Booker DeWitt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
amonglions) wrote2013-12-31 12:03 am
amonglions) wrote2013-12-31 12:03 am
Entry tags:
Fourth Baptism [Action] (backdated to the 29th)
[December 29th, 1890. It's a date that's forever seared in Booker DeWitt's mind as being a day he takes his drinking very seriously.
When he started drinking, it was to forget what he had done on that very day - another solider handed him a half-empty bottle to help him sleep and the rest, as they say, was history. Booker drank to forget and to actually get through a night without having horrifying, bloody nightmares. He knew he deserved to have them but he couldn't go without sleep without going absolutely insane. Drinking kept him going on a day to day basis more often than not.
He'd done well to avoid people today and consumed far more than was average of bottles of whiskey for him. Normally he would ease back a good sixteen beers through the day, a shot or two of whiskey interspersed - but that was when things were good. Today was probably one of the worst: this and the day he sold Anna were anniversaries he made a point not to remember. December 29th was a whiskey only kind of day.
Unfortunately for the world, Booker never had the Vigors at his disposal on this particular anniversary. Being in a city didn't allow him the freedom to just start doing what he liked because he was bored and... well, call it stubbornness or just simple ignorance but Booker won't go near the Battle Dome if he can avoid it. As such, he's improvised a little shooting range of sorts - setting up old empty bottles as targets to pick off and distract himself by doing so. If he had an unlimited supply of ammunition for his pistol he would use it but seeing as how he just found some genuine Salts in the Items shop before Christmas...
well he decided it'd be a good time to make sure he wasn't getting rusty with them. At least, that was his reasoning.
Three rows of bottles set up, each higher than the other on whatever he could find outside to stack them on. Booker sat himself on a fallen log and tried firing off a couple of practice shots with Devil's Kiss to see if he was at a good range. The sound of his hand igniting and the heat the flames gave off were by now familiar. The imagined pain of it the first time he had watched the flesh drip off his fingers was a distant, unpleasant memory now - one he didn't even entertain as he formed a molten ball of fire in his hand before launching it at one of the bottles.
Or at least, what he thought was one of the bottles. The Devil's Kiss Vigor had an explosive property however, and Booker heard the satisfying crack of glass that allowed him to think his aim was as good as it usually was.
For a little variety, he next brought up Shock's Jockey*. The rocks - he assumed they were rocks - jutting out of his hands snapped electricity between their points like a whip being lashed and buzzed as if an angry hornet's nest were inside. Booker's veins glowed with the unnatural pale light before he sent the Shock Jockey towards the row - it hit, thank God. But poorly.
He was an outright mess and libel to either hurt himself or someone else if he kept this up.]
*(ooc [spoilers?] : For my version of Booker, he did not let Cornelius Slate live. That was just the only video I could find for the Shock Jockey. >>)
When he started drinking, it was to forget what he had done on that very day - another solider handed him a half-empty bottle to help him sleep and the rest, as they say, was history. Booker drank to forget and to actually get through a night without having horrifying, bloody nightmares. He knew he deserved to have them but he couldn't go without sleep without going absolutely insane. Drinking kept him going on a day to day basis more often than not.
He'd done well to avoid people today and consumed far more than was average of bottles of whiskey for him. Normally he would ease back a good sixteen beers through the day, a shot or two of whiskey interspersed - but that was when things were good. Today was probably one of the worst: this and the day he sold Anna were anniversaries he made a point not to remember. December 29th was a whiskey only kind of day.
Unfortunately for the world, Booker never had the Vigors at his disposal on this particular anniversary. Being in a city didn't allow him the freedom to just start doing what he liked because he was bored and... well, call it stubbornness or just simple ignorance but Booker won't go near the Battle Dome if he can avoid it. As such, he's improvised a little shooting range of sorts - setting up old empty bottles as targets to pick off and distract himself by doing so. If he had an unlimited supply of ammunition for his pistol he would use it but seeing as how he just found some genuine Salts in the Items shop before Christmas...
well he decided it'd be a good time to make sure he wasn't getting rusty with them. At least, that was his reasoning.
Three rows of bottles set up, each higher than the other on whatever he could find outside to stack them on. Booker sat himself on a fallen log and tried firing off a couple of practice shots with Devil's Kiss to see if he was at a good range. The sound of his hand igniting and the heat the flames gave off were by now familiar. The imagined pain of it the first time he had watched the flesh drip off his fingers was a distant, unpleasant memory now - one he didn't even entertain as he formed a molten ball of fire in his hand before launching it at one of the bottles.
Or at least, what he thought was one of the bottles. The Devil's Kiss Vigor had an explosive property however, and Booker heard the satisfying crack of glass that allowed him to think his aim was as good as it usually was.
For a little variety, he next brought up Shock's Jockey*. The rocks - he assumed they were rocks - jutting out of his hands snapped electricity between their points like a whip being lashed and buzzed as if an angry hornet's nest were inside. Booker's veins glowed with the unnatural pale light before he sent the Shock Jockey towards the row - it hit, thank God. But poorly.
He was an outright mess and libel to either hurt himself or someone else if he kept this up.]
*(ooc [spoilers?] : For my version of Booker, he did not let Cornelius Slate live. That was just the only video I could find for the Shock Jockey. >>)
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Things like the Murder of Crows or Possession were going sadly unused. But the drink he still had was plenty useful to combat that. It wasn't until he burst every bottle that he stopped and slouched backwards with his eyes closed - as if he'd fallen asleep. The twisted expression on his face was telling otherwise though. He hadn't even realized he was being watched.]
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And Gai being Gai, he'll start things out by poking at Booker, because that's the method of communication he's most familiar with.]
Should I be worried about accidentally ordering one of those at the bar?
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Never met one I didn't like. [He sort of sneers without any heat or heart behind it, watching Gai as carefully as he could manage in this state.]
The hell do you want?
[Manners are sort of lost on him now.]
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[He knows that Booker knows about his past as a soldier and terrorist; his reasons for being drawn to explosions should be obvious.
Giving a light shrug, he takes a few steps closer to get a better look at the empty Vigor bottles. The shapes are odd, befitting some type of strange potion or alchemic elixir, and he doesn't even stop to ask Booker if it's all right before picking up one of the empty Shock Jockey bottles to examine for himself.]
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[Booker continues follow Gai out of the corner of his eye, either habit or he just doesn't like him much - a little more since Christmas but not much more. He is, at least, tolerable when he forgets he's asked to marry his daughter and all that.]
Careful, that packs a mean punch.
[He isn't exactly stopping Gai from holding it, nor would he do much if he drank it either. And why should it matter to him? He already has that Vigor and many others , plus the Salts.]
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[He smells it anyway, though, just to make sure. It doesn't smell like any sort of alcohol he's had before, that much is for certain; if anything, it has a strange, almost burning odor to it that makes it unpleasant to sniff for more than a few seconds.]
Some kind of potion? It looks like it could've come straight out of a fairy tale, except it's missing the "Do Not Drink" sign.
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Like it says on the tin, kid: Shock Jockey.
[For a more informative explanation Booker calls it up. He doesn't know how that works, when he's drank more than his fair share of the variety of Vigors, how he can manage to pick one without really thinking about it much more than 'give me that one'. But then again, he can't really comprehend how a city can float so maybe trying to figure out the science of Vigors was a bit beyond him.
Crystals like rock salts, dripping with blood but blue and a little transluscent jut out the back and palm of his hand, the whole area of skin where they've appeared looks to be bloody and chewed up - as if the rocks were lying under the skin waiting. Around them a kind of crust has formed of the same kind of material.
It doesn't look as if it's causing him any pain but Booker is seventeen bottles closer to passing out than he was this morning, maybe it was messing with his senses.
As quickly as the crystals appeared - thin yards of electricity snaps and arcs between his fingers and up and down his wrist.]
They sold this like soda pop back in Columbia.
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They're not exactly alike, of course; Booker's are blue to his own purple, and obviously only temporary, but their sudden appearance brings back an avalanche of unpleasant memories that are compounded by the time of year.
He doesn't respond, not verbally. Instead, he just stares, torn between horror and anger as he looks at the crystals.]
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[Booker snapped irritably, put off by the look Gai carried just as quickly as they'd managed to have some kind of conversation on their own terms. He wasn't stupid - he had eyes and he could see the crust of crystals on his face plain as day. It didn't exactly register, though. Booker knew they were different things, but either he didn't have the faculties to make any kind of sense of why Gai was staring or he just didn't care.]
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I'm surprised that doesn't hurt. Either that or you've already managed to numb yourself to the pain.
[A slight jab at the very obvious drinking Booker has been doing, if he wants to look at it that way.]
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He never had the idea to even ask Elizabeth what it looked like to her.]
Either way, it does the job.
[Carefully dancing around that.]
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So can anyone use these things, or are there special qualifications for them?
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[He certainly was.]
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Thanks, but I'll pass. I'd rather not find out what it does to people who already have crystals growing out of them.
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Good choice.
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[Now that he's seen what Booker can do, it's only fair that he return the favor. His display might be a little more alarming than Shock Jockey was, however...
There's the briefest flash of silver light illuminating his chest as Gai reaches up and, without further ado, plunges his own right hand into his chest. The action isn't a comfortable one - the grimace on his face as he does so is evidence of that much - yet it doesn't appear to be hurting him, either. But if Booker finds that disturbing, it's likely nothing compared to what Gai does next: he yanks his hand back out and in the process withdraws a strange yet clearly-identifiable gun from his chest.
Booker isn't the only one with weird powers, that much is for certain.]
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[Is all he mumbles out before Gai just up and digs a hand into his chest and whips out a gun like it's nothing. Half of Booker isn't as shocked as he'd like to be and the other half is pretty sure he should set down the bottle for good if this is the shit his brain is starting to come up with now.]
...Well there's somethin' you don't see everyday.
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[He lowers his hand down, settling the gun into his arms as that silver glow vanishes almost as quickly as it had appeared. Considering that he just pulled it out of his chest, he looks quite calm about the whole thing, and decidedly uninjured by it either.]
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[Because son it sure as hell looks like it.]
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No more than yours does.
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[Booker shrugs as well. Not much to say to that that hadn't been said.]
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It's called a Void. It's an idea given corporeal form-- the shape of a person's heart.
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[This? This is his: "A city at the bottom of the ocean?" face.]
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[A gun for someone who had spent almost their entire lifetime fighting. How much more fitting could you get?
And yes, he knows what it says about him-- the look on his face should make that much clear.]
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[There is literally zero judgement in that bemused noise. Literally. Because he wouldn't exactly have the most flattering Void-thingy either.]
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