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It was Elizabeth who drove them ever onwards, filled with a strange thirst for adventure now that she had escaped her cage, and Booker stayed at her side. Columbia, Rapture, Paris. “We’re just passing through,” they told people who asked, and it became their standard answer. They spent the fall After Columbia in Paris, lulled into complacency by the city’s atmosphere.
For a while, everything was perfect. She had her father by her side and the worlds at her feet.
She grew restless though, and Booker didn’t complain when she brought up moving on.
“There’s so much to see,” she said, and her enthusiasm must have shown on her face because he smiled at her.
“Then lead on,” he said.
They spent their last day in Paris sightseeing, visiting old favorites. In the evening they retreated to a cafe with lantern garlands that swung and twinkled in the fall breeze.
The street was almost empty. It was out of season - in as much as that was possible for Paris - and getting cold, so they wouldn’t be observed. She opened the tear and they stepped out of the brightly lit cafe into a darkness filled with noise and tiny stars. Then the pinpricks of light arranged themselves into windows, billboards, and a myriad of multi-colored lights. They were drenched within seconds, sheets of rain coming down on them, distorting their view and soaking their clothes.
“Hey!” someone shouted, and Elizabeth’s eyes tracked a woman running up to them, reaching into her pocket and drawing a short, gleaming stick. At her side, Booker was reacting instinctively, throwing himself in front of her, and then the woman tapped the stick and a buzzing, faintly glowing shield rose above them.
An umbrella, Elizabeth thought.It’s an umbrella.
Embarrassed, she thanked the woman and gazed around; to their right, the sea roared against the shore, to their left, the city screamed and throbbed. A cacophony of sound blasted from several directions, unfamiliar music whose beats overlapped and whose melodies had become distorted.
Transcend, the billboard at the side of the street read, Neural Galaxy Package 5.2 said the one below it, and Experience New Impossible Flavors - LL Industries the one beside it.
“Come here,” Booker said. He shrugged off his jacket and draped it across her shoulders, curling his hands around them. He looked - not scared, but uneasy. For all that they had become trans-dimensional travelers with several trips under their belts, Booker was always nervous the first days in a new place.
Booker found money, he always did, and it wasn’t difficult to do so in this city that found a use for everything and everyone. He took one of his weapons to a pawnshop and convinced the shopkeeper it was an antique, and they rented an apartment near the top of a building that connected to its neighbors via a series of railed walkways and ladders.
“Just you and your - friend?” The landlord asked, eying Elizabeth appreciatively.
“My daughter,” Booker said, a subtle threat in his voice that nearly made Elizabeth laugh. She’d come a long way from the helpless little girl in the tower.
Booker didn’t seem to care that their apartment was small and cramped, or that the water took forever to get warm and cooled far too quickly.
“Come on,” she beckoned him in the early days, “there’s so much to explore!”
And at first Booker was amicable; they spent an afternoon at an Old San Francisco exhibition, peering through the glass floor at the remains of the buried city beneath their feet. He followed her, never tiring, through the illegal side-street market where men and women dressed in mismatched clothes sold brightly colored capsules from stalls covered with black awnings. Their names were unfamiliar but their effects were not; Booker injected Nerve Stim - DC and grimaced, and they watched tiny bolts of lightning crack between his fingers.
“Eight hundred tales, warranty free,” said the saleswoman. She was unnaturally smooth, almost expressionless, but her eyes flicked nervously when a siren rang in the distance. “Enjoy.”
Elizabeth had balked at the price. They were having enough trouble getting money, but in the end practicality had won out: the little implant would let them power various devices in their apartment.
He followed her with watchful eyes, a hand on her shoulder when she was in danger of losing herself in the arrays of advertisements, a solid presence at her back when she stumbled into someone on the street. Elizabeth, in turn, learned to hide and blend in. She was no fool. This city was dangerous.
He didn’t understand why she wanted to stay here, and she couldn’t find the words to explain it. She couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness that pervaded this city like the early-morning fog.
“It’s just a city,” he said when they talked about it one night, perched side by side on the couch. Booker was flexing his fingers, drawing forth electricity and fire, and she reached out to steady his hand.
“You’ll burn it,” she said.
“Then I’ll sleep on the floor,” he replied. That had been a point of contention. They only had the couch and a niche built into the wall of the adjacent - and even smaller - room, with a thin mattress.
She’d offered to alternate using the bed, but he wouldn’t have it, gently steering her to the bedroom night after night. The first time he’d simply stood in the middle of the room, as if he were waiting for something, and it was only when she tugged off her scarf and started to unbutton her blouse that he’d turned around sharply and stalked away.
“It’s not just a city,” she said now. “And it’s definitely not San Francisco. It doesn’t look anything like it did in my books.” She hesitated. “It’s a new world, with so many different things. Only some - some seem familiar...” There was a thought nagging at the back of her mind, and she could almost grasp it.
He interrupted her reverie. “It can’t all be Paris.” And with the mention of Paris the thought was gone; she felt a pang of nostalgia. Maybe it wasn’t fair to them that she lead them from one place to the next, never stopping.
While she enjoyed this world and its wonders, she wondered when the time would come that Booker decided she was old enough to no longer need his protection. When he would get tired of gallivanting through the universe.
“Whatever it is, it’s not our business,” he said, “we’re just passing through.” She frowned and said nothing. They were both acutely aware that it was she who controlled their destination and their path.
Booker picked up work at a bar not far from their building: The Lily, a somewhat disreputable establishment where he scared off the dangerous traders, the unwelcome ones, and made sure the welcome ones weren’t bothered.
At night she lay awake, her thoughts on Booker and how they seemed to forever linger in the wreckage of their past lives. She listened for his breathing in the other room, listened to him toss and turn on the couch and was torn between the comfort of companionship and the guilt at keeping him tied to her.
She took the train to the edge of the city one day. For some reason, there didn’t seem to be a line that left the city. She stood on the side of the road, the roofs and buildings behind her rising like a wave, and in front of her an undefined mist seemed to swallow up the world.
She walked into it hesitantly, one foot in front of the other, counting. When she reached twenty, she turned around. The city had disappeared. There was nothing but the mist surrounding her on all sides, pressing into her. She walked back quickly.
She took the next train back and never spoke to Booker about it. Instead, she roamed through the streets looking for work - she could not let Booker be the only one contributing to their household.
A few days later, the opportunity presented itself in the form of a knife at her back. It was a rainy early afternoon and she and Booker were on their way to the Lily, crossing through the canopied wet market into a narrow alley. There were no bright billboards here, nothing but shadows and puddles.
They hurried their steps, not wishing to linger, but suddenly a hand pressed against Elizabeth’s throat. She struggled instinctively until a rough woman’s voice said, “I’d stop that if I were you. Don’t want to bleed out in the gutter, do you?”
Booker had turned around as well, but the sight of what was undoubtedly a knife cutting through her shirt and hovering against the side of her back gave him pause.
“That’s it,” the woman said, and Elizabeth wriggled her wrist. Booker’s eyes flashed her a clear warning - no, it’s not worth it - but she chose to ignore him. Amnesia ran through her veins, the curious little vigor she’d picked up during their travels. Its designer had discarded it, thinking mainly of the lack of opportunity for self-application. As a weapon, though…
“Your credit chip, please,” the woman said, “and any loose tales you might have on your persons.” In response, Elizabeth angled her wrist and let the Amnesia flow from her fingertips.
There was a clattering sound at her back - the knife - and the dull thud of someone stumbling into a wall. Or rather, someone being moved into said wall with not inconsiderable force, she mused. Booker had the woman pushed against the side of the nearest building.
“You alright?” he asked.
She nodded. “Fine,” she said, and coughed. Her throat felt a little sore, but the elation at her success drowned out any pain. “Let her go, she doesn’t remember anything.”
Booker was clearly still distrustful, but he did as she asked. He walked back to her, reaching out to frame her head between his hands and tilting it slightly.
“Nice aim,” he said. “Did you consider you might hit me instead?”
She shook her head, bemused. “And put up with you without your redeeming features?” She smiled.
Before he could reply, there was a whirring above them and a first-floor window was pushed open.
“Did you get her?” an excited woman’s voice said, then: “Shove off, George, I’m doing it at the window.” The smell of tobacco wafted down, and Elizabeth saw a small electric water pipe clutched in the woman’s hand. She was young, Elizabeth guessed, no older than maybe thirty, with untamed dark hair framing a slight face.
“Did you get her?” she repeated, and Elizabeth shouted back, “You know this woman?”
“Not by name,” she replied. “She’s been hanging out around here the past few weeks, grabbing anyone who came through the alley. Nice work, you two.” She nodded, then produced a small pad. “What’s your name?” she asked.
Booker shook his head. “What’s yours?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m Tanni.” The woman - Tanni - gave them a wave with her pipe. “I work for the Journal, doing a small story on thieves.”
“Liz,” Elizabeth shouted back. Then she hesitated. This would give her a lot of access. “You don’t happen to have a job opening, do you?”
And so she became a journalist - human interest stories, because she was not familiar enough with this world to dive into politics or the societal scene, and because it was a good excuse to travel around the city and ask silly questions.
From Tanni, Elizabeth learned what the ubiquitous logos of two L’s entwined meant.
“That’s our mayor,” she said when Elizabeth pointed out a logo that graced the municipal utility building they were passing. “Lucius Lincoln, our benevolent - or not so benevolent - overlord.”
“Overlord?” Elizabeth asked. “Just how tight is his grasp on this city?”
“Oh, it’s plenty tight,” Tanni replied. “Sure, there’s unlicensed dealers and you can pay someone here to do almost anything - but a good part of your money goes to Lucius.”
Elizabeth shivered, but she was secretly relieved. A mafioso sounded much more mundane than the monster that had been Comstock.
That evening when she returned home, they had pork filet filled with tomato and cheese for dinner. Not for the first time, Elizabeth wondered at Booker’s ability to cook.
“For a man who eats apples out of garbage bins, you have marvelous skills,” she said.
“I did what I had to,” he said.
Elizabeth was the one who who bought food, but Booker cooked for them. He disliked leaving the building during daytime. Even now he moved through the city like a man on the run.
She considered it thoughtfully, weighing the trouble that mentioning it might bring against the trouble that would arise if she didn’t. Eventually, she decided to bring ít up the next time he asked her to pick up groceries.
“Why don’t you go?” she said, her voice neutral.
“I told you, I don’t trust this place,” he said.
“Are you - Booker, are you afraid?” she asked, disbelieving. This was the man who had faced the Songbird, who had torn apart a city for her.
He looked away. “What if I’m here,” he said slowly. At her raised eyebrow, he sighed and continued: “What if there’s a Booker DeWitt here? I know what I’m capable of. What I could do in a place like this.”
She stepped towards him, grabbing his hand. “If you’re here, then I am, too,” she said. “I would -”
“Stop me? Prevent me from causing chaos?” Booker interrupted. “You know yourself, too, Elizabeth. You know what we could do-” He paused, and the unspoken words hung between them. The connection between them felt electric, heavy with potential. Yes, there were so many things they could do together, to each other and to this world.
She came to the Lily that day, to watch Booker at work and have a sweet drink that she had to cool down with a flick of Nerve Stim - Frost. It was loud and the air was thick with red smoke from water pipes, and a group of slug fishers were singing increasingly lewd shanties.
They learned the currency, and the dangers, and that the city’s heartbeat followed the rhythm of its new inventions. Somehow, despite half the city’s economy resting on the black market, it always seemed years - no, decades ahead of the rest of the world or so the newspapers claimed, and the most talked about technology was the infonet. Excessively expensive to use - a few minutes cost a month’s wages - but seemingly all-knowing, the infonet blanketed the city. Elizabeth had stared in wonder at those few who could afford to flash their uplink connector at all times, and the net grew, not slowly, but in giant leaps and bounds.
She had used it once, for two costly minutes, to research its origins, but had been confronted with a polite and boring brochure that revealed nothing.
Every few days when Elizabeth checked in at her office there was a new announcement, proclaiming that the infonet had grown ever more expansive and intelligent overnight.
She liked her co-workers - the older man with the eye-patch who’d introduced himself as Virgil, flirty James who did the politics columns, and Tanni with her ever-present pipe.
Booker was not there when she returned that evening, and she zapped the stove and heated up yesterday’s food. Vague ideas swam through her head as she ate and cleaned herself up, facts and fragments of information. She shook it off and headed to bed.
When she woke she didn’t know what time it was. It felt like she’d slept for hours. There was someone with her, someone her sleep-addled mind recognized as safe. Booker. He smelled of the spicy tobacco the clientele at the Lily favored. He shifted against her, obviously half asleep, his hand falling onto the small of her back. An invisible hand squeezed her heart. His words came back to her.
You know what we could do.
They were not safe, not in this city or for each other.
It took forever to fall back asleep. She lay in the darkness and imagined a million other worlds, a million other Elizabeths and Bookers.
One day, someone contacted her. He sidled up to her from behind as she was interviewing an animal seller at the market, and whispered into her ear.
“The lighthouse,” he said, and when she turned around to look at him, he’d disappeared.
The words unblocked something in her mind, something like a loose tooth she’d been worrying ever since they’d arrived. A man, a city, and - a lighthouse. Of course.
There was no lighthouse. She spent a month looking, first for physical buildings, walking the city and its outskirts until her feet burned with pain and Booker greeted her at the door by sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to the couch, rubbing her feet gently.
Then she accompanied him when he went out to gamble or work some of his less shady jobs. He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, she knew, and he was so very careful with his bets, so she didn’t reprimand him.
Instead, she recalled the books she’d read back in the tower. The memories were foggy, as if it had been decades instead of months, but she remembered the pickpocketing lessons and by the end of the first week she had collected a full hour of infonet access cards.
She prepared her queries and settled on the couch while Booker tinkered in the kitchen, and then she spent ten minutes in the net. Infuriatingly, the first nine minutes were wasted trying to filter out results for actual lighthouses all over the world, but when Booker touched her shoulder gently to alert her she’d at least formulated a string that would search for the metaphysical the next time she dropped in.
It wouldn’t be that night, though. Booker stretched out at her side on the couch and murmured, “That’s my girl,” when she relaxed into him. He’d become more than her father these days: her confidante and unwavering companion, so close that she would be uncomfortable if he were anyone but himself. Sometimes it was hard to remember that day she had been so afraid she’d thrown books at him in her library.
It happened by accident. She was stumbling out of the way of a particularly aggressive driver, her feet nudged by the force of the car’s repulsors, and leaned against a billboard to catch her breath. Transcend, it said, on a pure white background, and then the words rearranged themselves and the image shifted into the silhouette of a stocky tower against the purple and orange gradient of an evening sky. Visit The Lighthouse. There was an address beneath it in black letters, and she barely had time to memorize it before the billboard changed again. Transcend.
She was brimming with excitement when she told Booker that evening as he came back from the Lily. He shrugged off his jacket and shoes, and she followed him to the bathroom door, speculating aloud, until she suspected he couldn’t hear her over the shower.
“So you want to go investigate?” he said when he exited, clad only in a towel. She blushed suddenly and averted her eyes. It was strange; she’d brought him back to life time and again in Columbia and had held the pieces of him together, and she could not imagine her life without him these days. And yet she was too aware of him sometimes, and she wondered if this was how the Luteces felt.
“I’ll go on my own,” she told the floor. “I’ll pretend I’m a customer, see what this is about.”
“Be careful,” he said, and when she looked up, he was still watching her.
“Alright, I won’t wave a gun around,” she said dryly and he smiled.
“I mean it,” he said. “If something happens to you, I’m stuck here.”
She laughed. “Nice to know what I’m appreciated for.”
The building was easy to find. The hover train stopped just around the corner. In fact, she’d walked past it before, but it looked like every other building in the city: blocky, shining, a monolith of dark steel and non-reflective windows. The only thing that set it apart from its surroundings was the lack of bridges connecting it to its neighbors. The Lighthouse stood alone. There was a small sign by the doorbell that said The Lighthouse - Reception. She pressed it and, seconds later, was buzzed into a small atrium. She threw a quick look around. There were no seating arrangements or other attempts to make visitors feel comfortable. Light panels separated the walls horizontally, bathing the interior in a soft, orange glow.
“How can I help you?” a young woman behind the desk asked. She was wearing an infonet connector behind her ear, Elizabeth noticed, which was blinking even now. She’s not even in, Elizabeth thought. Whoever set this up must have a lot of resources.
“I’m interested in your offer - the Transcend ad?” She asked.
“Of course,” the woman replied with a polite smile. “Your name, please?”
“Anna Comstock,” Elizabeth said without hesitation. She’d gotten used to switching between her identities.
“Through the hallway to your left, please. Second office on the left.” Elizabeth nodded, and as she departed the receptionist’s eyes drooped - sending a message ahead, no doubt.
A jovial man opened the door before she could knock.
“Come in,” he said, and gestured to - finally - a chair. “I’m Doctor Pearson.” He was well-dressed but not, Elizabeth thought, too well-dressed. Competent, but not arrogant. She tugged at her own scarf absentmindedly.
“I’m glad you’ve chosen to transcend, Miss Comstock,” he said. “It’s an exciting new opportunity, a whole new step in human evolution. We only began the project a few months ago and already four percent of the city has used our services.”
“Could you tell me a bit more about this?” Elizabeth asked.
“Certainly.” He turned around to pick up a brochure. It was the first bit of paper Elizabeth had seen since they’d arrived, she suddenly realized. Everything was displayed on screens or communicated by word of mouth, and here was a perfectly ordinary leaflet with glossy print.
She paged through it, noting images of smiling people. She thought she recognized the light paneling from the reception in the background. There were pictures of operating rooms as well, and she had to suppress a shudder at the memory of her own incarceration.
“We offer permanent - yes, permanent - Information Net access. With one little operation you’ll receive the implant that will let you link up anytime, anywhere.”
“Is it - painful?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, you’ll be under anesthesia. See for yourself how well it fits.” He turned his head around and brushed back the hair, and she leaned forward. There, in his neck, was a slight blue gleam.
“It integrates without complications. So far, none of our customers have had a bad experience or demanded a refund.” He smiled, and she was struck by how utterly devoid of genuine emotion his expression was. He was smooth - bland, like the woman who had sold Booker the DC injector.
“That looks amazing,” she said, and crafted her own empty smile. “How much will it cost?”
“I’m sure we can find a plan for you.” He waved away her concern. “Our usual rate is forty per month, with a two-year plan, and we can alter that. Of course, you can also pay the full amount now.”
“Forty sounds good.” She was acting mechanically now, careful to appear perfectly normal. Inwardly, she was shivering. Nine hundred and sixty tales? It was less than what most injectors cost. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
“If you follow me, I think room four is free.” He stood up and held the door, and she hesitated.
“I’m not sure - I want to talk it over with someone first.” She’d risen as well, but kept herself close to the desk.
The blank expression on his face transformed. For a second, she saw rage in his eyes.
“It will only take a few minutes,” he said. “Please, come with me.” He reached out to grab her arm, but she sidestepped him.
“Really, I can’t. My friend is expecting me.” Again, he reached out, but seemed to think better of it. The eerie smile returned.
“You can make an appointment with our receptionist,” Pearson said. “And she will give you the information package, payment details, and so on. Thank you for choosing Lighthouse services.”
She kept her smile fixed in place until she was out of the office, and told the receptionist she’d have to check the date with her friend first and would come back later.
Then she was back on the street, breathing in the air that smelled of salt and spices. Dusk had arrived and a few dealers had set up on the walkway between the building next to the Lighthouse and a textile factory.
One shouted down at her, “Poise upgrade? Eloquence two-oh, only sixty tales!”
She shouted back, “No thanks!”
He shrugged. “Better than whatever they got in there.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, suddenly interested.
“I don’t know what they’re serving,” he said, “but when people come out, they’re usually not happy. My customers are always happy.” He grinned, and she snorted and moved on.
“I found it,” she said as soon as Booker came in. She waited until he’d come over to where she was sitting and held out the brochure.
“The Lighthouse?” he said. “They’re not exactly subtle. What’s this about transcending?”
“They’re offering free, permanent infonet access. For a price that is frankly unbelievable.”
He pointed at the bottom of the front page. “Looks like it’s owned by the mayor.” There, in the bottom, were the entwined L’s.
“Lucius Lincoln’s Lighthouse.” She shook her head, filled with disgust. “Something is fishy.”
“Hmm,” he said absently. He’d stopped leafing through the paper and was staring at one page.
“What is it?” She came up to stand behind him, and he shifted to let her see.
“That man,” he said, pointing at a middle-aged, dark skinned man who was smiling brightly. “I’ve seen him around. Not lately though.”
“At the Lily?” she asked.
“No, he was strolling around this building. He - brought out the trash once.” Booker’s eyes had a faraway look. “Two months ago? I haven’t seen him since then.”
Their eyes met. “Start from the top?” Elizabeth said, and he nodded.
“Let me get my gun first,” he said. For once, she didn’t disapprove of his paranoia. It was well-earned and now that they had reason to believe something had happened to another tenant, she felt immeasurably safer with Booker at her side, armed.
The top floor was empty apart from two squatters who eyed them suspiciously and didn’t respond to their queries. On the next two floors, nobody recognized the man in the picture, though many of them barely glanced at it.
Another floor down, and they were in luck.
“Oh that’s Cyril,” the elderly woman in the doorway said. She tapped her temple and her glasses flickered, adjusting to the distance and the poor lighting in the hallway.
“He was a tenant here?” Booker asked.
“Yes, he had the apartment on the second floor, on the corner with the push- ah, the apothecary.” She seemed embarrassed. “He was a nice man, always had time to exchange a few words.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” Elizabeth asked.
“He was going to get one of these upgrades, he told me. An infolink upgrade? Said if he got it, he could find a better job and place to live. He never really moved out though. They had to come and clean out his apartment.” She frowned.
“Did he return from the operation?” Elizabeth asked, her voice carefully neutral.
“I don’t think so.” The woman shook her head. “Do you think something happened to him?”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Elizabeth said, and got an eye-roll in response.
“We have to get in there,” she said to Booker later. “And we need a plan. We can’t antagonize another city.” She smiled to take the sting out of the words.
“What do you suggest?” he asked. “Because I’m here if you need someone with a gun, but you’re the stealth expert.”
“Subterfuge and stealth.” She nodded. “We don’t want them coming after us.”
That night they climbed to the fourth floor walkway, strolled down to the large balcony of the next building over and climbed another ladder to reach the roof.
Four people in red clothes - jackets, boots, trousers, masks, all in shades of red - were sitting in a semicircle smoking and drinking, boxes and suitcases at their feet.
“Customers, Gaddy,” said one, and another stood up.
“What do you need?”
“A glamour,” Booker said. “Do you have something like that?”
“Sure,” he said, and rummaged in a suitcase. “Allure. It’s an older version, but it’s cheap.”
They conducted their business quickly, Booker grimacing at the shot of green, Elizabeth handing over a credit chip.
“Feel free to test it out,” the man said. He pointed down at the street. “Go on, pick one.”
There were people milling on the street, dressed up and chattering, waiting in line of the club downstairs. Booker flicked his wrist and one of them froze, then turned in a circle.
“How long does it last?” Booker asked.
The man shrugged. “Depends on the command. Two minutes, maybe five.”
Getting in was laughably easy. Booker hit the receptionist with Allure as soon as he stepped through the doors, and Elizabeth hurried inside. She rotated her wrists and Nerve Stim - Hide Away trickled over her body like a cold shower. She tapped Booker’s arm. “This way.”
He followed her through the corridor past Pearson’s office to a junction, then down another corridor marked Operating Rooms. The hallways were empty, but they could hear faint voices from a few of the rooms and carefully stepped past them. Operating Room One was closed off, but Room Two had a small window through which they could peer inside. Booker let her do it - she was still nearly invisible, and one of them needed to be the lookout.
The first thing she saw was white. The whole room was bathed in light, and two white-clad figures - Doctors? she wondered - were hunched over a chair with another white-clad person inside. There were cables trailing from the person to some sort of machine, and flickering displays on a screen atop it.
Then one of the doctors moved to the side, and she gasped. The figure in the chair was a young man who was slumped over, lifeless. The cables were connected to his head, stuck to his temples and neck. Another seemed to disappear into the back of his head.
“Beginning the upload. Coverage?” the doctor who was still with the man asked.
“One-oh-four,” said the other. “Do it.”
A switch was flicked, and the lifeless man jerked once. The readouts flickered brighter.
“Upload complete,” the doctor by the machine said, satisfied. “One-ten.” He looked at the man in the chair. “Not too shabby. Tell Pearson to make an announcement, the infolink’s up by five point seven. And call cleanup for this guy.”
Elizabeth drew back from the door, shaking. She grasped Booker’s arm and led them back through the hallway and out the door. She didn’t stop walking until they’d reached the end of the street and were overlooking the sea.
“What is it?” Booker asked. “What did you see?”
Still shivering, she told him, and he drew her into the circle of his arms. He smelled of leather and tobacco, and she buried her face in his chest.
“You want to destroy that place,” he said - not a question, a statement. He knew her too well. She nodded. “Alright.”
She couldn’t sleep. Outside, the noise from the club next door thrummed and a billboard’s bright colors were reflected off the windows of the opposite building. Try as she might, she was too worried and distracted to nod off. Memories of the siphon kept invading her thoughts. Had she escaped Columbia only to suffer a similar fate? And what if they capture Booker, she suddenly thought. What if it becomes his fate?
Silently, she rose and padded out into the living room. Booker was spread out on the couch, feet stuck between the cushions, and for a moment she thought he was asleep. When she turned to leave, he opened his eyes.
“Elizabeth?” he said groggily.
“Sorry,” she said, shifting from one foot to the other.
He pushed himself up. “Don’t worry,” he said, and beckoned her. She perched by his legs, gathering her thoughts.
“Why do we always destroy whichever place we end up in?” she finally asked. “Is this what we do - is this what we are, mayhem and chaos?”
“There’s always Paris,” Booker said. “That’s still standing.”
“It doesn’t seem real, sometimes,” she said. “Columbia and Rapture, those were real. And this place, it’s too terrible, but in Paris it’s like we’re in a dream.”
He laid his hand on her shoulder, and the comforting warmth spread through her.
“If it is, it’s a nice dream,” he murmured. “And one we can always go back to. We don’t have to do this, Elizabeth. We could leave.”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “We can’t let them do this to these people. I can’t go to Paris and pretend all is well if we just leave them to their fate.”
He grinned wryly. “You always have to be the hero.”
She paused and looked at him. Did he resent her for it?
“Do you want to go back to Paris?” she asked instead.
“I’ll go wherever you go,” he said, and instead of making her uneasy, the statement just made her love him more fiercely.
She looked at him carefully in the light of the reflected billboards, at his sleep-mussed hair and the scar on his cheek from where a bullet had grazed him in Columbia. Slowly, she reached out to touch it, ignoring his low “Elizabeth”.
He didn’t move when she leaned in, and his mouth was still under hers. She drew back after a while, and the spell was broken.
“Elizabeth, you can’t,” he said, and she wanted to laugh. Nobody told her she couldn’t do anything these days.
“I can,” she said, “and I want to.” Then she looked at him, suddenly uncertain. “Unless you-”
In response, he drew her back in. His hand tangled in her hair and this time, he was wonderfully responsive. His mouth opened under hers, quickly turning the kiss messy. A moment later, he reached under her thighs and lifted her closer until she was settled in his lap, leaning over him. She could feel the calluses on his fingertips as they wandered over her skin, under her skirt.
"Wait," he said, "do we need anything?"
She shook her head, using the opportunity to trace his lips with her finger. "I took care of that long ago," she replied.
She drank it all in: his taste, the way he pressed against her on the couch, hard and ready, and into her later, in their small bed. He was warm and alive underneath her as she rode him until they both shuddered and she collapsed against him, and somewhere in her mind the memory of Columbia faded just a little.
“We can’t take out the whole building by ourselves,” Booker said in the morning, over breakfast. “It’s just the two of us, if we go in shooting we’re not gonna make it out.”
She eyed him carefully. “What are you thinking?”
“A bomb,” he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head. “No, listen - the building isn’t connected. We go in at night when it’s empty. We set up and leave.”
“Have you ever built a bomb?” she asked. “Because I hadn’t gotten that far in my studies up in the tower.” She blew on her coffee gently to cool it down.
“No,” Booker replied. “But I’ve defused a few. We don’t have to make it complicated.”
She took a sip and froze as a thought came to her. “We don’t have to do it the conventional way,” she said. “We use a Nerve Stim. Maybe we can even control it.”
“We’ll have to test the range.” He frowned.
Elizabeth pointed up. “The top floor is empty.”
He nodded, and that was that. They’d just decided to build a bomb. Her head swam.
They decided that it would be Booker who would control the bomb, since he had a firmer grasp on the destructive Nerve Stims. They inspected the upper floor to make sure that the two squatters had left for the day and Booker began setting small Flame traps. With a look of concentration, he held out his hand, wriggling it vaguely in the direction of the first one. There was a rustling sound, then a sound like far-away thunder, and the trap burst into flames, burning itself out on the concrete floor.
Elizabeth clapped, and Booker mock-bowed.
“Which one next?” he asked, and she pointed at a trap he’d set up out of view, a little further away.
Again, he concentrated, but this time there was no explosion. After a minute, his face creased in a frown and he dropped his hand.
“I can’t feel it,” he said. “It’s different when it’s out of view.”
“Let me try,” she said, and set up her own Frost trap behind a mangled table. Instantly, she knew what he meant; she could almost perceive the thread of ice lurking just out of her reach. Frustrated, she tried again, focusing on the thin connection that existed between them. On an impulse, she let the ice fill her hand, let her fingers frost over until they were chilled to the bone. There it was, the potential of a deluge of frost. Her hand twitched, and from beyond the table came a crack.
They went over to look at it - a patch of snow and ice covering a small circle of the floor.
“So what’s the trick?” Booker asked.
By nightfall he’d perfected releasing the traps from a distance. They set one up on the roof of the club two buildings away, nodding to the masked traders who were still - or maybe once again - drinking and playing cards.
Minutes later and back on their own roof, they heard the controlled explosion and shouts. They grinned at each other.
“Should we wait until tomorrow?” Elizabeth said as they were eating dinner.
Booker shrugged. “We could both use some sleep.”
They paused, the memory of last night suddenly fresh in their minds. Elizabeth blushed a little, then she met Booker’s gaze and felt herself grow excited, restless. They danced around each other clearing the table, and then they fell into bed once again. This time he stayed on top of her, pressing kisses onto her throat and breasts and making her moan with each thrust while she dug her feet into the backs of his thighs.
At one point, mad with lust and acting on instinct, she flicked her wrist against his chest and released Reflection into his skin. For a brief moment the sensations stopped and Booker groaned above her, his thrusts slowing, rhythm faltering. She stretched underneath him, trying to get as much contact as she could.
“What-” he forced out, and she laughed a little. Then the Stim’s effect dissipated and she could feel him again.
After, they shared the shower, leaning against each other until the lukewarm water turned cold.
“You realize this isn’t-” Booker was searching for words.
“-normal?” Elizabeth finished. She paused and tucked herself more comfortably against him. “We hardly lead normal lives.”
“I’m not going to argue,” he said. “I probably should, but I won’t.” He handed her a towel.
She smiled. “Good,” she said. Elizabeth slept deeply that night.
By unspoken agreement, they started packing the next day. They hadn’t been carrying much when they’d arrived, and they didn’t pack much now: a small water pipe, some clothes, a book. Booker put his weapons in a bag, then reconsidered and strapped them to his belt. When night fell, they made their way to the Lighthouse, doing their best to avoid other people.
She’d spent the hours before trying to find a way to transfer her Hide Away to him, without success. In the end, it was decided that they would avoid obvious security cameras and fight their way out if they had to, with Elizabeth staying invisible for as long as possible.
The building looked deserted. Booker zapped the lock on the door, turning once more to trusty DC, and they were in, creeping through the hallways. They made it to the third floor before a camera blocked their way, and Booker charmed it to let them pass. They had to retrace their steps more than once to find a way further up.
“Damn thing is built like a maze,” Booker cursed under his breath. “Let’s just do it here.”
“A bit further,” Elizabeth said. A door ahead stood ajar, and if she was right it was in the center of the building. They stumbled through and stopped short. An array of machines filled the room wall to wall, screens flickering and flashing.
Network Connectivity, she made out, and Unique Connections. One screen was entirely blank apart from a line gently oscillating like a sine wave, another displayed a long line of pictures of smiling faces with text scrolling too fast to be readable.
“I think we found the place,” Elizabeth said. She felt a bit faint; there was a rushing in her ears. It was not the shock. She’d been prepared for what they’d find, but something about this room itself felt as if she were standing in the middle of an invisible hurricane.
She watched, almost disconnected, as Booker set up the trap. Then he took her hand and led her from the room. As soon as they crossed the threshold, the uncomfortable sensation diminished. He let go of her hand to pick up his gun and shake out his wrist, an orange glow forming in the center of his palm. Someone was following them, heavy footsteps closing in on them as they ran through the corridors and down the stairs.
“Stop!” shouted someone behind them, and footsteps sounded ahead. She tugged Booker into another room - archives, by the looks of it - and threw a glance over her shoulder. These must have been the security forces, alerted by some camera they’d missed. She felt a pang of guilt for detonating the trap while there were people still inside, but then, what were a few more dead? They left a trail of bodies wherever they went, and if they paused to deliberate -
Booker pushed her towards the window, and she jumped, aiming for a balcony on the building across. She landed with a loud clang, steadying herself on the railing. As she watched, Booker slung his gun into its holster and jumped after her. Then it was a race. They crossed the bridge to the next building, ran a few stories higher and onto a walkway draped in laundry. They tore through the night, panting, disturbing more than one of the traders and tenants perched on the walkways. After a while, they slowed down. There was no one behind them anymore.
When they made it back to the roof of their building, Booker set off the trap. This far away, the explosion was just one more noise in the cacophony of the city.
“This all looks a bit familiar,” Booker mused as the Lighthouse burst into flames.
She took his hand and led them back to Paris, and didn’t let go.