Chapter 10: The Past

Lucy's Perspective.

After I so valiantly saved Booker from his demise at the hands of a brute with a pipe, we started making our way deeper into the Hall of Heroes.

"Where the hell did Elizabeth wind up? I need her, you know." Booker sighed and lowered his shotgun.

"I don't know. This hall is the only way onward." I hefted the pipe back over my shoulder, sighing. "They should be around here."

He sighed as well, before we busted into a grand hall with a giant statue of Comstock in the middle, bathed in some golden light. Across the walls, there were portraits - full body or otherwise - of other American heroes, all of which were coated in paint, be it an insult or "Tin Man" we've been seeing so much.

Will and Elizabeth stood next to the statue, observing the exhibits nearby with intrigue. "Our Prophet, Father Comstock, Commander of the 7th Cavalry."

"That man did not lead the seventh," said Booker, with disgust. "Hell, I don't even remember the guy."

A loud, booming voice resonated through the hall. "Corporal DeWitt proved his worth on the field that day."

I heard Booker mutter something under his breath, though I couldn't tell what. "Slate? Is that you?"

"You've always been different, haven't you, Booker? You crave no glory." Slate spoke silently, but the intercom system made up for that.

"This a friend of yours, DeWitt?" Will hefted his rifle over his shoulder, staring up into the light and shading his eyes with his hand.

Booker raised a finger towards Will, asking for silence. "Look, I can see your caught up in some kind of jam here."

I chimed in next. "Can we just get through to the Shock Jo-"

I was interrupted by the voice on the intercom. "That tin soldier, Comstock, wants my boys dead. We won't die by his hands!"

Will slammed his palm into his face. "Oh, brother, this isn't on any road to go well. . ."

Elizabeth glanced at him and tilted her head. "What do you mean?"

Slate answered her question for her. "All my men have left is a choice; die at the hands of a tin man, or a real one!"

Not even a moment later, the doors slammed open and in came more of the patriotic soldiers we encountered earlier. "Elizabeth, Luc', get behind cover!" Will shouted.

I did as he instructed, but made sure to keep an eye on the action. Will dropped his rifle to the side and pulled out the knife he had borrowed earlier. Booker, on the other hand, started shooting what looked like balls of fire out of his palm when he wasn't shooting lead slugs into the group. I looked towards Elizabeth, whose face was a curtain of worry. "Don't fret, Elizabeth, those two'll be fine."

She nodded her head slowly, and I looked back towards the boys. They were making short work of these soldiers; some fell to the ground with clean cuts across their necks or chests, while others fell as burned and dismembered corpses. Booker aimed down the sights of his shotgun and pulled the trigger, and with that, the fight was over.

"You see! You're a killer, Booker, like it or not!" Slate's voice boomed across the PA system.

"Yeah, ignore what I did." Will raised his hand.

"Oh, don't worry, boy, you'll get your turn for praise." Slate laughed coarsely.

"Just give us the Shock Jockey!" Booker's voice dripped with irritation.

"If you want the vigor, Booker, you will give my men a soldier's death."

I groaned audibly. "Look, mister, we don't want any trouble! What would it take for us to just get the vigor?"

"A soldier's death." He inhaled deeply. "They wait for you in Wounded Knee and Peking."

The doors at the end of the hall opened, revealing the rest of the exhibits. "No point in dwelling here." Will walked on ahead of the rest of us after retrieving his rifle. Booker stayed to the back, looking worried.

"Booker, are you alright?" I slowed down to match his pace and stood beside him as we entered the large, circular room.

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing." He took several steps forward, looking at the exhibits on either side. "Wounded Knee or Peking. Which one's first?"

Elizabeth raised her hand, offering a suggestion. "I say we go to Wounded Knee first,"

"Then that's what we'll do. Come along, everyone." Will made his way into the exhibit, the rest of us trailing behind.

As we entered the exhibit, Slate's voice came over the PA again. "The tin soldier has taken credit for the deeds of the real one. Now, your friend there, young misses-"

"- and me," said Will,

"- he wrapped himself in glory on December 29th, 1890."

"Or not me."

"What does he mean?" asked Elizabeth. I had a faint idea, though. . .

"You don't wanna' know," was his only reply.

The exhibited consisted mostly of wooden cutouts of grass and Native Americans bobbing around, flaming arrows trained on invisible targets across the room. Each one was similar to the one next to it, all with glowing red eyes that shone throughout the room. The eyes were also placed in the grass, to make it look like they were plotting an ambush at all times. As we progressed, spotlights were trained on a statue; a woman on her knees, and two Natives with hatchets raised, preparing to make their kill. I shook visibly. Even if it was just a statue, it was frightening to think about.

The next, and probably most horrifying statue, was one of a Native warrior with the scalp of his latest victim in his hands, hatchet red with blood. Or so I imagined it. Behind the statue was a pair of double doors. I braced myself for whatever horrors might await, but behind the door was only one of those motorized George Washington mannequins. Elizabeth pulled the lever to activate the exhibit, intrigued.

"With hue and cry, with hatchet red, they danced amongst our noble dead!"

Will hit his face with his palm again. "Please tell me this one doesn't rhyme, too. . ." Elizabeth giggled at his remark.

"But when our soldiers took the field, the savage hoard could only yield." The exhibit returned to its original pose.

"It rhymed again," said Booker, before we advanced into the next room.

This one was an exhibit modeled to imitate a large field, with grassy structures strewn about. The sky was red, painted beautifully, and in the middle was the standard statue of Comstock that I was getting so used to seeing. Now I see what a group of fanatics this place really is. But Booker was reacting strangely. He was sweating visibly, closing his eyes at certain parts of the display, and generally having a bad time.

"You were there. At Wounded Knee. I can see it in your face." Elizabeth stared at Booker, with both intrigue and confusion.

"Tell them, Booker!" Slate's voice boomed. "Tell them how we strode that battlefield like the heroes of Sparta!"

"Booker, in a gladiator's uniform? I'd pay to see that." Will smirked.

"I can still hear the screams," shouted Slate. "Does Comstock?" With that, roars from men came up on all sides of us. On closer examination, Slate's men were charging at us. Booker clenched one of those flaming grenades in his hand, while Will looked for some high ground to get some good shots in from. There was no cover for me and Elizabeth to make use of, so we just stood behind Will, clasping our hands nervously. "Here is the soldier I spoke of!" Slate screamed. "The kind of man Comstock pretends to be! Let's see if I told you true!"

Booker hurled grenades at the advancing forces, until his hand couldn't create anymore. Then it was back to the shotgun. Gradually, they pushed Booker further and further towards us. Will alternated between shooting with the rifle and slamming people into walls with water. Occasionally he'd wrap them up, draw them towards him and stab them with the knife he borrowed earlier. It was an effective method. Soon, all the regular foot soldiers had cleared out.

Elizabeth and I panted heavily, relieved that it was over. I began to step forward, before I realized a . . . cloud of crows, had just appeared behind Will. Inside the cloud was . . . one of those "Order of the Raven" folks. He was dressed in one of the black, highly ornate robes, with one of the large coffins on his back, an image of Lady Comstock engraved on the back. But what was more interesting was that he had a sword. . . Oh no.

Time seemed to slow down as the raven swung the blunt side of his sword towards the side of Will's head. A resounding thud resonated through the room, knocking him to his back. He stared up at his assailant, all weapons out of reach or otherwise not effective. The man grasped the holy sword with both hands and prepared to drive it through Will's chest, but. . .

"Get away from him!" Elizabeth shrieked, before tackling him from behind. She brought him to the ground and started to slam his head into the ground. "Booker, shoot him!" She hopped off of him, and Booker loaded lead into his body.

"He's dead." Booker lowered his gun.

Will shook his head, dazed. "Did I just get run over by a freight train or something?. ." He grabbed the side of his head. "Damn, that hurts. . ." He stared at Elizabeth, obviously shocked by the fact that Elizabeth had just saved his life in that manner.

I helped him up off the ground. "You just got attacked by one of those Crow people. Fortunately for you, before he could drive a sword into your chest, Elizabeth valiantly saved you."

"Really?" He grabbed the back of his head, gritting his teeth. "Thanks. I appreciate it a lot more than you know. I'm rather fond of breathing."

She blushed and giggled a little. "You would have done the same for me, had it come to that."

"Hopefully, it never does." Will smiled at her and approached the body of the soldier who had just nearly cost him his life. "Anything on this guy that could be useful?" He leaned over and rifled through his pockets, eventually pulling out a vigor. "Murder of Crows. Huh."

Booker chimed in. "I had one of those off these guys before. The vigor packs a punch."

Will grinned. "Might as well drink it, then." He downed the contents of the bottle and proceeded to stare at his hands for a moment, as if something fascinating was on them.

"Those vigor things scare me," I said. "You both stare at your hands and scream after you drink them." Booker nudged corpses on the floor, looking distant. ". . . Booker? Are you okay?"

Elizabeth patted my shoulder. "He's probably just back with some painful memories right now."

Slate's voice came across the PA again. "Do you see these two, young ladies? The men that Comstock wishes he could be!"

Booker groaned. "I don't want to do this, Slate! Just give me what I need."

Slate laughed dryly. "I will. After you do the same for me. Come and look for me among the Boxers."

Elizabeth tilted her head. "Who are the Boxers?"

"The Chinese. He wants us to head to the other display.

"Do you hear Comstock's tin men, coming to silence us?" shouted Slate. "But we are the true patriots! The history doesn't fit in their books." With that, Slate left us in the room, alone.

"We might as well be heading back. The Boxers are waiting for us." Booker lead us back through the exhibit, and towards the Boxers.