Sometimes

Chapter Ten

Elizabeth Comstock, or actually Anna-without-a-surname, was moping. She had been ordered to dash inside the strange looking building with giant eagles all around and music playing, while Mr. Crow fought against Songbird. She was moping because she had already gone past the stages of shock, fear, disbelief, more fear and finally sadness and grief. She had also barely gone on a denial spree, expecting her savior to just waltz in a few minutes later unscathed…but she had quickly clamped down on it: nobody defeated Songbird.

Her jailer was anything but weak, and Mr. Crow…well, Mr. Crow was human, like her.

There was no way Mr. Crow was able to win against the giant bird. No matter how much she wished it, she knew her time outside in his company was coming to an end. The man had protected her for a bit, but now it seemed it was up to her to take care of herself. She had kept away from the building's windows, half-expecting Songbird's eyes to peek through and find her.

She had tried to leave, but the electric generator just exploded near her, making her scream in fear as the metal shutter closed. No matter what she had tried, she simply didn't have the strength to push it upwards. So she had rested her back against the wall, near the shutter, and had begun to mope.

She was moping, thinking about how Mr. Crow had told her he'd bring her to Paris, to meet her father...and then had died because of Songbird. She was imagining her father sort of like one of the Founders, with wide shoulders, a warm smile and kind eyes. Instead of the figure of Zachary, her father was lean, younger and stronger. He also had strong arms, but gentle fingers.

He would call her Anna softly, and then he'd hug her tightly to the point where her very own breath would hitch. The images of Mr. Crow actually hugging her made her blush. What was she thinking, feeling all tingly in the situation she was in? She had planned all she would do once out of the tower…but now it didn't even matter. Songbird was close, and he'd be there waiting for her to just give a peek outside.

Her adventure had come to an end.

She knew she shouldn't have trusted the man with his promises —she knew she would just end up deluded. Yet she couldn't help but believe in him, for some sort of strange reason. It was as if she had known the man somewhere else, a long time ago. He did have some sort of familiar air around him that just screamed 'safety' to her brain...maybe it was the blush that still was heating her face —it was making it difficult to think straight with its warmth.

And the ways he had held her…she actually shivered at that, a bitter smile forming on her lips. The man was dead by now. She knew that Songbird was just taking his sweet time, and that no other savior would ever come around. She had had her chance, and she had lost it.

She had looked around, every now and then dreading the sounds of hover-boats flying by, thinking them to be her transport back to her prison. Yet none had come for her. She had found quite the bit of cash, looking in every nook and cranny, placing her hands in the drawers and opening the locks she had found on a safe in the corner.

Sure, it wasn't properly legal, but 'in for a penny in for a pound' was written on one of the books she read, so why not?

She was finally starting to believe she would die of starvation, surrounded by those Eagle puppets, when she heard his voice coming across the metal shutter.

"Elizabeth!"

She had answered him, and the next thing she knew she had been out of there, staring into the man's tired face. His eyes had held a spark of relief she had never seen before, as if he had truly been worried about her. He looked dusty, to say the least. Had a house fallen on him to reduce him to such a state? He was the perfect example of disheveled and gruff appearances…and yet she couldn't help feel her heart flutter as he seemed to be finally on the verge of telling her his name.

Finally her knight in shining armor would have a name. What would it be? Lancelot? Arthur? Maybe he was called Julius Caesar? That sounded a bit of a mouthful though. Something simpler like Henry? Thomas? He didn't look like a Thomas, but with names she supposed you could never know before hearing it.

"I'm Wiscart, Ryan Wiscart."

He stammered the name out at the same time his thoughts called him the worst coward in the history of mankind. He could have told the girl his real name right there and then, and instead he hadn't. What else could he do? If he told her, she would ask more questions. And out of all the questions he dreaded, only one did he fear more than anything else.

What if there are more of us going around?

He feared that question because he knew the answer to it now. If he didn't, he wouldn't have hesitated a single second in letting the girl know who he was.

"So…Mr. Ryan," Anna said with a slight frown. "Why Mr. Crow?"

"I feigned being a race purist, ended up in a Crow reunion… I had to lie all the way out of it," he murmured, trying his best 'it is not important, do not pry' tone. And failing utterly when the girl asked again.

"They let you go like that?"

"Yes, they did."

The girl narrowed her eyes for a moment, but said nothing. She displayed shock for an instant, before exclaiming.

"I nearly forgot! Mr. Cro— Ryan, here!" and then she handed him over a bag. A bag filled with coins. Literally, a bag filled with something like over a thousand Silver Eagles.

"Where did you get the bag?" he asked perplexedly as he stared down at the veritable pool of money he was holding in his hands.

"I found it around… while I was waiting for you," she whispered with her eyes strangely fixing themselves on the wall near him. Why wasn't she looking at him in the face? Did he have some blood splattered on a cheek or something?

"We can't carry all this money around, people would notice," he retorted, grabbing a few larger-size coins from within. He didn't say money wasn't good to have around, but more than one thousand Silver Eagles in small pieces? That was a completely different thing.

"Oh, well… what happened with Songbird?"

"I wounded him," he replied as he dropped the bag in the corner. Some lucky soul would probably find it and have a field day, but for the moment they were set.

"Ah so you— you did what!?" Elizabeth's shriek was actually something that made him wince.

"I wounded him."

"That's not possible," the girl whispered. "He's…he's a giant! And he's really strong and…"

"And he ran away with a wounded wing," Booker finished her trailed off words, before putting his right hand on the girl's shoulder. "Listen to me, Anna: I promise I will get you to Paris and to your father, and nothing will stop me. Not Comstock, not Songbird, nothing will."

He didn't expect the girl to start bawling her eyes out, or for her to actually hug him of all people.

He didn't do hugs. Sure, he could hold people and he could pat people's heads or backs, but a mere and simple goody-two-shoe hug of a body pressed against his? That was out of the equation. He stiffened, nearly crying out in pain from the abuse of having his chest touched. His daughter noticed his discomfort, because she detached herself with a bashful expression.

"Sorry, are you hurt? I didn't see anything that looked like a wound Mr. Ryan, but—"

"Everything's fine: we should get going before we waste more time around here."

Anna nodded meekly, before following him quietly outside. She actually gave a worried glance around the sky, as if she expected Songbird to come back for another round. If the bird did, he'd show him a thing or two he could do with a flaming Sky-Hook. He actually wondered if he could 'empty' Songbird like a Turkey before filling him up with—

"Mr. Ryan? Why are you smiling like that?"

He blinked and then shrugged. "I was having a nice mental image," he replied truthfully.

"Oh…you know Duke and Dimwit?"

Booker realized it then that they had already been walking through Soldier's Field for a while, and while Anna was somehow chomping down on another Cotton Candy —was she hungry? Damn, he should have bought something to give her— they were now watching the puppet show of Duke and Dimwit.

"Don't be a Dimwit!" the show's puppet yelled out loud, followed by the children and, much to his embarrassment, Anna too.

"Anna," he chided the girl. His face grew softer a moment later. "Are you hungry?"

The girl had the decency to blush before meekly nodding. He smiled at her, before his gaze moved to where the glaring green neon of 'Café Eden' seemed to be calling out for him. He walked in that direction, the girl trailing behind him somewhat surprised, but as they entered the café she seemed to return to her vivacious self.

The café had been closed with a shutter the first time he had been around, probably because of the late hour, the news of the False Prophet and what-not. Now it was open, and the overly large matron at the counter was actually smiling at them with a kind sort of smile. The type Booker had come with years to associate to those nice folks who claimed that 'this loan? You won't even feel it draining your wallet!'

Still, the prices were fair —especially when one considered he wasn't actually 'earning' the money. And a couple of persons were already sitting in a corner of the bar, drinking their coffees or eating small sandwiches. He reached for the counter with Anna in tow.

"What can I bring you two lovebirds?" the counter-woman asked with her bright smile.

"Ah, we're—" he stopped midway. 'Father and daughter' was already on the tip of his tongue when he had frozen, and so it was Anna who took the words out of his mouth.

"I'm his daughter madam," Anna said with a slight rose color on her cheeks.

"Oh my, I'm sorry —I must have been misled. Well, what can I bring you, dearies?"

"Anything with meat in it," Booker managed to let out with a strangled tone. Did the girl know? How did she know? When did she know? How could she know? Who had told her? What the hell was he thinking all of this? Wasn't she angry at him? Was this the type of 'cool' anger women used? What was he going to do now?

"I'm fine with what my…father, takes." There it was again. He hadn't imagined it. Who the hell had told the girl!?

They sat down in a corner, after ordering also a few bottles of water because you never know when thirst might hit you. He stared at the girl with wide eyes, as the raven haired Anna instead just blushed and looked at the surface of the small table.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out in small squeaky voice.

"F…For what?"

"I panicked," she whispered. "I told her the first thing that came to my mind," she looked to the ground, her hands tightening against the table's cloth as she bit her lower lip. "It's just that…what else could I say? I'm the kidnapped and you're the kidnapper?"

Booker froze in place for a minute, before a loud half-strangled sigh of relief escaped his lips. He smiled a moment later, before chuckling nervously.

"Oh yeah, yeah right…I understand."

The embarrassing silence ended when his daughter began to talk again in a barely hearable voice.

"What are you, Mr. Ryan? Some sort of…of mercenary? A Vox Populi?"

"No," he answered back. "I'm not in this for the money, nor the ideals." He winced slightly, as he whispered back, "I'm a…I'm just a g—" he closed his eyes. "I'm just a selfish person."

He wasn't a good guy. He wasn't an idealist. He wasn't the mercenary of the first time, in this only for his debts. He was just selfishly claiming this girl as his daughter, never mind what the other Booker would say. The other Booker hadn't gone back for her, so she…she was free to claim?

He breathed in slowly. Who was he to 'claim' someone else's daughter? Who did he think he was?

I earned this! I did all that I had the first time!

The other hadn't gone back for her. He would have. He always would.

The other and you are the same, aren't you? You would and would not go back to her. You would and would not stop Comstock from taking your daughter.

Was it his fault, if someone else had not gone back to take Anna? But then, someone else had succeeded in claiming the young girl back, someone else had partially managed, someone else had never sold the girl in the first place, someone…

But the Lutece had gone to someone who would, because it made sense for them not to go to someone who would refuse.

Out of the infinite Bookers, a few had to be born in richness, a few had to become Zachary without the infertility brought forth by the Tears, and a few had to have refused the twins no matter what.

But out of the Infinite ones that had refused, Infinite ones had accepted.

Yet it was always only one girl, no matter the Bookers used.

Why only one Anna, with infinite of him available?

Experiment.

Thought experiment.

Stretch the boundaries.

He understood what this was, and the sick feeling settled in his soul as he felt the bile rise to his throat. He was a lab rat. A lab rat for a giant inhuman test on casualty and chances, on constant and variables. He was nothing more than an equation written on a chalkboard that the twins were so keen on watching unfold.

And then they'd erase the chalkboard, and start again with another him.

Deliver the gun!

He closed his eyes as a sharp bout of pain settled in his brain, forcing him to bring his hand to his face and feel the slick sensation of blood dripping on his open palm.

"Mr. Ryan," Anna whispered in fright. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," he answered back.

Where was the food to begin with?

"Mr. Ryan? Can I ask you a question?" she clasped her hands together, her eyes staring at the whitening knuckles as if to gather strength.

"Yeah, ask away."

"Is there a…is there a woman in your life, Mr. Ryan?"

He closed his eyes. There had been.

"There was, but she died giving birth."

The girl's eyes softened considerably, as she then asked the question he knew she would ask.

"Oh, so you have a child?"

"No," and the thick silence that came afterwards wasn't removed until after they had eaten their sandwiches and drank, and even then, there was this sort of somber mood that Booker hadn't recalled the first time around.

"So…that's why you're helping me," the girl murmured in the end, as the two of them stepped outside the café.

"Huh?"

"You're a kind man, Mr. Ryan," Anna smiled at him. "Don't let anyone tell you different, you hear me?"

"If you say so," he was embarrassed to admit it actually lifted his spirits, to have his daughter defend him. Maybe he could tell her the truth? Maybe as they took the transport to the First Lady airship. That would—

"Mr. Ryan? Do you know if I have a mother too?"

"Ah, no…she died." He muttered. "Her name was Mary: your father told me that."

"Like the virgin mother of the son of God?"

"Well, I suppose."

"You're not a believer?"

"I hardly think speaking to the empty air around you will do you good. It's hands that build a dam, not prayers for the river to stop flooding."

"God is much more than that, Mr. Ryan," Anna chided him.

Come on Booker, for me? It's just mass.

No. Never.

Never.

"God didn't do anything for my wife, why should I think he started caring all of a sudden?"

The girl sighed and shook her head slightly.

"God always cares: he sent you to get me out of my prison."

"No," he replied calmly. "There is no God. Only man."

The silence was deafening, interrupted only by the now closer crackling of the electric generator. He'd need the Shock Jockey to get past that, because without it the barge wouldn't move. He knew he'd have to trek all through the Hall of Heroes again, but if he got to where Slate was…then maybe he could convince the man to use his soldiers for a better cause?

As predicted, the generator gave away just as they moved closer to it.

He actually wondered why they always did that. Was there something that somehow resonated around the two of them? Had everything remained the same, he would have given the fault to Elizabeth's powers…but this time? This time he didn't know…

But did he actually care, as long as he had his daughter safe?

No, he realized as he slowly turned to reach for the hall of heroes. He didn't care.

The five hovering boats that suddenly rose from around them, surrounding them with the rockets and the Firemen within, with the few crazy Crows howling however…

That made him care, especially with the sixth smaller boat, with Zachary of all people aboard it.

"Very well," Zachary intoned. "You have proved your point, Mister Ryan. Now, would you kindly give me back my precious daughter?"

He anxiously gulped down, as his gaze fell to where the old hag of the Café Eden had apparently closed shop and was 'wooing' over the prophet's appearance. Of course…he'd have to change his clothes again, if he survived this ambush.

"Hey, Anna, do you trust me?" he asked the girl, who was probably far more afraid than him.

The girl's eyes narrowed as he gazed back at him, before nodding. A few of the guards were closing in on them, their hands on their batons as if ready to strike. Of course they wouldn't fire with the Volley Guns until Anna was away from him: they couldn't wound the girl.

"Good," then one of the guards got close enough.

It happened fast, faster than the others in the barge could understand. One moment, the kidnapper of the Lamb, the False Shepard, brought his arms upwards.

The next, he had grasped the Lamb, flung himself in a fiery charge that so much reminded the guards of a Fireman against a guard, and then all three of them had fallen beyond the safety rails, beneath the clouds.

"AFTER THEM!" the Prophet had yelled, but as the hover boats began their slow descent, miles below Booker DeWhitt had smashed the head of the Columbia guard, grabbed her Sky-Hook and then, always in mid-air, forced Anna to wear it.

"YOU'RE MAD!" Anna screamed straight at him, as he merely began to laugh. The Sky-Lines appeared beneath them, and as he hooked himself on the rail, he heard the satisfying clink of the girl following behind him. The rails rose a few meters afterwards, bringing the two of them back up, back into soldier's field, with the guards all running around like headless chickens and the crows screaming their hatred.

Booker jumped down on the rooftop, his eyes reaching to where the Hall of Heroes was. Next to him, he heard the soft clunk of Anna's feet land roughly and wobbly for the first time. He held her by the shoulders, making sure she was steady on her feet before walking through the rooftops to where the ladder of last time was.

"We need Shock Jockey," he told her. "We should find it in the Hall of Heroes."

Anna narrowed her eyes, but simply nodded. The girl seemed suspicious of something, but of what?

"Mr. Ryan? Have you ever been in Columbia before?" she tentatively asked, as he half-closed his eyes, trying to focus on the police forces now roaming around the streets. He supposed he could avoid them, or a large majority of them…but if only he had…

He heard a sniffle.

He heard a light sob and a choked crying noise coming from behind him.

Booker spun around faster than he thought possible, his shotgun already primed for firing…and he stilled when he saw Rosalind Lutece crying her eyes out, with her legs dangling from the other side of the rooftop.

Anna was looking at him perplexed: did she not see the woman?

"He left," she choked out between sobs. "I can't find him." Her face was filled with tears, falling down her chin. Her hand was holding onto a rather strong-looking alcohol. The letters read Peach Vodka, 95% of alcohol.

"Are you—"

"Don't you dare, Mr. DeWhitt!" she hissed back at him. "Don't even try! I'm not fine, can't you see it? I'm not fine! There's no perspective that can show I'm fine, because I'm not! I'm constantly not fine!"

He froze, turning to look at Anna who was still puzzled.

"She can't see me, DeWhitt, not if I don't want her to," Rosalind muttered. "I'm getting drunk everywhere and in anytime and I'm still not fine. Didn't alcohol work in getting away sorrows? Didn't it work for you, you thought experiment lab rat?"

He raised an eyebrow. That seemed quite a bit of a farfetched insult.

"Alcohol rarely solves problems, Miss…and if you could become visible, I'd gladly avoid looking like a madman."

"Why? Aren't you one to begin with? Look around! This is your product, isn't it? Columbia is as much a fruit of your labor as Anna is. This here, all of this…" her left arm made a wide berth to show all that was around them. "Is in you, pushing to get out. All that Zachary Comstock does, you could do to. All that he justifies, you do to. Do you think yourself racist? Well, guess what? You kill people just to advance your own schedule, Mr. DeWhitt. Zachary does that too, is he a racist or an opportunist? Different realities, same perspective. You're not a saint, and you're not a good man."

The woman choked another sob. "Robert," she pitifully whined. "I want Robert."

"Why?"

"Because he understands! Do you know how difficult it is to find someone that understands, Mr. DeWhitt? Do you know how difficult it is to find someone, a special someone, who will always be right next to you no matter what you say or do because he believes in the same things as you? Do you know that? Do you!? No, you don't. You just care for your daughter and that's all, so why are you surprised I care for Robert in the same way? He was there when I needed someone, someone who didn't look at me like a…like a frigid and horrendous woman devoid of emotions. Just because my jokes on physics were incomprehensible does not mean I have a horrid humor! He was my brother, my twin, the one who understood me…and now he's gone and I can't find him!"

"So why are you here?" Booker asked again, his shotgun now lax between his arms.

"Because I want to know, Mr. DeWhitt…I want to know if Robert's theory was correct or not."

"Why tell me this?"

"Because you are a lab rat, Mr. DeWhitt, but if you think this is going to change anything, then know this: interrupt the experiment in whatever way you can think of, and I will end you. I will smother you, burn you, chop you, and poison you. I will kill you, slowly and painfully until nothing remains. I will strangle you and drown you and beat you into a mush of pulpy flesh if you so much as try and fail the experiment. You are all I have left of Robert's theorem…and if you fail…I will kill you, not when you'll be in the middle of it, not when you'll be near the end or at the end. No, I will let you see the tower of Paris and hope for a better future, and then I will strike you down. I will make you suffer, Mr. DeWhitt…so don't you dare fail me."

And then the woman was gone, and Booker's throat constricted under the pressure of what he was being asked to do.

How did one win an experiment, if one had no clue what the experiment was in the first place?

But even then…

"Mr. Ryan? Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he choked out. "Yeah…"

As long as Anna was in Paris, watching the Tour Eiffel…did it matter if he would no longer be there with her?

Author's notes

Chapter's done.

Some of the cursive text is taken from the kindly Mr. Ryan.

What is Robert's fate? Smart-guys, I've hinted at it already.

And, well, some sort of confession did happen. As for the truth being revealed to Elizabeth, you'll have to wait the Slate-Booker showdown. I've already got the scene in mind and it's awesome.