Note: Not much to say here either. Well, actually, if you ever research the typical cuisines of the 1900s, you're going to get a lot of fairly unhelpful, general descriptions. The most specific stuff I found was something that seemed like it was half-comedy-list, and something that read literally like a menu in the form of a timeline. What can I say. When you make a Bioshock Infinite fanfic, you're kinda obligated to aim for the greatest amount of accuracy possible. If only to do justice to the property. I also feel I ought to warn all of you that updates will be sporadic for a while, as classes start up again tomorrow. So that really cuts into potential writing time. Anyways. Please review and comment. I do not own Bioshock, Bioshock Infinite, nor any affiliated characters.
Booker pulled back his chair from the table and sat down. Picking up his fork and knife, he made small cuts into the main dish. It was rather plain fare: some leftover beef slices from the night before, with corn and some bread. A good deal of the money he earned in the business had to go back into keeping the business itself in working order. Whatever was left over let him and Anna live fairly comfortably, though not overly so. They weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination, but they did alright.
Booker glanced up at the deep blue dress Anna had on, one of those occasional finer-things purchases. The pain he'd felt in the office returned, and suddenly he wasn't looking at Anna, at the small table they used for a variety of purposes. He was looking at a different Anna, many years older than she was, in a long dress of the same color with a white corset and matching jacket. As quickly as it had come, the pain and his vision cleared, and he was looking at the home and daughter he knew. Blinking hard, he realized he couldn't feel the same wetness. He surreptitiously raised his fingers to his mouth, and they came away clean. Anna, pre-occupied with her meal, hadn't noticed.
Best to just act normal, Booker decided.
"So," he said, popping one of the small pieces of beef into his mouth and swallowing before continuing "How was school?"
"Good." Ann replied, looking up from her plate. "We had a test today."
"What in?"
"Physics."
"Fourteen strikes me as a bit young to grasp the intricacies of reality, or some such nonsense."
She smiled. She had a look in her eye, like she was happily tolerating him and his ideas of proper schooling.
"I actually like it. And I did really well on the test." She offered.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Mr. Harris said-"
He couldn't hear the rest of what she said. The pain had come again, and with it, another vision. Another older Anna, in different clothes this time. A dark blue skirt and white blouse, her hair done up in a ponytail. They were in some sort of elevator, her and him.
"You know how I said I had plenty of time to read? Well I tried to figure it out," she said to him. "I read literature on physics and other such things."
"Yeah, and what did that teach you?" He asked.
"That there's a world of difference between what we see, and what is."
"-ou okay, Dad? Dad?" He heard faintly.
The vision faded away, and he saw the Anna he was used to. She looked worried. Very worried.
"Some reason I shouldn't be?" He asked.
"You're bleeding." She said. She rubbed a finger beneath her nose. "Right there."
Booker picked up a spare napkin and drew it across his face, wiping away most of the blood.
"Are you… okay, Dad? You're not-" Anna started to say. She had some knowledge of his previous problems where gambling and alcohol were concerned.
"No. I gave that sort of stuff up. You know that." He replied firmly.
"It's just-" She tried again.
"It's just nothing." His tone left no room for debate.
They picked at their plates in awkward silence for several minutes.
"How was the office?" Anna finally broke the silence. "Any interesting requests, or just more paranoid wives?"
Booker smirked. She'd been interested in the goings-on of his job since she was little, and that interest had only grown as she'd aged. It was the more outlandish things she found most exciting. The watching of suspected infidelous husbands might as well have been a housefly compared to some of cases she'd gotten him to tell her about, and occasionally accidentally involved in. The case involving the misunderstood ransom note remained a personal favorite of hers.
The events of today would definitely fit in her idea of an exciting day at the office. But with everything he'd been experiencing since, he didn't feel it wise to tell her.
"No, just more boring cases of men who don't owe money to other men, worried wives about where their husbands go at night."
Anna's face was a study in disappointment. Her sense of wonder and adventure was not a neglected sense.
Hours later, Booker was alone in his room. Anna was fast asleep, leaving him able to deal with the matters of the day.
He sat on his cot, staring at the bottle in the depths of his bag. The bottle the strange man had given him when he'd left the office.
"I'm probably going to regret this." He said to himself.
He reached into the bag and pulled the bottle out. He held it up, gazing at it. It was artfully crafted, ridges of sky-blue glass forming the patterns of wings. A picture in the center showed a raven's head, a bit of something Booker didn't want to think about clamped in its beak. The pain hit him again, stronger than ever before.
He saw himself pushing open a door. A man was on the other side, tied to a large plank of wood. Ravens shot out of nowhere, trailing black mist, and tore the man to shreds as he screamed. Booker walked out into a small garden. A flock of ravens flew in front of him. A man, dressed in black, with a coffin strapped to him, appeared amongst them and ran at him, swinging a sword. Booker threw fire from his hands and shot the man dead. He took a bottle from the man's corpse. He yanked the cap off and took a long swig. The color drained from his vision and a raven landed on his hand, beak bloody with a strand of tendon clamped inside. Men in a blue uniforms burst into the room from the other side, firing at him. He pointed at them, and flocks of ravens materialized from mid-air and swarmed the men, pecking and clawing and tearing at their hands, faces, eyes, necks.
He found himself back in his room, staring at the bottle. The same kind of bottle he'd taken off the corpse. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the card.
Note: Just for the sake of sense, italics are there to diferentiate Colubmia flashbacks from reality. Also in case anyone is wondering, we'll probably never learn what happened with the case of the misunderstood ransom note. I've managed to invent my own "Noodle Incident" by half-accident. For those not versed in the works of Bill Waterson, the "Noodle Incident" is an often-referenced, yet never explained case of incredible misbehavior on the part of pre-adolescent comic strip character Calvin. You can google "Noodle Incident" and get a much better definition of the term. Also, due to some personal problems I won't elaborate on, the next update will likely be at least a week or two off.