Booker DeWitt left promptly, he'd stopped to find some fitting clothes and took with him a small sum of money. The whiskey he'd drank warmed him despite the cold wind that morning. But he still walked with his head down, trying to process all that he'd heard; reflecting on everything he'd done since coming to Columbia. He had to find a way to get to that tower, he knew that much. Clearing his head he forced himself to focus on the task ahead.
DeWitt had followed a path through the side-streets, to avoid drawing attention to himself, he realised how quickly recent events had transpired and doubted anyone could, or would, recognize him, but he wasn't one to take risks right now.
The alleyways of Columbia weren't like those of America's industrial cities, they were tight, European. The paths were mostly brick or cobblestone, plants hung down from the buildings which rose high above the ground he was walking on. DeWitt wasn't the only person who'd decided that walking the main streets wasn't prudent it seemed, the alleyways weren't empty, people scurried about around him, most of them on their way to work. Booker took a brisk pace, moving quickly, he passed gents and ladies that looked like they belong to high society, walking head down, visibly nervous.
DeWitt made a point of not looking anyone in the eyes, keeping his head down as well, when a man asked him for the time he simply kept walking, slowing only to unclip the chain from his pocketwatch and hide it all together. Walking in this position proved to be a dangerous risk, as he was perilously close to a police checkpoint when he looked up; the city was locking down.
He calculated his options quickly and identified the one that would look the least suspicious, even if it was a bit of a gamble; turning before he reached the checkpoint he walked up to a door and in one fluid motion grabbed the handle, hitched it upwards and forced a turn, the mechanism snapped cleanly, rather quietly as well. Breaking in this way was a trick he'd learned from his days as a Pinkerton, and had saved him on more than one occasion, unfortunately it didn't work with the newer doors, aside from that it also had the drawback of jamming the mechanism, keeping the door from shutting now that he was inside. He kept it shut with his foot and stopped to take in his surroundings. He'd entered through service entrance of what looked to be a rather upscale apartment house, luckily devoid of any activity.
Waiting briefly, to make sure anyone who'd seen him come in had moved away he let the door creak slowly open and went for the nearest staircase, climbing the flights two steps at a time. Once he'd reached the third floor he stopped to listen for pursuers, but heard nothing. More calmly now, catching his breath, Booker kept going, hoping to reach the roof.
No such luck.
At the fifth floor the staircase stopped, Booker stood facing a rather large oak door with a golden "5" on it. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for movement on the other side, satisfied that there was no one he then once again pried the door open, the lock snapping from the pressure.
Stepping over the threshold DeWitt found himself not in a hallway lined with doors, but inside an apartment, large and impressively decorated. He froze for a second, expecting to hear a housewife or a maid screaming, or a gruff voice asking him what his business was, but the place seemed empty. He tiptoed through the apartment, admiring the lavish furnishings, gold trimmed velvet curtains and polished hardwood floor. He passed into the kitchen, checking for traces of life, making sure nothing was cooking, or left out, as that would signify someone was either here or coming back. He tread lightly, checking around corners.
Booker reached the bedrooms, the first was a childs, a young girls from the look of it, the walls had pink wallpaper, the sort with off-white pinstripes and cute little designs of flowers along the skirting board. The bed was small, and atop the duvet lay an old faded yellow blanket, no doubt the child's favorite. A closet was half open, clothes neatly hung up, and sitting on what was likely a toy chest sat a doll in a bright pink dress. DeWitt stared through the doorway at the room, why did a little girl's room seem so familiar to him? He vision got foggy and his head started to pound, as if the deja vu was giving him physical symptoms now. He turned away, gritting his teeth, and as quickly as the pain had come it'd subsided. A cold sweat lingering on Bookers brow. The next door over was a washroom, he walked in and turned the tap, washing his face with cold water. The water came away with a red tinge, glancing up into the mirror he was surprised to see his nose was bleeding. Booker washed again and took a handkerchief from the washroom, pressing it to his nose.
Finally he went to the last room, the parents room. It was no less lavish than the rest of the house, the people who lived here obviously had money; Booker stared at the bed itself longingly, he couldn't recall the last time he'd slept in comfortable quarters. Not the dingy backroom of the pub, not his home before that, a bottle-strewn apartment with a mattress on the floor and sink full of dishes. Casting the thoughts from his head Booker went over to the window, glancing out at the street below; police presence had intensified, there was a couple of roadblocks set up between his location and the bridge to Monument island. Everyone kept their head down as they walked the streets, it seemed the police in Columbia instilled fear in everyone, not just the lower-class.
DeWitt considered his options, he needed time to think, and there was no time like the present. Brazenly he lit us a cigarette, standing, relaxed, by the window.
"Sally! Go to your room, now! I'll not having you embarrassing your mother and I again!"
DeWitt flicked away the cigarette, suddenly focused; "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck." He muttered, the owners of the house had just come home. DeWitt glanced at the wardrobe in the room, he wouldn't fit. He looked out the window but there was nothing, no ladder, no fire escape, not so much as a vine to hang onto. The only thing that seemed to be an option was a hook on a building on the opposite side of the street, it looked to be made from the same material as the skylines. Booker considered his options as footsteps approached the room, the hook was too far to jump for, if it wasn't magnetic he'd be jumping from the 5th floor, likely to his death. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, certain he could beat the husband into submission without breaking a sweat.
No, i'm done hurting innocent people, he thought. Stepping onto the windowsill he leapt off, reaching out, holding the trigger, praying it would work.
Booker groaned audibly when the now-familiar feeling of his arm being pulled from its socket coursed through his nerve endings. The skyhook had latched on, he released the trigger and landed deftly onto a balcony beneath him, the door was shut and the curtains drawn so he wasn't too worried about being discovered, he only hoped no pedestrians below had seen his figure zooming from building to building.
Booker leaned against the balcony railing, glancing over at the room he'd just left, the husband and wife were there now, a man of about Bookers age, tall but thin, with black hair neatly laid back. He could hear him yelling from here, it was perhaps fortunate that the man was angry, or he would undoubtedly have noticed that the door wasn't locked.
Booker stared intently, unable to draw his eyes away from the scene. The man stopped yelling and turned away; his wife, a girl of maybe 20 stood beside him, head down, fingers fumbling nervously with her purse. In one brief, swift motion the husband span around again and backhanded the girl, hard enough that she fell onto the bed and out of DeWitt's view.
Booker felt sick to the stomach, tempted to go back to that apartment and beat the man senseless. He'd made a vow since his military days, never to hurt another woman or child. Already he'd broken it inadvertently, when he didn't help the shoeshine Irish's son. He looked around for a hook on the building across from him, sorely tempted to go back, but even after he'd seen one he forced himself to turn away, knowing that it wasn't his place to interfere in something as common as a man hitting his wife, even if it did infuriate him. Booker had to be calculating now, careful.
He debated going through the balcony door, but decided that the risk was too great, he wouldn't hear anyone on the other side with the noise of the street. Considering his options he looked at the hook he'd jumped to - within second he was balancing on the balcony railing, he jumped up and grabbed the hook with his hands, pulling himself up he maneuvered his body, got his legs up, then pushed himself further up, until he'd grabbed roofs edge and scrambled up quickly.
Moving away from the edge DeWitt noticed, surprised at himself, that none of the buildings had gutters, in New York he'd have ended up grabbing a one, possibly breaking it off and falling had he attempted the same stunt. It made sense, he thought, as there were no trees taller than buildings in Columbia.
He stood on the roof, staring at the looming monument, it seemed close, but like with anything massive, distances relative to it are understated. He knew he still had a long way to go before reaching the statue, but at least he'd finally reached the relative safety of the rooftops. Booker walked at a steady pace; jumping the small gaps between roofs was easy, but he knew he'd have to find a skyline to reach the statue itself.