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. >>)
no subject
He raises his brow with Elanor's display, though he can see that hers is different in the effect.]
...What else can you do?
[He's wondering if all his Vigors existed in Rapture, because if his memory serves him right...he remembers Fink talking about finding designs through tears that appeared in Columbia.
Was this one of them? Or was he just reaching?]
no subject
I only have a few. Telekinesis, incinerate...[She decides to leave out her teleport power for now.] Whatever cocktail they used to make Big Sisters.
[She lifts up a hand and one of his broken targets flips into the air, and she catches it as it flies over to her, then sets it back down on the ground.]
no subject
Well damn, they sure weren't sellin' that.
[He had Bucking Bronco, but that wasn't so much telekinesis as just plain levitation.]
I picked up what I could grab. There's round about five I got.
[He doesn't seem to think that there's anything wrong with having the Vigors - at least not his version. The addictive component of them in Rapture, as ADAM, had been stripped once they had been translated into an oral substance. But he doesn't know that. And thank god he didn't, Booker wouldn't have lasted long with ADAM as Elanor knew it. He would have been just another Splicer.]
So... [He pauses around the obvious question.] what's a Big Sister?
no subject
Uh. It's...they're complicated. Little girls who were turned into monsters and then had the misfortune of growing up.
[She's not sure how to explain and she isn't sure she even wants to.]
Do you feel a...a craving? When you use those, I mean? Or do they stop working if you don't...inject something or take something?
no subject
[Booker looks away, sort of chastened from the topic of Big Sisters. He didn't want to rustle up any more unpleasantness than he could help.]
No? [Booker looks at his hand, twisting it back and forth as if it'll reveal the answer.] Never noticed one if I'm supposed to. It ain't like drinking whiskey or something, it's just...there.
There are these things: Salts. [He has a bottle handy - it's why he went out and did this in the first place, because he had the spare Salts - and tosses it in a gentle arc to Eleanor.] I have to drink that if I wanna be able to use them. Eatin' works just fine too, but it's less effective.
no subject
I see.
[She tugs the lid off, sniffing at it for a moment before she closes it and tosses it back to him.]
They aren't plasmids. They're just...similar. You're very lucky, a person with five of my powers would go quite mad.
no subject
That what your Splicers are?
[He can still put things together though.]
no subject
Plasmids...the change requires...[She frowns, trying to figure out how to explain.] Upkeep is not the right word, but it's...close. And ADAM, the stuff that does it, is addictive, very addictive.
Eventually, everyone goes mad. The few sane people left in Rapture, like Aunt Grace or my mother...as much as she can be called sane...they avoided it by not splicing. Everyone else...well.
[She shrugs.]
no subject
[It's the next logical question, he feels like. After all, if she has Plasmids and uses them, doesn't she need to use ADAM? If he's putting this together right, that should be what's going on, right?]
You seem pretty sane.
no subject
I'm complicated. A series of very bad things worked out to one good one, at least.
[She pauses, and then her smile gets a tad less bitter.]
Or maybe I am mad and just haven't realized it yet. I mean...I'm living in a dome full of strangers in another world with wings on my back.
no subject
We're all probably crazy here.
[After all, like she said, they're all living in an invisible dome with wings on their back. And some of them are dead.]
Still. Can't be bad as a city at the bottom of the ocean.
[He didn't like what he'd seen of Rapture.]
no subject
Mm. Compared to Rapture, yes. This place is almost a vacation, really.
No one is trying to kill me here, anyway.
no subject
[But he has the feeling that this vacation feel of Luceti won't last much longer. Everything goes to shit eventually.]
no subject
...Can I ask why you're drinking and lighting things on fire, by the way?
[Now that the splicer shock had passed, at least.]
no subject
Bad day.
no subject
You should be careful. Bad days tend to turn into bad years if you let them get to you.
[Not that she is one to talk. It's just something she heard...]
no subject
[He says it without thinking and immediately regrets it. He doesn't want to share and he looks for a way to backpedal out of it fast but how do you get out of admitting you let things ruin you and everyone around you?
Maybe he's being paranoid. Booker watches her carefully to see what she says.]
no subject
I could say the same thing, I suppose. If you ever do want to talk about it...
no subject
[He bites out quickly, eager for the escape from that line of conversation.]
no subject
Alright. Try not to set the forest on fire.
no subject
[It's a joke. An uneasy one. But a joke.]