Author's note: Sooo I might get into writing this again! Putting out a small feeler chapter to see if any of the old fans are still around! Please leave a review!

Highly recommend rereading chapter 10 if you don't remember the story much!

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Booker knocked aggressively on the Boudains' hotel door.

When that door opened, the ex-Bianchi mafioso looked visibly anxious by Booker's presence. And rightfully so, because Booker's face was fixed with a glare that displayed internal malice.

" … Mister … Mr. Dewiit … ?"

"Come chat with me outside," Booker insisted, "now."

The ex-pinkerton needed to punch that face several times so he could feel a little fucking better about helping the disgusting pedophile escape his former mafia. Frankly Booker felt like he was being nice by only planning on punching the man's face, rather than outright killing him. The truth is Booker's actions here today might follow him back to New York City – and lead to more trouble for him and his family. All for a scumbag pedophile.

" … I don't think I will," Milton murmured with wide-eyed apprehension.

"You better fucking come outside," Booker growled, stepping one foot into the hotel room so Milton couldn't just close the door on him.

" … No … "

A loud snarl escaped the ex-soldier as he slammed a closed fist on the hotel door: "Get out of the room you god damn asshole before I make you!"

"I'm … I'm asking you to leave!"

Booker was about to snag the man by his shirt collar and drag him out of the room when Milton's wife approached them.

"Is … is something wrong, Mr. DeWitt?" she asked, also perturbed by the terrible energy the ex-Pinkerton was emitting.

Booker sucked in a deep breath. He realized he wasn't going to get to beat the shit out of Milton, because the man was not cooperating and Booker wasn't going to punch the damn man's face in front of his wife and his kids that lurked deeper in the room. This meant he wasn't going to get the sense of relief that came with punching someone that really deserved it, instead he was going to spend the rest of the night regretting Milton's face was wholly unpunched.

Oh well. Booker had an obvious method for causing the man pain without laying a finger on him.

That harsh gaze snapped from Milton to the ex-mafioso's fretting wife.

"Not sure how much you do or don't know about your husbands exploits – "

"-Mr. DeWitt, stop -

" – he was dealing drugs for the Bianchis. That's a mafia if you're not aware. – "

" – Enough! – "

"- And the mafia was chasing him down cause he'd accept fucking people's kids as payment rather than money. Got at least one eleven year old pregnant. I can't say for sure if eleven was on the younger end or the older end of kids he's willing to fuck, but maybe consider divorcing him before your little girl ends up pregnant too."

Satisfied that both Milton and his wife both looked absolutely mortified, Booker stepped away from their hotel room. He heard the beginnings of a relationship-ending marital spat behind him, which alleviated some of his frustrations.

Only a couple rooms down the hotel hallway, Booker saw Lillian standing at one of the doors. She had been watching them, cigarette in hand, wearing a lacy nightgown that was sheer across the chest.

Well, obviously you look, even if its for the briefest second, at people who unexpectedly enter your field of vision. And yeah, she was a busty, gorgeous girl. But the brief second passed, and now that he was aware of the salacious nightwear, Booker resolved not to focus his eyes anywhere below her neck.

"Three people died over that fucking asshole," Lillian commented, taking a puff of that cigarette. Her hand had a slight tremor to it, "I was lucky that I only almost died … Fred's brains were blown out of his skull."

Booker stopped about five feet away from her as he asked: "the guy you helped?"

" … yeah."

"Sorry to hear," Booker murmured before beginning to walk back toward his own room.

"Booker," Lillian called out, "do you want to join me in here? … share a drink? Or a cigarette?"

The ex-Pinkerton turned toward her, having to believe there was some sort of intention behind showing up in a hallway wearing a nightgown such as hers: " … I told you I'm a taken man."

Lillian's eyes narrowed.

" … Ah, I must have misspoke. I must have accidentally said, 'come fuck me' … when I actually meant to say: 'do you want to share a drink'? … Silly me."

Since he felt a little bad for being a dick to her on the train and really fucking bad over her failed efforts to save Fred from the gunfight he started, Booker chose to be subtle with his accusation.

"That's quite a nightgown for a woman that just wants to have a drink."

"I happened to be wearing it when I happened to hear commotion in the hallway; I didn't put on this nightgown for you specifically. – Booker, listen, I … I've been smacked around before but I never … literally thought I was going to be killed before today and … since you're the only man I'm familiar with in this city who isn't dead, I … I could really … really use some company," her voice actually quivered as she spoke, as if she were holding back tears.

Booked sighed. She was either an incredible actress or she was being sincere.

"I ain't gonna touch you, and you need to cover up," he insisted, "but sure, we can share a drink … it's been a terrible fucking day."

She stepped inside; Booker followed and closed the door.

"Is whiskey all right?" she asked, placing her cigarette into an ashtray.

"You shoot whiskey?"

"I do – As my choice in clothing has already offended you, feel free to grab whatever you consider appropriate for me to cover up with from my suitcase," Lillian commented with a slight bitterness, grabbing at a bottle of whiskey that she had left on the windowsill within the depths of the room. If men could be trusted to behave themselves it wouldn't matter what a woman wore.

Booker sighed – not really wanting to rummage through Lillian's damn clothes but she was already calling him out for being difficult. Her suitcase was lying open on the bed. Without being thorough, he grabbed what appeared to be a khaki colored coat.

But it seemed pretty damn heavy for a lady's coat. Really heavy for a coat in general.

Booker, now suspicious, began to unfold the coat. Had she actually traveled with a man? But she had been alone on the train, and she had just told him that he was the only man in this damn city she was familiar with.

Booker spared a glimpse toward Lillian who actually appeared uncomfortable. Nervous?

"That coat was my late husband's … " she explained, "I keep it for sentimental reasons."

Once fully unfolded, Booker examined the coat with a detective's curiosity. It appeared custom-made and of an extremely large size. So large, in fact, that whoever it was made for was likely several inches taller than Booker and sporting some truly broad shoulders.

A deep, deep anger stirred within the ex-pinkerton.

"Any chance your late husband is alive and named Noah Reed?"

When those irate green eyes flickered back toward Lillian, she no longer had a whiskey bottle in her hand – she had a knife drawn and pointed at him.

"Stay away from me!" she demanded, tone desperate.

Booker, very fucking confident he could disarm the blonde without issue, dropped the coat and surged toward her.

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In another realm, another space … there was a version of Elizabeth who called herself Liza.

Liza somehow survived the event that caused many, many of her sisters to disappear. Not all of them, but most, and now Elizabeths in general were quite the rarity.

Liza liked to wear red, unlike her sisters who seemed to constantly adorn white or blue.

Liza also liked killing Bookers and Comstocks.

In fact she was watching the dying breaths of a Booker right now – just another pathetic drunk that thought it would be a good idea to sell his daughter to a Luctece.

At that moment, a raven-haired woman in a violet dress was straddling the man – she had plunged a blade into that muscular chest thirteen times. The violent female hissed a couple of cruel insults as she watched this Booker cough up blood.

Liza watched. She liked to watch. She felt a certain sense of … serenity, watching an iteration of her father die.

She used to perform the kills herself, as she was on her own when she first started. But Liza had been quick about it – just using her powers to remove a Booker's lungs or slice through his aorta. She could easily get through a hundred Bookers or Comstocks in a single day and it became … boring. Unfulfilling.

So Liza started taking her time with it. She had developed techniques for ensuring the deaths were miserable and painful. She started taking on partners – or perhaps the more appropriate word would be pawns – to assist with the task. Certain pawns were very, very good at making Booker's last moments filled with complete misery and pain.

One of the easiest pawns to acquire was Samantha Dewitt. In all the realms Liz had ventured to, Samantha was always violent, just like her pathetic brother. And it was a Samantha that had just killed this realm's Booker.

This particular version of Samantha was a beautiful twenty year old. It wasn't common for Samantha to reach this age … usually Samantha was murdered as a child. As such Liza felt strongly compelled to snatch up this rare adult version of Samantha.

But they had been traveling together for three months now – killed thirty-seven Comstocks and forty-nine Bookers together – and Liza was already bored of her. The problem with Samanthas is that they were too damn similar. They were always stubborn, immature … worst of all possessive. Sometimes Liza wanted to exchange passions with a Daisy or a Constance or a Preston or a Noah without having to worry about Samantha's extreme overreactions to it.

Still, just looking at Samantha reminded Liza why she put up with her. Long dark hair, green eyes, pale skin, lovely breasts – more than a handful. It appeared to be a DeWitt constant that members of the family were always attractive.

Right now a look of disappointment touched Samantha's pretty face.

"This Booker died too easily," she noted with irritation, wiping the excess blood on her blade on a dry area of the corpse's pants.

"are you bored?" Liza asked, "try something new if stabbing him no longer excites you."

" … I'd love to have some fun using vigors, but a certain Elizabeth keeps telling me no," Samantha huffed, rising to her feet.

"You're enough of a terror without vigors - you've killed two of my lovers and maimed a third since I plucked you from your realm."

Samantha, as she sheathed her blade within a black leather belt that hung at her waist, delivered her response with an eerie sincerity: " … You shouldn't need anyone else but me, Liza."

Then Samantha moved to step toward her, but a dour expression emerged on Liza's face that stopped the green-eyed female in her tracks.

"You're severely overestimating your importance to me, Samantha," Liza sneered.

They were looking at each other now, sharing a quiet moment. One woman wore an expression of contempt, the other wore an expression of quiet rage.

It would be Liza who decided to make a peace offering … but it came with a price.

"You're right – this kill was not particularly exciting. I think we could use a bit of a challenge," Liza noted with a light tone, "I am going to locate a Booker that has an Elizabeth attached to him."

Samantha slowly grinned. While she was aware Liza had managed to kill a few Elizabeths in the past prior to their partnership, Samantha herself had only been involved in the death of one. And it had been extremely, extremely dangerous. It involved both Liza and that version of Elizabeth being unable to make use of their space-twisting powers or their divine sight. Not having Liza's powers as a failsafe in itself was thrilling … because there had been more than a few occasions where a skiled Booker or a prepared Comstock would have successfully defended themselves against Samantha and killed her if Liza had not intervened.

"I cannot properly protect you when we do this, and you nearly died last time. So the realm I choose will have a suitable partner that can assist us … Someone that can help us track down Elizabeth and Booker, someone that can appreciate our … ambitions. Someone I like. Someone you will not attempt to kill. And in exchange for your tolerance of a new partner, I will let you use vigors."

Samantha's eyes widened. The thought literally aroused her. A bit breathless, she whispered: "I want the flames – I want to feel the heat that will make a Booker scream. So many of them left me in the lake … I want to see them burn."

Liza smiled – it had been a while since she watched a Booker or Comstock set aflame.

"Devil's kiss, then – excellent choice."

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Author's Note: Would love some reviews! Trying to get back into creative writing again now that life has calmed down, I could use some inspiration. Hopefully I can somehow get Shtoops and Mr Brown and Scarlet and my awesome repeat reviewers back. I will leave shoutouts for anyone that takes the time to review!