The couple made for an interesting sight, come morning the two made their way across the rooftops in the direction of the Welcome Center, and more importantly, to Jacoby's bar. Booker knew he'd need whatever money he had left to get out of Columbia; descending 15'000 ft. wasn't something that could be achieved on promises alone.
He'd elected to leave the tattered vest behind, and Elizabeth worked hard to fix his appearance; fixing his hair with her delicate fingers, using her cravat as a handkerchief she carefully wiped away blood, now dry, from the many scratches and lacerations Booker had sustained from shrapnel during the volley of cannon fire. She rolled up his sleeves into an Italian fold, and as a finishing touch, adjusted his collar, simply, but properly.
Booker knew he wouldn't pass for gentry, but he didn't need to, just the favored laborer of a pretty girl. Elizabeth in turn had survived the ordeal surprisingly well; aside from a tear in the seam of her blouse from when he'd saved her from falling, she had a clean and fresh appearance about her. He couldn't help smiling at the girls excitement, despite what she'd gone through in the last hours, now that she was confident Booker was alright, her eyes were wide with amazement, she ran from window to window, peering into rooms, spying people as they went about their everyday lives. She ran up to every flower she could find to study its color and scent, stuck herself out as far as she could over roof ledges, trying to see further, watching from above, down at the busy streets where people milled, and across at balconies; watching men enjoy their morning paper with a cigarette, or wives watering their plants before the intense heat of the midday sun. Her curiosity interrupted only by sporadic comments to Booker; "You have to take a look at this Mr. DeWitt!" or "Mr. DeWitt this is incredible! What could be more wonderful?"
They passed through an expansive rooftop garden, it's pathways cobblestone, fountains in each of it's four corners, and a great circular grass lawn in the middle of it. Benches and small tables lined the lawns edges and from its center protruded a glass triangle. Elizabeth ran to it immediately, pressing up against the glass looking inside, she spied a ballroom, dimly lit, a couple moving gracefully about.
Immediately she ran back to Booker and grabbed his arm, trying to pull him into a dance, laughing and smiling as she did so. DeWitt wrenched his arm free, and the girl, though visibly disappointed, let him be.
Rubbing his sore shoulder, the skin blue and swollen, he followed her, as much as he liked the girl, he knew he couldn't get attached to her; he had a job to do, to get Ms. Elizabeth back to America. It's what he was being paid for…
Wherever they were, DeWitt noticed, her hands were always touching something, her fingers running along rough stucco and coarse wooden boards. When her fingertips had slid across a rugged brick wall, she drew her hand away to study the red dust; it was then that Booker noticed her left pinky finger was cut short, topped with a shining silver thimble. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out, how do you casually ask somebody about a thimble for a finger? He contented himself to watch her. A single question loomed in the back of Bookers mind, what was so special about this girl that she'd been locked up inside a tower, studied, for years on end?
They were close to their destination, Booker knew the path, he'd traveled through this building once before: the first time he'd used a skyhook. He hadn't known it then, but it was the Blue Ribbon restaurant, rumored to be one of the finer eateries in Columbia, definitely the finest excluding the high-end restaurants that lined Emporia's boardwalk. Booker didn't need to mention their destination to Elizabeth, once they'd approached she perked up further, if that was possible. Head tilted back, nose high in the air; "Booker do you smell that? It smells delicious! Come! Hurry!" He took a deep breath, there was no denying that the smell was wonderful, freshly baked bread, cinnamon buns, coffee… DeWitt was downcast, knowing he had no money on him, the small sum he'd taken with him as a precaution he'd lost in all the chaos, besides they'd be lucky to be seated given their outward appearance. The man felt shame before Elizabeth, incapable of so much as feeding the girl, he walked head down. Finally he found the willpower to tell her they weren't stopping to eat, looking around only to discover she'd disappeared from view. He ran, full tilt, searching for her frantically;
"Elizabeth? Elizabeth! Eliz-"
She appeared from around a corner, her jovial attitude had evaporated in seconds, her eyes were focused and mouth set "Mr. DeWitt! What's wrong?"
He calmed down upon seeing her, "I… nothing. Where'd you go?"
She grinned and flicked something at him; he caught it with ease, surprising himself with his own reflexes. Between his thumb and index finger he held a gleaming round silver dollar, inspecting the coin he glanced back at Elizabeth.
"I thought you could use it" she said, smiling brightly again.
It amazed him how quickly her mood had shifted, even worried him slightly, but she'd certainly done a good job, they'd be eating breakfast. He played with the coin in his hand, "knuckle rolling" it, a trick he'd perfected from hours spent at backroom poker tables - usually losing. After just a couple of rolls he fumbled the coin, squeezing it tight in his fist, he could feel his hands shake. Deep breaths didn't help, only made him nauseous and caused his head to hurt.
Writing off this discomfort to his recent injuries, Booker forced himself to focus. Stress, the pain from an injured shoulder, bruised ribs… they'd all taken his toll on him, he figured… christ, how he wanted a drink. The sweet numbing sensation of whiskey through his body… god knows he'd settle for bathtub gin! Shivering slightly he caught up to Elizabeth, knowing he couldn't let his weakness show.
They stood at the hard oak double doors of the restaurant, a small glass window above the door was what was allowing the smell of fresh baked goods escape the building. Unfortunately, Booker realised, as he tugged on the door handle, the door itself was locked. He prepared himself, rubbing his shoulder, to force the lock once more. Pressing down he winced, before the lock gave way he cried out, feeling weak he grabbed the handle again, determined to succeed.
"Mr. DeWitt! What are you doing?"
"You want this damn door open don't you?" he answered gruffly.
Before he'd even finished speaking she'd nudged him gently aside, crouching down to the door. He watched a strand of hair fall across her forehead as she removed her hairclip and inserted it into the lock. A simple, playful twist of her wrist commanded the lock, the familiar click of the deadbolt retracting sounded out just loud enough for the two to hear.
Elizabeth looked up at Booker with a mischievous grin. "Not as helpless as you thought, am I, Mr. DeWitt."
"Where'd you learn to do that?" he asked, as she tucked the pin back into her hair, hiding the loose strand of hair.
"Trapped in a tower, with nothing but books and spare time." she scoffed, "You would be surprised what I know how to do."
"Yeah… I guess I would." he said, eyeing her suspiciously, the question of why she'd been locked up had never left his mind."
"Come on," he finally said, "let's eat."
Elizabeth wrapped her fingers around the handle.
"I wouldn't."
"Nor I.", came two voices from behind, their tone distinctly snobbish, and more than a little puffed up.
Elizabeth turned her head, Booker span round on his heel, fists clenched and ready. Even with a bruised shoulder he was far from helpless. Before them stood, side-by-side a man and a woman. There was no doubt in Bookers mind that the two were siblings, so similar were their features. Their hair color, indistinguishable, one from the other, their posture rigid and proper, nearly military. Elizabeth on the other hand didn't analyze them, she just admired how identical they were, even their clothes were the same, down to the plain green tie peeking out from under their vests. For a brief second she thought that the lady was taller, only to notice that she was wearing heels. At a glance one might mistake them for androgynous twins of either sex.
"Pity there's no score to keep this time, I wonder if they'd be this surprised every time." said the gentleman.
"I imagine they would, and look, the door's still shut."
"It is, I don't suppose we're that shocking, are we?"
"I don't see why we would be. I do hope they won't demand that we build a rapport. I have always been hopeless at small talk."
"Sure doesn't sound like it." muttered Booker.
"Rudeness is a sign of barbarity Mr. DeWitt." she snapped back.
"If it's barbarity you're looking for-"
"Why shouldn't we go in there?" said Elizabeth, abruptly silencing her companion.
"It's inadvisable." stated the man.
"What are you talk-"
He cleared his throat, interrupting Booker once more, and glanced over at the woman beside him.
From her vest pocket she withdrew a simple steel stopwatch and pressed down the button, watching the dial intently.
DeWitt and Elizabeth stared at her, confounded, just as he was about to start yelling from behind the door came the unmistakable sound of gunfire, of shot after shot being fired of in the restaurant below. Elizabeth gasped and ducked away from the door, Booker too, took a step away, but was surprised to find the two strangers standing still and rigid as ever, as if rooted in place, Rosalind tucking her pocketwatch away.
"11.4 seconds." she stated
"It is a pity our observations are now pointless."
"Observations are never pointless."
"There won't be a control to compare it too, this instance is unique."
"A fair point, but observations are nonetheless never pointless."
"Perhaps not."
Elizabeth had backed cautiously behind DeWitt, she could hear yelling from the restaurant, and yet these people seemed absolutely unfazed by it.
DeWitt had learned long ago not to ask too many questions, he grabbed Elizabeths wrist, ready to run back the way they'd come.
"You'll need this." Said Rosalind, extracting a small vial of yellow liquid from her jacket pocket.
Booker grabbed the vial and looked at it, a faint glow was coming from the liquid sealed inside, and an elaborate steel plaque decorated the bottle's front, an "L" chiseled across its face; "What the hell is it?"
"The difference between life and death."
"Yeah. Right." he sighed. "Come on Elizabeth."
Before she left she couldn't help her curiosity: "Who are you?"
"Robert Lutece." Said the gentleman, bowing gracefully.
"Rosalind." said the lady, with a nod of her head.
"Thank you… I'm Eliz-"
"Mrs. DeWitt, and Mr. Comstock. We know. Now run along, it'd be a pity to-" A gunshot drowned out the rest of her sentence, a single lead slug blowing through the wooden door that the couple had worked so hard to open, and burying itself in the nearby wall, it's power sending splinters flying through the air.
As Elizabeth approached the far corner, pulled along by Booker, she couldn't help but steal one last glance at the Luteces, but they'd disappeared when she looked back. Instead a gruff uniformed man had kicked open the door and was sprinting after them, a machine gun in his hands, raised, aimed at her.
A rush of adrenaline propelled her, instinctively she pulled her hand free of DeWitt's grip and turned to face her aggressor. She stared at him intently. He raised his rifle. She clenched her fists. Her eyes watered, her head pounded, a thousand razor blades shook and sliced through her brain and a thin stream of blood ran from her nose, cutting across her lips.
"STOP!" she screamed, her eyes now shut, gleaming tears running down her cheek.
A dull light shone, engulfing the soldier, he'd never had a chance to scream, to cry out in pain. In a brief instant he had simply disappeared.