Booker had sat on the cott for several hours after Elizabeth left. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted her to stay with him forever. Cursing himself, he shamed his actions. He could've escaped with her. They could have went to Paris, and ran away together. But he had to be supid and unselfish. His heart wayed heavy, unable to resist the urdge to feel sorry for himself. Why did he have to change? Why did his heart, that was cold, now feel warm and defeated. Elizabeth was all he ever had that made sense in this world, and she was gone.
The man can to his cell, requesting his attandance to his own demise. Booker stood up from the cott, nodding his head up at the man. He slid on his boots, rulling up his sleeves and huffing. The man nodded to the guard, and he was cuffed again like before. Booker followed the man, looking at his feet. The walk was quiet, neither men talking. Finally, the stranger spoke. "I may not know everything you did, but anyone who makes such a connection with Mrs. Comstock.. must have a special quality that we can't see," He said. Booker shrugged his shoulders, his green eyes falling to the ground again.
The man didn't care if his pride was lost or his dignity. All he wanted was to get it over with. He wanted the pain he felt to go away. Even if that meant dying. He'd die for Elizabeth any day. The stranger spoke again, quietly lighting a cigarette. "You are a strange man, Mr. DeWitt, but I suppose everyone has their evil's. Comstock has a beef with you that no one understands, and I was never one to believe his prophocies. I don't know what or who you are, but I do know that we've all under estimated you." Booker watched the back of the man's head, trying to understand him. His words were genuine, and there was a gentle kindness to them as well.
Booker opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. He didn't know this man well enough to give him any praise. The man was just giving his moral opinion. Booker just nodded, quietly walking along beside him. The stranger was lean, but much smaller than Booker was. His hands were small, but by the way he carried himself showed that he could protect himself. The man's forearms were half the size of Booker's, and he was an inch and a half shorter. Although, Booker had seen many men such as him that could do decent in a fight.
The man's dark blue eyes shimmered with an unrepresent light. It reminded him of his own. So much story to be told, but little to say about it. The eyes were a window to the soul, as some said, but these eyes weren't whispering anything. They held so much pain and so much torture. You can't mimic the look of a pure sadist. He was a handsome man with dark black hair that fell around his pale skin and short face. The bridge of his nose and chizzled cheeckbones mirrored a statue. Booker had learned to never judge a book by its cover, but it was hard to when that book was so perfect.
There wasn't anything bad about the man beside him. His body was in perfect aline, from his head to his feet. There wasn't a single part of his body with anything faulting or destroyed. Booker looked away, his eyes adverting the man. The more he stared, the more he became curious. Who was this man and where did he come from? The man looked at Booker now, studying his body. He compared himself to his own body structure, much like Booker did. Only his intent was for study. He had only heard about Booker through rumors from the townspeople. He was smaller than they described, but more broad than he suspected.
Booker's body was built for mass destruction. His shoulders were half the man's size, and his fists when clenched were like bricks. No one would last in a fight with him unless you were a body builder. Even then it would be an equal fight. He wasn't perfectly handsome, but he had fair like qualities to him. The man suspected that he wasn't confident in himself to show his looks, but also didn't give a damn enough. Booker was an older man, in his late thirties. And from what the man could gather, he's seen a lot of things. The man was only in his late twenties, but has seen almost as equal amount as Booker has.
The two men were similar in many ways, but different in others. They were intellegent, but not intelligent enough to understand science or conceptual thinking. Each of them were street smart, mostly from their experiences. Booker has had too much blood on his hands, and the stranger had only had few. The stranger stared down at his hand, then back up to the direction they headed. He started to doubt Comstock's ideas. Booker wasn't half the man that he made him out to be, but what did he know. The man had only seen Booker every so often now. It wasn't what he had done though, but for what Elizabeth had. The young girl clung to Booker with frantic eyes. She couldn't go on without him. No monster has that effect on people.
The man shook his head. No, he thought, I must stick to the job at hand. Booker is to be hanged for his crimes. The man snarled, pulling the larger one along. They made it to the gallows, everyone awaiting their arrival. Comstock stood in front of the noose, smirking devilishly at Booker. The man sneered, avoiding his eyes. He couldn't look at the rotten snake. All he was to him was a mad man. He was nothing short of evil. There wasn't anything real to his ideas. All of them were faked, and Booker knew it. Prophacies weren't fortold, they were written in ignorance. One single man can not harness the power to see to the future or speak to the dead. He was a traitor, and he was playing God.
Booker was thrown on his knees in front of Comstock. The stranger grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at him. "You know this is what you deserve. Do anything stupid and you'll get much worse," He said. Booker sneered up at him. "Tell me who you are." The man stood up straight, looking down at him. His face was grave and unmoving. "Since you are about to be executed... I will tell you my name. It's Slate." The man winked, throwing on his hood. Booker's eyes widened, and he watched the man walk down the stairs. Booker's heart pounded against his chest. He knew he'd seen the man before. He looked so familiar, but he couldn't understand from where. But Slate wasn't that young. He wasn't even that young when Booker first met him.
His memory flashed back to the war. Wounded Knee. Blood. So much blood. Booker groaned, feeling pain all over his body. Something wet dripped down his face and onto the floor. "Huh?" He looked down, his eyebrows furrowed. "A n-n-nosebleed. Again?" Booker's nosebleed's were triggered by something. He was sure about that. But what he wasn't sure about was what those triggers were. His head pounded and he wanted to know more. He was about to die, didn't he have that option? Comstock ordered his guards to get Booker to his feet. He turned to the crowd, calling out to them.
"Today, the city of Columbia will get their vengence on Booker DeWitt, the False Shephard! Never will he again steal our heir and take over this city! We will make him pay for the lives that were lost because of his foolishness!" He cheered. Everyone else roared, tension rising in the air. Booker swallowed, looking down at his feet. Blood no longer dripped down his face, and it was beginning to dry against his face. Why was this happening? This didn't make any sense to him. The debts, the alcohol, the blood, the girl. Nothing was right.
Booker's head pounded harder as he tried to process it. Tried to make sense. Tried to understand. Comstock turned to him, looking him in the eye. "Are you ready, DeWitt?" The man nodded, his sneer saying it all. The noose was tied around his neck, and the crowd became silent. Booker took in a deep breath, his hands shaking through the cuffs. The guards stood around the gallows, just incase Booker had made a run for it. But this man was done running. He was done fighting for something that didn't make sense to him. He was finally going to be free.
Breathing again, he closed his eyes and listened. Listened to the heavy breathing of those around him. Listened to the faint whispers of the watching people. And he listened to the sound of his heart pounding against his solid chest which rose with each breath. Booker wasn't afraid of death. He welcomed it with open arms. He didn't want to be in this world any longer. There was nothing for him here anymore. It was all a mystery that he couldn't uncover. His past, the future, and his gaping holes in his memory. They would never be anything more than holes. Deep, empty crevices that stayed there in the caverns of his mind.
Comstock's hand rested over the lever, waiting a second more. Booker stood there, opening his eyes. The crowd cheered Comstock, begging him to pull the lever. The old man smirked, looking over at Booker. "Any last words, DeWitt?" He asked. The man shook his head. "I ain't got a damn thing to say to you." The old man laughed. "You always had a way with words, Booker." He pulled the lever, and Booker took one last breath. The air felt sweet against his lips, and he treasured his last breath. Wind whipped past him, and he waited for the pain to come.
"No!"
A figure jumped down from the sky, breaking through the open field. Booker felt his body falling to the ground, and he struggled to catch his grip. His body collapsed to the wooded floor with a thud. He groaned, blinking his green eyes. He watched as a figure, armed with a skyhook, fought off several guards. Comstock stood in horror, watching them maliciously murder them all. When the damage was done, Booker began to lose conciousness. His vision blurred and faded. The figure stood in front of Comstock, shoving the skyhook to his throat.
"Any last words, Comstock?" The person growled. Their voice was muffled, and Booker couldn't make out who it was. The old man screamed as the person cut open his throat, slamming him to the ground. Everyone in the field screamed, running away from the monster. Booker grumbled and moaned, still unable to move. The figure kneeled in front of him, looking down at his body. "Booker, stay with me... Booker!" He faded back out of conciousness just as the person began to drag him across the floor to saftey.