee with me. Your life is your own and you're entitled to your privacy, I'll grant you that. But what the hell kind of scrapes did you get into to give you scars like that? Shit, those put mine to shame."
Dante turned his gaze towards the ceiling, pondering through his memories. "Let's see. Some scrapes were like any others and some were...let's just say they'd put a city in the sky to shame in terms of the fantastical."
"That's not a lot to go off of, Mr. Price," Elizabeth interjected, but Booker stopped her before she could continue.
"Elizabeth, don't. Those are some of the most brutal scars I've ever seen, and even I don't really wanna know how you got them, and I'm a veteran of Wounded Knee. Just leave it, you don't need to know, and I'm sure if you knew what you were asking, you wouldn't want to either."
Elizabeth frowned, disagreement written all over her face, but she didn't press the matter further, going back to her previous task of stitching the young man up.
"And...that should do it." Elizabeth confirmed as she finished wrapping some gauss around Dante's wound which was stitched up underneath.
He checked his wound, articulating his arm around to get familiar with the pain. "Thanks." After putting his clothes back on, he straightened them out and asked, "Shall we continue?"
They proceed through the doors into the First Lady Memorial, beholding a portrait of the woman in front and on their left.
"Say what you want about Lady Comstock...the woman had an eye for fashion." Elizabeth commented, whistling.
"You've seen what Comstock has done to my history. Now see how he's rewritten his own."
Booker was about to retort with something, no doubt putting into words what he was going to do to Slate when all of this was over with, or perhaps demanding the Shock Jockey once more, when he looked at the portrait of the woman and stopped dead in his tracks. Elizabeth bumped into him, having not been paying attention and following him closely. She stepped out from behind him, and looked where he was looking. "Oh, she's lovely," she commented innocently, tilting her head. "That must be her. Lady Comstock."
"Lady...Comstock?" A fever of some sort seemed to have taken over Booker. His eyes were glazed over and his weapon was lowered, pointing at the ground, and his grip was slack-Dante thought it might actually clatter to the floor. He stood rigid, his eyes fixated on the portrait in front of him-most importantly, the face, and he whispered something that he couldn't hear. Apparently, though, Elizabeth did, because she turned to Booker and frowned.
"There's that name again," she whispered to Dante. "Well, technically he said 'Anna' before, but that was probably short for Annabelle. I wonder who she is?"
Dante shrugged, not willing to give away any information that didn't need to be revealed. "No idea. Friend, perhaps? Maybe somebody important in his life? Who knows, none of our business," he muttered back, trying to dissuade her from the topic. She would not be so easily swayed, however.
"But still. It's weird. Maybe we should ask-"
The moment was over. Booker, who had been almost slack-jawed at the sight of the painting, regained his composure and hefted his weapon once more, turning to the two of them with a scowl. "It's not proper to discuss someone who's standing two feet away from you," he commented dryly. Elizabeth started, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks as she mumbled an apology. Dante snickered, but did the same.
"Who is Annabelle?"
Booker's scowl became darker. "Dante's right, it ain't your damn business. You're a decent enough girl, but you need to learn a little something about privacy and who's entitled to it."
Elizabeth didn't sulk, but it was very close. "Yes, Mr. DeWitt. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."
Booker nodded, apparently satisfied with that answer, and led the pair through the exhibit, stopping when they came across a monument of the Lady holding up a baby while riding a chariot.
""The seed of the Prophet lay in the womb of our Lady but for a single week."" Elizabeth read out loud the writing of the plaque on the side of the monument. "Comstock had a child...my books never mentioned anything about a child."
"That's quite an omission." Booker commented. "Can't imagine that was by accident."
"History is written by the victor." Dante quoted, examining the exhibit himself. Elizabeth continued to read from the plaque. ""But the child took ill and Our Lady prayed for the Prophet's heir both day and night.""
They moved towards the next exhibit which showed Comstock holding the baby, crossing a bridge towards a familiar site. Elizabeth gasped as she pointed at it, her hand shaking slightly.
"That's my tower."
Lo! While Daisy Fitzroy has murdered my beloved, she shall not have the child! She shall not come betwist her and prophecy! The seed of the Prophet shall sit the throne, and drown in flame the mountains of man! A recording of Comstock spoke over the speakers. Elizabeth's eyes widened, and she took several steps backwards as she tried to process what those words meant.
"Am I...? Am I...?" she finally asked, voice trembling as she looked at Booker, her eyes begging him to say no.
He dashed her hopes against the rocks, speaking with a tone of total disbelief himself. "You're Comstock's daughter."
The girl shook her head vigorously, her breath coming in short, quick bursts as she began to hyperventilate. She was panicking, it was clear, but Dante didn't think she would let anyone close enough to even touch her right now, let alone help her. "No, I can't be, I...I can't!"
"He wants you to follow in his footsteps," Booker continued, as if he were reading from a plaque of his own. He still sounded as though he didn't believe any of this was happening. Dante didn't really either.
"Well, I want a puppy, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna get one!" she spat, furious. She folded her arms and looked away, trying in vain to hide the fact that she was near tears. Dante longed to go over there an comfort her, but he figured it might not be appreciated at the moment. He turned to Booker, a questioning look on his face. What should we do? the look said. Booker shrugged hopelessly. Dante supposed it was unfair to ask him-after all, he was not really a people person and his attempts thus far to calm Elizabeth whenever she was upset had usually ended in disaster.
'Hell with it.' Dante thought before walking over to the distraught girl, pulling out a handkerchief from his side pocket and offering it to her. "Here."
Elizabeth, as expected, glared at him, but only for a moment, as she took the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with it. She sniffed, turning to face him at last. "Thanks, I suppose," she mumbled. She sighed heavily, handing the handkerchief back to him. He took it and shoved it back in his pocket, then placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Let's just focusing on getting out of this crazy city," he said, turning her around and gently steering her back towards where Booker was still looking quite helpless as to how to help her. It was almost funny.
Passing underneath the bridge, they got to the door the led into the next exhibit... only for a lock to be on the door. Just as Booker was about to ask Elizabeth, Dante stepped toward the lock and pulled out a cylinder shaped device from his jacket pocket. He pointed it towards the metal lock and pressed a button on the side, holding it for a few moments as an odd sound emitted from it. After a few moments, the lock clicked and fell off the door. Both Elizabeth and Booker stared in amazement while Dante put the strange device back in his pocket.
"What was that?"
Dante turned to Booker. "Sonic screwdriver." At the confused look on both of their faces, he sighed and continued. "It's a multipurpose tool of sorts. It can open doors, defend against some types of weapons, acts as a scanner, and in extreme cases be used as self defense. It's pretty useful."
Elizabeth nodded, willing to accept this explanation, but Booker was not so easily convinced.
"Whatever, as long as it helps and doesn't explode or turn on us. Let's keep going."
They proceeded forward, passing by an exhibit of Lady Comstock's murder by Daisy Fitzroy and another of Comstock taking his vengeance out on the Vox. Dante kept a close eye on Elizabeth as they walked through this incredibly biased versions of Columbia's history, making sure that she didn't stray too far and offering his handkerchief if it was needed. Booker looked back every now and then, mouth open, as if to try to pass some consoling words to Elizabeth, but kept thinking better of it and continuing their trek. Finally they came to the large gate that permitted entrance to the courtyard. Elizabeth slipped past the both of them and through the bars, emerging on the other side.
"I can get through these bars, but you two are too broad. Let me scout ahead, see if there's some way to move forward." She did so, scouring the area vigorously, but nothing turned out. She sighed, defeated, and was about to ask the others what they wanted to do when something happened. "Look!"
She pointed at something up in the sky, and it took the two a moment to realize what it was: A tear.
"Is that...?" Booker started to ask, but stopped himself.
"It's a tear. Something I can bring into this world," Elizabeth reminded him, grinning.
"It's a freight hook. Well, that's convenient." Dante commented, surprised.
"As I said, it's a form of wish fulfillment. Alright, let me know if either of you want me to bring that freight hook in." She stood back, ready to open the tear if they wanted. Once Dante nodded, and Booker vocally confirmed it, she spread her arms wide and opened it, standing back as the two men backed up as they got a running start and jumped onto the hooks. They hung there as they looked at the ground in front of them. Not only where they were more of Slate's men, but they could see tears above and below them.
"I feel there's more where that came from. Whenever I get anxious, tears have a way of appearing. Do you see those tears?" She pointed to said tears. "We can use them against Slate's men…That tear will get us access to higher ground…and that one will give us a turret…" she said, pointing at the respective tears causing them to spasm slightly when she did so.
"And some cover…" Booker mused, thinking it over. "Nice work, Elizabeth. Go ahead and open the cover, I'll drop down and start shooting. Dante, come with me. After that, open up that turret and get somewhere safe. They have a turret of their own, so one of us will have to Possess it. How are your Salts?"
Dante shrugged. "I'm good. Let's do this."
Dante followed Booker in dropping down and followed him behind the cover while the turret started spewing bullets at Slate's men. This gained their attention as they fired back as the two men returned fire along with their turret. Booker began picking them off with his machine gun while Dante did the same with his carbine. They picked off quite a few before Dante ducked behind the cover and moved out to face them head on. He threw a Murder of Crows at them as well as a Devil's Kiss, and ignored their blood curdling screams as he charged straight for the turret and unleashed a Possession on the enemy turret. It made a dinging sound as it whirred, rotated on its axis, and the light switched from red to green. The turret gunned down the men as the Vigor wore off and they were shot to ribbons. With a toss of a charged shot of Devil's Kiss at the turret, the opposing forces that stood in their way were dispatched.
"Comstock's pet can do some wonderful tricks. Do you know what you've got there, Booker?"
"That's enough, Slate! We just need the vigor to get out of Columbia. We're taking it one way or another, Slate!"
The aged veteran did not respond as the three made their way towards a gift shop.
"Keep your eye open for that Shock Jockey vigor."
They kept going, looking around for anything of use, a few tears came into view. One a barrel full of Salts and another a crate with medical bags. Despite this, the area was unsettling. Not helped by the fact that each display case they passed, each Motorized Patriot in them started talking all at once until falling silence when Slate's voice was heard.
"Tin men, Booker. That's what Comstock will turn us into! Wires and gears to replace heads and hearts!" he cried angrily, clearly still trying to get Booker to deflect to his side. Dante didn't see why. He was clearly not interested in partnering with his old war time pal but Slate was apparently nothing if not insistent. Dante sighed and Booker groaned, muttering profanities under his breath.
A spotlight then flicked on from somewhere, shining near the back of the store which displayed another Patriot-only this one began moving and started to use the barrel of its gatling gun as a battering ram by which to escape its glass prison. "God judges, I act," its robotic voice echoed through the space as its gun started to spin, signaling that bullets were mere seconds away.
"Move!" one of them shouted-nobody knew which one it was, but they all obeyed. Elizabeth quickly found some cover, ducking behind the information desk, while the other two went to opposite ends of the room. They took turns laying down some covering fire, but nothing seemed to work-that is, until another set of tears caught the two's attention. "Elizabeth, bring in the turret!" Booker shouted, freeing one of his hands to point at it. Elizabeth followed his finger and obeyed, and in seconds the tide was turned in their favor. The turret chipped away at the Patriot's shell, causing it to spark and smoke, until said automaton turned its attention towards it. Its gunfire tore through the turret and destroyed it in a matter of moments. Before the Patriot had a chance to fire on the organics, Dante yelled out, "Elizabeth, bring in the other turret!"
Elizabeth did so, and the ghostly image fizzled and shifted, finally coming into reality and shooting the automatron where it neared the brink of breaking down. It was a well placed headshot from Dante's carbine that did the Patriot in, crashing down unto the floor and sending a shockwave throughout. The trio emerged from their respective hiding spots and regrouped.
"You see, Booker? Maybe you're the man I remember, maybe not. It doesn't matter. Comstock took our stories and scrubbed away our soul. Now...he's coming for me...and when I'm gone all that will be left is the lie." Slate spoke, the PA once again going dead.
"Just give us what we came for!" Booker yelled, showing just how tired he was of this little game. He actually cocked his weapon at the PA system, ready to shoot it, though he most likely knew that it wouldn't do any good except to blow the speakers out. Fortunately for everyone however Slate decided that now would be an opportune moment to shut up.
"Oh, now he shuts up." Dante commented, discarding a piece of the Patriot he picked up. He was about to say something else when he noticed a trail of purple footprints leading to a storeroom. Curious, he walked over to it, following the trail to a locked storeroom. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver, pointing it at the door and unlocking it. He pushed the doors open and stepped inside as the other two caught up with him. Inside they found a dead attendant, several opened crates, and open bottles of Shock Jockey all over the floor. It was clear that all of the bottle were completely empty.
"The whole place is ransacked. There ain't no Shock Jockey here." Booker commented a bit unnecessarily, kicking aside one of the bottles. It skidded across the floor, colliding with the wall and shattering loudly. There was barely any liquid left inside. How much had Slate taken? 'He must be pretty doped up right now,' Dante reasoned.
"Slate must have taken them." Elizabeth looked downward, examining the path of purple footprints. "Wait, is that...?"
They looked to see the tracks lead from the storeroom, back outside into the rotunda. They followed the tracks back outside to find that crystals sparking with electricity were embedded into the floor. Elizabeth tried to go near them, but Dante, knowing what they were, pulled her back, shaking his head.
"Slate. He's here." Booker actually growled, hefting his weapon and checking that it was loaded and working before eyeing the crystals suspiciously. "Any idea what those are?"
Dante gritted his teeth. "Painful, for one. They're shock traps. Don't step anywhere near them. You'll get...well, electrocuted, obviously."
Booker quickly stepped back, not saying a word. Elizabeth did the same.
"Those steps obviously lead back outside to the rotunda. Slate's probably there, waiting for us. What should we do?" Elizabeth asked anxiously. 'Poor girl,' Dante thought. 'She didn't ask for any of this. If things go according to plan though, she'll be out of here sooner than expected. Then again, most universes have a way of throwing me a curveball, so I'll suspect it'll kick in soon enough.'
"Well, for starters, you're probably going to want to follow my lead." He stepped in between the shock trap, quickly yet carefully. The other two followed suit, and once they were clear the trio backtracked to the rotunda to hear a low groaning sound. Elizabeth had to yell to be heard over the loud sound of the gondola passing overhead; she looked up in amazement as Booker grimaced.
"What is that?!"
"Comstock's ships. He's coming for Slate," Booker revealed, cursing loudly. This time, a stern side eye from Dante wasn't enough to dissuade him. He flicked the safety off of his weapon and aimed it around him, searching for any hidden enemies. It was at that exact moment that Dante noticed Slate himself on the upper balcony on the other side of the rotunda. He pointed out as such to Booker, who growled low in his throat and began shouting, "Slate, I swear to God if you don't-" but the other man cut him off.
"It was Slate who killed for his country at Wounded Knee!" the other man roared, and Dante could just make out his raised fist, punching the air for emphasis as sparks flew from it. "It was Slate who stormed the gates at Peking! Slate!"
"Slate!" Booker called to him again, his voiced raised higher than Dante had ever heard it-whether it was because of anger or to make himself heard over the deluded man's ravings, he didn't know. Dante didn't think Slate would answer, but he was proven wrong.
"Comstock's coming, Booker! But our lives won't satisfy him - oh no! He won't rest until he's turned us into tin! I won't let him! He took my past but that's all he's getting from me!"
"Just give us the vigor! We don't need to do this!"
Slate laughed maniacally, gesturing wildly in their general area. "Here you go, boys! A soldier's death awaits!" He raised his fist all the way, releasing a bout of the Shock Jockey, and then pointed at the trio, shouting again-but this time, to the growing number of Slate's men closing in around them, grins on their faces and weapons in their hands.
Booker and Dante took up their weapons, as well as flexing their hands, activating their vigors. Elizabeth took cover behind a pillar while the two went to work, throwing vigors and mowing down Slate's men with bullets. After killing the last man, the two reloaded their weapons with ammo and gulped down Salts that Elizabeth found during the fight.
"You're not the Booker DeWitt I remember!" Slate ranted, cleary angry that the two men had killed his men so quickly and efficiently, though Dante had no idea why. Isn't that what he had wanted? "Tin man! TIN MAN! Is that all you can muster, soldier? Come on now, DeWitt! Don't disappoint the boys! Come on, DeWitt! Show me what you're made of!" he challenged, sending out another wave of his soldiers as well as a Patriot. Dante groaned internally, raising his weapon once again and firing a well aimed shot at the head of one of the oncoming soldiers. Between the oncoming fire of both the soldiers and the Patriot, Dante and Booker were having a hard time staying alive and focusing on killing before being killed-so much so that the mechanized soldier got close enough and swung its gatling gun at them, knocking Booker aside. As he hit the pavement, his shield shattered, but he managed to role out of the way of the gunfire into cover. Once he did, he pulled the trigger of his gun, intending to continue the fight, only to hear a click. He swore, trying it a couple more times. No luck.
"I'm out of ammo!" he called to Elizabeth, who immediately began scrounging for the right kind of ammo or a new weapon for Booker.
"I can't find anything!" she called out, sounding panicked. "I'll keep trying, but I honestly don't know…"
Booker cursed as he pulled out his shotgun, taking pot shots at the remaining soldiers that tried charging him. Dante in the meanwhile was busy fighting the Patriot. He ducked and dodged between whatever cover he could find while shooting short bursts at the robot. Going behind a pillar, he checked to see his ammo for the carbine and sniper. He was down to one magazine each. He cursed as he suddenly realized that he also only had one shot of a Vigor left. Deciding to take a chance, he shot a Possession at the Patriot-the green mist hit the mechnoid and it swapped targets, mowing down the remnants of Slate's men before shorting out, falling to the ground with a loud crash that had even Booker wincing.
Everyone came out of their respective places to regroup and discuss a plan.
"I think that was everyone," Dante commented, grabbing a few magazines off the dead soldiers and tossing them to Booker. He grabbed a few cartridges of ammo for himself and loaded them into his own weapon, checking that everything was working before checking on Elizabeth. Once he saw that she was just fine, he turned to see that there was a trail of shock traps left in a general direction. He nodded over to Booker, "I guess we should try finding him. Any idea where he might have gone?"
Booker contemplated that question for a moment. "Maybe. C'mon, let's get going. Don't wanna lose him again."
The followed the trail, moving past traps and dispatching two guards until they found themselves back in the Comstock's vengeance exhibit. Slumped against the wall was Slate himself, exhausted and cradling the last bottle of Shock Jockey tightly in his hand. He wore an ugly expression, one that spoke of unbridled hatred and determination to destroy the subject of it. Distantly, Dante knew that the expression was not targeted at any of them, but the sight still gave him goosebumps.
Booker reached for the bottle, intending to snatch it before Slate could do anything about it, but the other man grabbed him and hauled him close, spitting in his face, "You're not done here, soldier! Eat everything that's on your plate! Finish it!" He proffered him a pistol then, the safety still on. Booker stared at it, while Elizabeth gasped and Dante frowned. If Booker let him live, Comstock would leave Slate a husk of a man, broken and useless-but if Booker killed him, that would be the end of it. Neither choice would really make a difference in the end. Slate would be no more either way. Unless...unless. Well, if Dante was going to do something, now is better than never.
"Booker, wait." Dante placed a hand in front of the other man, stopping him from making a choice that he would ultimately regret. "Slate, Comstock took credit for everything you and your men sacrificed. What you've done here is just graffiti, child's play. Why not join a cause that can give you numbers that can tear his reputation apart?"
Slate looked at the boy, curious temporarily override his desolation. "How do you mean? What cause could possibly stop that bastard Comstock? He's taken down my best men-well, all of my men, really. I've got nothing left, and whatever troops I can still rally Comstock will just shoot down again. I can't keep fighting, not anymore."
"What if there was another way? A way to take down Comstock, once and for all. You take what's left of your men and join the Vox."
Slate looked at him for one, two, maybe even three seconds and then burst out laughing. "Join Fitzroy and her band of rebels? Ha! As if. Are you one of them, then? Eh, I knew you looked like a soldier. Well, you can go and tell Fitzroy that old Slate is not so easily swayed. Fitzroy's troops have heart, sure, but they lack coordination. They're messy, and I don't trust them to get the job done."
"Then show them coordination. Show them and the Founders what you can do, so that both you and Daisy can take Comstock apart. It's like the saying goes: 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' Daisy has an army, she has followers, and if you show her that you hate Comstock just as much as she does, and that you can be trusted, then Comstock won't stand a chance."
Slate looked like he was about to protest again, but then stopped, regarding Dante curiously. There was something about this boy, he realized-something that he couldn't put his finger on, and no matter how much he would think about it over the course of the next few days, wouldn't be able to figure out-but there was something about him that made Slate believe what he said. He sighed, putting down the gun and talking to himself before meeting Booker's eyes.
"You know, Booker...they haven't changed you. Not one bit. And you, kid-I don't know your name, but I have a feeling that your story is bigger than what you've told them. No matter. Very well, I'll join Fitzroy in her cause. Maybe together we can bring Comstock to his knees. And...Booker. If you need assistance, you need only ask." He stood up, brushing himself off and straightening his uniform before hesitating. Slowly, as if he wasn't sure if it was a good idea, he handed the bottle of Vigor not to Booker, but to Dante. "Here, I won't be needing this. Had too much of the stuff anyway….should probably stick to alcohol from now on."
Dante nodded, to show his thanks, and then took the vial, popped the cap, and downed the drink. Once again, he looked at his hands to watch the hallucination that the Vigors brought. He looked to see crystals growing, as well as electricity surging, growing and coiling into spiked shards in his palms before the vision passed. When his vision cleared, Slate had already taken his leave. Dante looked at Booker, questioning, but the other man just shrugged.
"Best we head back the way we came. The First Lady won't wait forever."
They headed back towards the skyway, collecting more things from corpses and generally avoiding each other's gazes when Elizabeth spoke, her voice so quiet that they almost missed it.
"Do you ever get used to it? The killing."
"Faster than you can imagine," Booker replied coolly, though there was the tone of regret in his voice. Dante said nothing, but gave a slight nod, showing he understood and agreed.
"You know, all those vigors you're using are very powerful. Though you two using them pretty sparingly. I'll do what I can to keep you two stocked in salts."
Both of them gave her a small smile, though Dante's was bittersweet—he knew what she would go through and what horrors she would face, and to think that now she had no idea what lay ahead, and was simply trying to help…
"Thanks," was all he could say.
Reaching near the skyway, they came across members of the 7th Cavalry who were mopping up Founders. The trio stopped in their tracks, the two fighters shifting their firearms. The soldiers, however, just let them pass until one particular soldier walked up to them. "Slate told us about you. Told us you should pass."
The two nodded at the soldier in acknowledgement, and he nodded back before returning to his post.
"Booker...I can tell what Slate said bothered you. You showed me -sometimes you have to what's necessary to survive."
"There's survival...and then there's finding pleasure in the act."
"Booker-"
"Look, you seem like a decent enough sort. That said, the less you know about me, the better."
On that extremely cheery note, they made their way across the way, not talking and not stopping until they made their way to the skyway.