Sometimes
Chapter Thirteen
"Slate! Get to the Airship with your men! I'll hold him off!" Booker snarled, as his left hand thundered with the Shock Jockey, attracting the attention of Songbird who seemed all too pleased in seeing him. With a swipe of the leather-covered claw the statue of Comstock was destroyed into large chunks, the debris crushing through the walls as large cracks began to appear on the floor.
"Father!" Anna screamed behind him, being carried out against her will by two of Slate's men.
"I'll be fine Anna!" he yelled back, aiming his shotgun towards the bird, who seemed to be bringing both his giant arms open wide around his body, as if to challenge him to charge.
"skit-skit-skiiiit!" the skittering noise of the monster's guttural verses was nearly deafening, as the beast crashed both of his hands against the floor, the chunks of concrete not enough to withstand the assault as they gave way.
Booker ran to the right, as Songbird charged through the massive hall, tearing apart the statues in their niches and destroying the base of the monument itself. This was the strength he had seen used when tearing apart Monument Island, the strength the beast had used against the Zeppelins…
This strength had to go.
He fired two more shots on the back of the beast, which spun around so fast with its wings that the gust of wind slammed against him like an air wall, sending him to tumble on the ground. He rolled back up, before running away from Songbird and deeper into the complex. He heard the beast screech behind him, as the pavement finally gave way and began to fall on the lower levels.
The twin claws of Songbird attached themselves to the safe chunks, the massive beast pulling itself back up as it looked with its red hued eyes at Booker.
The Devil's Kiss grenade impacted with strength against the bird's face, cracking his right glass eye. The thundering screech, soon followed by arcs of electricity running around the bird's body told him he had successfully pissed off the creature.
What more, this was something new. He had never seen Songbird do something like this the first time around, but as the bird opened its beak, Booker's eyes widened.
"Sh—"
He jumped to the side, avoiding a long ray of electricity as an overpowered Shock Jockey was sent back at him, at the same time transforming into the Jockey's crystals the spots on the floor and the wall it touched. Arcs of electricity literally surrounded Booker as he was faced with only three dead-ends. He could die in Peking, he could die in Wounded Knee or he could actually die through the torn doors that led to the Lady Comstock memorial.
The last one had three rooms one after the other. He could work with that he supposed.
As he began to dash through the torn apart doors, the stone archway that was holding Songbird back was broken, letting the beast pass through. Booker rolled just barely out of the range of the claws, as the screech of the beast came back to haunt him as he ran past the green gardens, ignoring the words that came from the speakers or the music sang. He held onto the Murder of Crows, hoping against all odds he wouldn't really need to…
The ground shook beneath his feet, as he stumbled bleakly through the third room. What he needed was a window or a backstage, or anything really that could bring him out.
A wave of heat suddenly made him sweat, as he blearily looked at the cracks of the walls sprouting flames. Another stumbling, another crash, and Songbird —covered in flames from head to toe— pounced at him through a hole the beast had made in the wall.
That was when Booker understood: the monster was using his tactics against him!
It was only luck —luck and a good dose of reflexes, that saved Booker from death by flaming claws. He fired a shot straight in the face of the enflamed Songbird, completely cracking apart the already broken eye and forcing the creature to divert the course, probably wracked by pain.
So instead of smashing Booker, only the beast's right wing crashed against the man's chest, breaking through the shield as he was flung in the air and against the hard stone wall of the third room. His breath was sucked out of his lungs as he could feel his entire skeleton crack beneath the strain.
Songbird instead crashed through the already proven ground, opening a hole and falling down in the pitch black darkness of the lower levels.
Booker collapsed on the ground, blood gushing out of his mouth as he coughed and spat. His vision blurred as the shield's magnetic effect slowly returned, resetting his bones through spasm of pain. He breathed in slowly, the pain of the act making him cry tears of frustration.
It hurt as if a train had decided to play ping-pong with his chest with a fellow friend —probably a mountain. He brought his hands close to him, as he slowly pushed against the floor to stand back up. The statue of the Lady Comstock had been ripped cleanly in half, as well as the library and much of the room itself was unrecognizable, if not for the carpet.
The carpet that just as he wobbled up on his feet…was pulled together with him through the chasm created by Songbird's passage in the room. Booker screamed as he fell down in the darkness, falling for miles as the lack of light showed a small bright dot at the end that grew until it revealed itself as a hole straight through the building and towards the air.
His hold on the Murder of Crows was proven worthwhile as he morphed into the flock and flew to the closest ledge, the fall broken as he landed roughly somewhere deep in the bowels of the Hall of Heroes.
"Welcome, citizen of Columbia!" a loud voice boomed at him as he wobbled back on his feet.
He blinked.
There, in front of him…
Were the mechanized vendors.
A small wood stairway seemed to be ascending soon afterwards, a Voxophone glinting on a crate half-open. He scampered as fast as he could towards the Vigor-Upgrading machine, putting the money inside hastily and pushing finally the button to receive the tonic-upgrader.
A small vial of a clear green color descended from the machine with a twirling of mechanisms, and as he uncorked it to drink it, he stilled.
Was this considered a Vigor, or wasn't it?
Possession that worked on humans was one of the bloodiest things that Columbia had ever birthed. Coupled with the fanaticism of the Columbian guards...the men and women of Columbia preferred committing ritualistic suicide from fear of being possessed by the False Shepard again, rather than just…leave.
Possession did not, per se, make people commit suicide. It just might show something horrible, but it was the person who held the choice of pulling the trigger or not…and all of them did.
This upgrade was more than powerful, it had many times saved his skin as he possessed the Beasts, or possessed in quick succession multiple enemies, killing them off and making them kill each other off. Yet…
"This isn't a Vigor," he mumbled to himself. "This is not a Vigor," he repeated as if it would enhance his words and make them true.
He took the small sip for what it was, and slowly felt his hand tingle lightly. He moved to press the Voxophone's play button, and sat down for a moment to catch his breath, as he fingered through his pockets for scraps of food he might have luckily picked up by chance.
Near the crate was a half-munched and hastily abandoned apple. He grabbed it and gave it a juicy bite as he listened to the Voxophone's creaky sounds.
Always asking us to move stuff around. They don't want the machines out and about, but then again it's the fifth time they have us move the crates with the samples. The Prophet was mad when Fink gave out samples of Nostrums around the population. Said 'the faith of God cannot be bought with trinkets!' and we had to remove them all. I think he was just pissed Fink tried to sell Lady Comstock merchandises, what with her being dead and all.
I'd be angry too.
Booker pushed the Voxophone aside, letting it fall on the ground as he pulled at the crate's upper side. He cracked the crate open, and then he blinked.
There were strings of red. The same type of scarf that the statue of Daisy Fitzeroy held between her hands, in that depiction of her preparing to strike down Lady Comstock. He actually wondered how they could sell, if such a thing had been conceded to circulate around…
The red slowly morphed to bright crimson as he touched one, before his hold on the string tightened. He felt the Bucking Bronco tonic boil…and as he flung it to try it out, the crate gently lifted itself up in mid-air.
With a flick of the hand…the crate flew.
So that was how the workers actually moved the crates from and towards the freighters. The speed of the crate was so high that it crashed against the wall, sending splinters to fly around.
He smiled slightly.
"Nice."
Then the ground around him cracked and splintered, as the Hall of Heroes above him groaned from the effort to remain intact even with a giant Songbird-sized hole through much of it. He cursed as he dashed up the stairs — quickly praying that wherever he'd end up it would be outside, or close to a crane or a Sky-Line.
He was not that lucky.
He stumbled upon the last flight of stairs, coming on the main floor with heavy iron doors blocked by steel locks —whatever was behind them had to be precious, he supposed. Next to the door, in a niche, a statue made of brass of Comstock seemed to be smirking as it held a sword in hand. The smile the statue held seemed to be taunting him about his inability to escape.
Booker's Sky-Hook tried to dent the door, but was not successful as the man cursed again, wincing as the effort made him short on breath. He looked at the statue next, and then at his hand and the red-blue string he had firmly tied to his right hand.
"Well, here goes nothing."
The next second, the statue of Zachary Comstock rose in the air, and with a surprisingly strong force, it crashed against the steel doors, denting them.
Booker screamed as he repeated the motion, using the statue as a battering ram to get through. It finally tore through, smashing apart the doors as the statue landed in a heap of deformed brass.
He stepped outside into a big hall, containing what seemed like heads. Many, many heads of Motorized Patriots stared back at him through the shelves, loose bits and pieces of electronics surrounding him.
There was another shake, this one stronger than before, soon followed by a spluttering sound as if an engine had just...died.
Booker's face paled nearly comically as he heard a triumphant screech so much glorifying Songbird. The monster was damn persistent now! He was glad the bird wasn't chasing Anna, but really, why did Zachary change his mind, and suddenly decide he had to go?
It might have been his words at Monument Island then?
Had that been enough?
Gravity seemed to disappear as Booker let out a loud scream, his body pushing him against the other side of the room as the shelves fell and the motorized patriots' heads flew everywhere. He found himself slammed hard against another wall, his head ringing as he bleakly focused on an incoming shelf.
Booker brought up the Bucking Bronco fast enough to stop the shelf midway, slamming it to the side. The wall creaked, but another shelf soon came down against him. He repeated the motion, the cracks starting to spread. He could make himself a way out…if he was fast enough.
"Work dammit!" he screamed as he forced another wave of Bucking Bronco to send the shelf against the weakened wall.
It broke apart then, showing him the outside and the sky passing by quickly. He jumped through, preferring not to 'sink with the ship' as the saying went.
As the Hall of Heroes plummeted to the ground, Booker found himself extending his Sky-Hook in hope for the Sky-Rail.
Songbird was behind him in a second.
He linked himself to the safety-rails just as the bird slammed against them. Songbird tore them apart and by consequence slowed Booker down, as the hook had to compensate for the change in inclination.
"Go faster!" he yelled as he pushed himself forward, hoping it might work.
Songbird pulled at the rails, his wings flapping without rhythm and one of his eyes oozing a sickening black liquid thick as tar, it seemed as if he was just hanging on because of desperation...
But Booker knew better.
The monster wasn't that easy to defeat, and he doubted anything but drowning him in the ocean would work. He should have gotten one of those instruments to control him sooner, rather than just dilly-dally around or get to Elizabeth immediately.
Now there he was, being pulled into the awaiting claws of…his eyes caught the movement of freighters incoming on a rail above them: he could use that.
His right hand moved to grasp at one of them, as the Bucking Bronco lifted it off the rail. With a sharp gesture of 'slam' the freighter fell straight on the head of Songbird, sending him to drop the Sky-Line as he plummeted beneath the clouds.
"AND STAY DOWN!" Booker snarled, as the Hook resumed its movement.
He breathed in and out slowly, as he opened and closed his right hand. This was a very, very useful thing. He could feel it…the Force was with him.
Booker dropped down from the Sky-Line and into the clearing of Soldier's Fields, the electrical generator seemingly repaired. There were a few corpses of Slate's men around, but many more belonged to the Columbia forces.
They had probably fought off one another.
As he pushed the lever to call back the hovering barge, he sighed in relief. The adrenaline left him weak in the knees, as he held himself with his hands to the safety-rail.
He could feel the sweat trickle down his back, as the dark blue robes of the Crows felt heavy upon his shoulders. He suspected he had probably quite a bit of work to do, but still…
He hadn't even faced off a motorized patriot to begin with that day.
"The Lord Judges," a mechanical voice wheezed behind him. He blinked. He closed his eyes as he breathed calmly.
"I—"
Possession turned the motorized patriot into a green hued friendly, who stilled right behind him. The rubber face it held displayed a smiling George Washington, but to him…they always looked creepy.
"Move there, would you kindly?" he grumbled, pointing to the broken ledge. The robot obeyed. He was nothing more than a slave to begin with, even though a machine was inferior to a man, so maybe calling it a slave was giving it more than it should demand.
He moved slowly in front of the thing, the cogs in its back still moving around. He took a deep breath, brought up his right leg, and then he kicked the mechanical monster out and down below.
"For family!" it screamed one last time, before plummeting beyond the clouds.
Booker sighed and resumed his wait for the barge. He gave a bored look over at the sea of corpses around him, before gently starting to look through them. Eventually somebody would come, and eventually somebody would start a fight…but till then, he might as well find something to eat.
He found a few bottles of salts, that he avidly drank to refill those he had lost, and then with a sigh of relief he grasped from a burly looking Firemen four vials of Morphine.
He made a lopsided smile as four became three, and as the barge finally arrived and he sat in it, hoping that Slate had kept Anna safe, he pushed the lever onboard again.
As the barge slowly moved…
Why couldn't they understand?
He was their leader.
He had guided them to Rapture. He had brought them to the city where the artist did not fear the censor, where the government did not exist, did not nationalize…and yet they did not understand.
Maddening beasts, once the source of intellectual thoughts and supreme poetical ability now reduced to blubbering and addicted beasts.
All because of the Adam. All because of Tenenbaum's research.
He held onto his golf club, flicking his wrist gently as he placed the ball in the hole. His office was immaculate, as if the rot and the stains that covered the rest of Rapture had not been able to reach it. He knew this was a lie of course, because they had.
They were just subtler about it.
Jack, the man from the surface, the agent of the American CIA or the Russian KGB…no, he wasn't either of them. He was stronger. If he had to hazard a truth, he'd say the man reminded him of his youth, of the time where he burned down forests rather than deliver them to moronic imbeciles who did not understand that 'what one has, one has the right to keep'.
He just hoped no other problem reared its ugly head up. He had an army, an army controlled by the pheromones he had ordered to be produced, an army that could give him the surface should he wish for it…but he didn't want the surface.
He wanted the glory of Rapture back.
There was a slight flicker of grey in his vision for a moment, as he stared through what looked like a tear in the space in front of him.
Another tired-looking man was on the other side. Bright blue eyes and a white beard, the look he held was the same as his…and truly, it was as if they were the same person as Andrew heard words he had never thought possible hearing before, especially not so abruptly and strangely, in his moment of need.
"Mr. Ryan? I have an offer for you…one that might solve all our problems."
And then Booker's eyes widened as he fell on the ground, retching in the corner of the gondola as it landed at its destination. The doors flew wide open a second later, as two of Slate's men walked in with their guns ready. They gave one quick look at him, before dropping their stance and helping him back up.
"It's Corporal DeWitt!" one of the soldiers exclaimed.
"He's alive! Lucky son of a b—" Slate's gruff voice was the most recognizable of them all, but amidst the cheers there was only one that truly made his heart beat faster.
"FATHER!" Anna barreled into his chest again, hugging him so tightly he could feel his poor abused bones creak again.
"Hey there," he whispered back softly, returning the hug for a moment longer. "Told you I'd be back."
"I know," she sniffled, as if she was holding back tears. "That's why I wasn't crying at all."
"Good to know," he chuckled. "So Slate, ready for Comstock?" he asked the old war buddy, his left hand remaining limp on Anna's shoulders. Was it a crime if he just wanted to keep her close?
He'd place her on his shoulders if he could hoist her up with enough strength.
"Corporal, let's get the fireworks started," Slate chuckled. "Tonight is a great night, Booker. Can't you feel it in the air?" the man began as he walked inside, Booker behind him. "Tonight we write history Booker, tonight Comstock dies or we die, but no matter which hands will hold the pen of the winner, our names will be written nonetheless! Do you hear me, men!?" he screamed to his soldiers, who howled back in response.
"We survived Wounded Knee!"
Yells of 'yes sir!' mixed with undistinguishable cheers.
"We survived Columbia's tin men! We survived Comstock's treachery! We survived his slaves! Tonight, this very night of the New Year, we begin a revolution!"
Booker blinked as the rest of Slate's men roared their joy.
New Year night?
No, that didn't make sense. It wasn't the night of the New Year, it was…
What day was it, anyway?
The newspaper all marked the date as March Fourteen, didn't they? Hadn't they?
So why…why was it…
Slate's body was slightly greyish now, as Booker's eyes narrowed for a moment…but then it was gone.
It had to be a trick of the light, he supposed.
Only a trick, and nothing more…it couldn't be anything more.
So why was the dread pooling once more into his stomach? And why was the need to actually grab Anna and make a run out of the city suddenly sound so very much appealing in that moment?
If Wounded Knee had taught him one thing…it was to never underestimate one's own instincts.
Author's notes
I could not resist the 'Jedi' reference.
The 'Nostrum' of Bucking Bronco is what I consider the logical answer to the E3 cut content of Elizabeth 'floating' Booker safely. Of course it also merges with the Elizabeth has 'psykokinetic' abilities.
If the 'form of fight' has not been understood yet, every time Booker faces Songbird, he takes something from the bird and earns a new Nostrum.
Just as if it was a 'game'.
That said, the reference to New Year is the day of the Rapture revolution. The date the 'game begins' isn't said, but the last entry in the newspaper in the Industrial Revolution minigame is the 13 March, so any day after that…(And I went with the 14th)
Another reference is the fate of the lonely 'motorized' patriot.
I actually never understood why Booker can't do that.
Possess one, move him near the ledge and then push him down.
It's not like they can fly now, can they?
I'm actually answering now by saying that no, there will be no Crossover with Bioshock. No splicers in Columbia and Vice-Versa. This was just Booker 'hallucinating' as usual…as realities start to melt.