Chapter TWs: Violence, canon typical racism, child abduction, violence against women, mentions of death.
The raffle envelopes the park as it does every year - with the mask of bright, patriotic colors and the overflowing voices of attendees. Only on occasion does she meet the eyes of someone with the same somberness and anxiety visible on their face as her stomach churns with. This is a time of joy to the citizens of Columbia and she is careful not to let anyone see her spoil it for fear of the consequences. Instead, she holds her head high and shoulders back; she curls her fingers tight, watching as Thomas searches the crowd for his parents. Absent as she expected, no doubt too caught up in their own idolized moods to remember their young son. Maxie knows what comes next - feels the dread building in her stomach as the blood pours through her ears until things are deafeningly silent.
She will have to rush the young boy away soon. Pry his eyes from the stage set before them and guide him to a place free of the hatred only hidden away by velvet curtains. The raffle brings a heavy air and she can feel eyes upon her flesh like flies burrowing into her wounds to lay their rotten eggs. Everything surrounding them is festering and she has to choke back bile.
"Master Thomas," she mutters, voice quivering with unwelcome anticipation, "It is time we leave."
The young boy frowns, gripping tightly onto her skirts as he scans the crowd once again, "Maxie, I cannot find mother. She promised she'd meet us here."
Jeremiah Fink makes his way forward, looking every part the villain of the story. Slick and commanding - he grabs the attention of all those in the cramped area, effectively interrupting her ward without saying a word. The bile in her throat rises again and she is forced to bring a hand to her lips. Her shoulders ache and eyes narrow at the bastard, as though she might force him to drop dead if she focuses hard enough. Still, the weight of his personality fogs the air until it is so thick she can hardly breath.
The cheat turned businessman shouts out into the crowd - his voice thundering about the courtyard until it feels that her insides are reverberating with its force. She cannot breath, she can hardly understand a word from his mouth, her heart races up into her throat.
"Maxie?" Thomas's voice is so small between the hammering in her head, "Maxie, what's wrong?"
She squeezes her eyes closed. Smiles. Opens her eyes and ruffles the boy's neat hair, "Just fine, Master Thomas."
From the sidelines, she sees one of the Founder Soldier's glare at her contact with the lad. The hand falls to her side and she focuses her attention forward, ignoring the way the hair on her neck stands up as hateful eyes rest upon her. His gaze could almost brand her skin with their heat. She takes a small step away from Thomas, just to be more precautious.
"Now, isn't she just the prettiest white girl in Columbia?" Fink booms into the crowd, motioning towards a woman clad in her most patriotic attire. Maxie frowns. Fink continues, "Alright then! The winner is... Number seventy-seven!"
She hears a woman shouting, catching glimpses as she waves to a man in the crowd. The crowd cheers, adding to the deafening noise that fills her head. It feels as though she is underwater, she cannot think clearly. Her frown grows; Maxie recognizes this man. The stranger, who still reminds her of a novel's mysterious detective, stands just out of place amongst the rest of the citizens. The curtain begins to rise, Fink joyfully cheering the man on.
Instead, all Hell breaks loose.
People are screaming and by the time she opens her eyes, one of the Prophet's soldiers, the same man who had glared daggers into her flesh, is whisking Thomas away from her. She screams and reaches for his outstretched hands; grasps on tight, his tiny fingers so delicate in ways she has never realized until this moment. The boy is crying, his screams cycling between calling for her and his mother. Suddenly, someone wraps their arms around her, tugging her with enough force that their hands slip - his small fingernails scratching into her palms with such force that she is sure she feels blood welling up from the wounds. She scrambles, twisting and turning in the grasp of her captor.
"Calm yourself, you simple wench!"
"Let go, I beg you," she kicks, tries to make contact with the soldier's groin, "That boy is my charge!"
"We'll be seeing about that when we find his mother, bog trotter," he growls into her ear, his grip so unpleasantly tight against her breasts. Tears sting at her eyes as she struggles to breath, panic and worry settling into her chest. It curls like a snake, waiting to strike deep in her heart. Thomas vanishes before her eyes, pulled away to safety and yet, away from her. "Now, what would a wench like you be doing here?"
The man's mouth is so close to her ear, she can feel his breath and still smell his morning meal. She screams and kicks harder, anger replacing her emotions so quickly it makes her stomach sick. The man smiles, "Not so mighty now, are you? Your kind isn't welcome here, lass."
Maxie screams and gives one last, hard kick. She finds her mark, connecting with the bastard's knee and she is shoved to the ground. It buys her only seconds and as she struggles to her feet, the soldier grabs at her ankle, pulling her back to the ground with such force that her head nearly makes contact with the stone beneath her. She uses her free foot to kick at his fingers, only for her other ankle to meet the same fate. The man snarls and pulls her towards him, scrapping her arms and knees against the tiles.
"You little whore," the soldier mutters, pulling out his baton, "you're going to pay for that."
A shot rings out and Maxie squeezes her eyes shut yet again, waiting for pain to fill her body - dead weight slumps against her chest. Her breath stops and she peaks an eye open, only to see a bloody mess forming from deep wounds on her attacker's back. With a gasp, she struggles free, shoving the weight off of her and crawling away. When she glances to her savior, the stranger stands before her and she catches what had caused the chaos around them.
A.D.
The False Shepard.
"Miss? Wait, I just—"
She does the opposite, running forward until her breath stings her throat and her feet ache. The man's voice calls for her to come back before vanishing beneath the pounding her her steps. Her hands are prying open a door before she can fully register her escape, slamming behind her as she twists and turns before coming to a halt, nearly tripping over the rug within her newfound hiding spot. She takes in her surroundings, breathing deep in a vein attempt to catch her breath and calm her hammering heart. The Blue Ribbon, she recognizes the place, only having ever been inside to accompany her mistress, but nonetheless, the emptiness outweighs the memories. She finally feels safe from the chaos, free of the Prophet's visions.
"We have company."
"We do indeed."
She turns, sharply, so quick that what hair had not fallen out of place from her previous ordeals begins to cascade down her back. She resists the urge to reach back and fix the mess she has become. She seethes, "Have you made a habit out of stalking me?"
"Stalking?"
"Perhaps it is you who is stalking us," the woman counters, her tone still so smug that Maxie wishes she could wrap her hands around her throat. What good would violence do against a women who is already dead, she thinks. "Ah, I believe I hear another guest."
"As expected."
"Some things never change, as they say."
She turns, not knowing what to expect and yet feeling as though she has lived this moment before. Her head aches and Maxie does not fight the urge to press into the bar when the False Shepard appears before them.
He frowns, looking between her and the dead twins, "You two again. Why are you following me?"
"Perhaps it is you who is following us."
"I..." The man sighs and Maxie notes that his finger still rests upon the trigger of his gun. Her mouth feels so dry and the man cautiously takes steps towards her, his unburdened hand reaching towards her as though she is some frightened animal. So, as if to prove him wrong, she snarls.
"Stand back! Not another step, False Shepard," she is amazed by the confidence beneath the shaking of her voice. She certainly does not feel it elsewhere, much to her annoyance, but she decides quickly that bravado in such a situation is foolish. "Anyone who associates with dead men is no friend of mine."
"Yeah? I just saved your life, miss," his voice is so commanding that she thinks back to her father in Ireland. It makes her chest burn and she finds it curious that he seems to brush aside her final statement. "At least let me ask if you're alright."
"Pretty as a peach," she mutters, before motioning to his gun, "Thank you, I suppose, but if anyone saw what you did for me, they'll see me thrown over the edge of the city."
"Dead men tell no tales," he says and she swears that he must have never spoken anything of a joke in all his days. His face falls, a deep frown forming and she can see just why he has such deep creases upon his face. "I'm looking for a girl."
"The Lamb," she confirms, fully aware of the Prophet's warnings. "You're looking to steal away the Prophet's Lamb."
"Strange thing to call someone, but if that's who I'm looking for," he trails off, searching through the pockets of his vest, "Here. You know how I can get here?"
She can feel the dead pair watching them, but makes no comment on the fact, instead taking the postcard from the stranger, the thick card stock comforting against her fingertips. Monument Island, gorgeous as it is, towers over the downtrodden like a giant, a reminder that this city will share none of the hope with them that it does with her citizens. So, she shrugs and sighs, carefully offering it back to the man before admitting, "I do, but the Founders will have their eyes on her. No one's allowed entry to the island, it would be a death sentence even for the best of the city."
"Your Prophet is that paranoid?"
"Seems he had the right idea, seeing as you showed up."
The man laughs, though it sounds weak, "I don't know what's going on here, but it ain't prophecies. Every conman has a trick."
"It doesn't matter what you believe, either way you're here and he knew you would be," she argues. After a brief pause for thought, she continues, "Why do you need the Lamb?"
"My business is my own."
"Do you want my help or not?" It's a threat, a weak one, but it still makes her feel as if she has gained the upper hand in her questioning. When he frowns (Well, he was already frowning, wasn't he?), she smiles over her victory. "Where are you taking her?"
He lets out a deep breath, drawing it out as his dark eyebrows knit together. She notices now how the red scarf tied around his neck brings out every bit of exhaustion lining his face - wrinkles to mirror his own. Finally, he answers, slowly as he carefully chooses his words, "New York. I have a... benefactor."
"You plan on selling her?"
He doesn't answer, but she still grins.
New York - a chance to start over, she thinks. She could finally be free of this life and who knows, maybe she'd even get treated like a human being for the first time in years. It could be grand; no one would know her face and name. She could become anyone, erase her past and ignore the scars left in her mind. She could even take Thomas if—
Thomas.
She pales and looks back to the man. Determined, as always, Maxie is quick to think of a plan - and a threat, "I'll help you, but I'll need something in return and you sound like just the man I need."
"I'm done making deals, miss."
"You need me, more than I need you," she lies. "Take me to New York. All I need is the clothes on my back - once we're in the city, I'll go on my way. In exchange, I'll take you to Monument Island, show you the best ways around. We'll be in and out."
The man frowns and shakes his head, "Too simple. What's the catch?"
"You aid me in finding one last person. My charge, rather: Master Thomas," she says, feeling tears stinging at the corners of her eyes once more. The lad must be terrified, perhaps even believe her dead. Would he be safe with the Founders? Would he find his mother? "Your ruckus at the raffle today ended with him taken from my side by the Prophet's men. You owe it to me to find the boy."
The man laughs and despite his appearance, she's surprised to find that it is rather jovial (though there is no denying the underlying sarcasm it holds), "No deal. I'm having trouble enough finding one person in this city."
"He may wish to rethink that," one of the Luteces, the woman, chimes in behind her and Maxie turns to watch them. The woman turns to her brother and raises a brow, the only sign of real emotion on her face she has witnessed since they came suddenly into her life. "One may find allies useful in his situation."
"Indeed. He is rather eager to break into a cage without a key."
"The key."
"The key."
Almost instinctively, Maxie's hand rises and grasps at her chest, the thick corset hiding any sign of the strange gift she had received only hours ago. The man watches, then says, "They gave you a key?"
"Seems that they gave me the key," she mocks, childlike glee already rising in her chest. She pulls the chain free, releasing both her locket and the gift from her breast. Delicately, she grasps the heavy metal in her hand and raises it to their eyes, a wicked smile on her face, "Do as I say, or I throw it over the city - should make your task here rather difficult."
"Impossible," the male Lutece quips.
"What's stopping me from taking it from you?"
"You still need a guide," she answers, certain even he knows his task will be both faster and safer with her at his side, "And you don't seem the man to assault a woman for something as simple as a key."
TWs: Violence, canon typical racism, child abduction, violence against women, mentions of death.
He frowns, "And what if I just drop you off at the nearest balloon once I have the girl?"
"First of all, it isn't balloons, but more importantly, you give me a sendoff against my will, I tell the girl you plan on selling her away like an animal for slaughter," she can feel her grin growing wider. Maxie may not be the smartest person, but she knows when she has someone beat. They both have something the other wants and she takes him for a gambling man.
"Did you two know about—," the twins are gone, just as suddenly as they had been that morning. Vanishing like ghosts in the air and Maxie is beginning to think that just might be the truth. He grunts, showing only the faintest surprise (has he been dealing with their strange antics all morning as well?) and suddenly he's shoving his gun into her hands, "Someone watching my back may not be the worst idea you have in that head of yours, but I expect you to hold up your end of the bargain. I need your help, you provide, got it?"
"Aye, I got it loud and clear, but I don't expect anymore of your weak threats thrown my way," she snarks back; it certainly helps that he's old enough to be her father, "All will go smoother if we show one another some respect."
"Fine, let's start with names," he sounds annoyed, like when her father had been bombarded with her and her siblings seemingly endless energy. She wonders, briefly, if he is a father. "Booker. Booker DeWitt. No more calling me the False Shepard, alright?"
He offers her his hand and every bit of Maxie's being yells at her not to take the bait, to protect herself first. She ignores her thoughts, shaking his hand and pushing back the surprise painfully sitting in her chest, threatening to climb up her throat. She swallows and nods, "They call me Maxine McMurphy, though that's followed by a swift punch to their nose. Call me Maxie. Pleasure is all mine Booker - you look like a Booker, old man."
"Don't call me that."
"Ain't it true?"
"It's rude."
"Never said I was anything but," she's laughing now, the first time she's laughed today at something so ridiculous - the first time she's laughed because there's hope for once in her life. The city will be nothing more than a bad memory soon - she'll be able to live her life and she'll be damned if she isn't taking Thomas with her. The boy deserves better than this. So, carefully, because she's been raised to know when she owes thanks, she mutters, "I appreciate your help, offered willingly or not."
"Why don't we safe the thanks for when we're out of this floating trap," he says, giving her a firm pat on the back. She stumbles and mutters a curse when he suddenly continues forward, not bothering to wait for her to catch her balance. It doesn't take her long to catch up though and when she does, she delivers him a quick punch to the arm before laughing as she takes the lead.