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
You're different now, though. I know that, without any doubt. You may have come to Columbia looking to pay off your debt, but you tried to take me away to Paris at the end. I wish I had listened to you.
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I don't think we would've made it very far or been able to hide for very long, Elizabeth.
[He'll never know if he could have let go of the bulk of his sins at the river, or if Comstock still felt the guilt the same as Booker did. He didn't really want to know if there were any similarities between them other than the past. A heavy sigh pulls his back into an arch and he presses his hand over hers - it's starting to become a common gesture for them both.
He'll gladly focus on Paris though, step away from the idea that maybe his insistence on Paris the longer they were together was some kind of penance. Just like the brand on his hand, except he could actively try to make up for the fact that he came to Columbia with the intention of just handing her over to some people in New York.]
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I won't say anything if you want to keep drinking. But at least come home, Booker. I don't want you to be alone.
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Tell her, tell her, tell her, tell her...
Fuck what is he going to do?]
You don't need to bother.
[He doesn't understand the point of drinking at home. It just means people watching him drink himself to sleep and Elizabeth feeling sorry.]
I don't -- Why do you want me there?
[It comes out a bit rushed, more than a little desperate.]
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You're my friend, and it hurts to see you punishing yourself like this all alone. I can't stop you from punishing yourself, but I can at least be with you.
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[It comes out on the tail of Elizabeth's response, riding the building unease as the conversation continues. He doesn't know what else to say. Drinking helps, he doesn't want her to think it doesn't.]
Trust me, this is better. I'm okay like this.
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[Does she respect Booker's insistence that it was better for him to be drunk and alone? Was that what she was supposed to do, as his friend? Or did she just ignore what he wanted because she thought she knew what was better for him?]
[Where Booker was concerned, Elizabeth wasn't willing to take the risk that he was actually better off without her.]
I trust you with so many things, but I think, given the things I've seen you do, it's fair enough not to trust that you'll take care of yourself. [And then she does the thing she used to do with Songbird: just become dead weight that had to be lugged around if it was going to move. Elizabeth sits down in the grass, right at Booker's feet. If he doesn't want to go home, she'll just stay here with him.]
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What in the world?]
What...what are you doing?
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[Someone learned their stubbornness from someone else.]
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[Color him confused. He's clearly not picking up what she's putting down.]
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[Booker frowns back down at her, not really challenging her to anything but certainly being stubborn as a mule.]
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[Pot. Kettle. You know each other, talk amongst yourselves.]
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[Elizabeth has a moment of being shocked that she shouted at Booker, but then she steels herself again and narrows her eyes defiantly at Booker again.] You can't make me feel any differently!
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He doesn't know how be anything but the sad mess he is now. It's comfortable for him to push people away and drink himself to sleep every night, Booker DeWitt is not a man comfortable with change and this is world altering in the highest order. Ever since she was born there's been nothing but change, he thinks. It's at least a little fond under all the frustration she's stirring up in him.]
You don't have to! Like I told you already I can take. Care. Of myself.
You're just...wasting your time.
[He's doing his best to just sound casual and as sober as he can be but that can be a challenge when you have as many bottles of whiskey down your throat as he does.]
I'm not aimin' to make you change your mind [Yes he is.] but you don't have to hang around me.
[As much as he's trying to deny Elizabeth his company, he can't stomach just how much he wants her to stay. And yet he keeps telling her to leave. God what was wrong with him?]
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[She looks down, feeling a lump forming in her throat.] If I don't take advantage of the time I have with you now, if we're separated at the end... it already hurts to think about.
[She swallows and fidgets with her thimble, unable to meet Booker's eyes.] Aren't we friends, at least? Shouldn't I be here, if you're upset? [The puppy, the faint smiles Booker had been giving her, she'd thought they were all indications that they were friends. Why did he want her to leave him alone?]
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He can't bring himself to do that when Elizabeth is trying to ...do something. This is more than just talking - it's nowhere near as benign as their arguing before. Everything took a turn for the darker and Booker can feel that easily.
Being friends? Elizabeth actively wanting to be his friend? A grown man should have at least had some friends in his life but Booker is hard pressed to think about any that he let stick around. It should be sad to know that but Booker can't really feel anything right now. He's comfortably numb and Elizabeth is picking away at it.]
Yeah. Elizabeth. [Hes careful as he talks. Walking a thin line between spilling everything and keeping the status quo silence.]
We're friends.
[He tries to smile for her then but it just comes out weak. Watered down.]
I just...
[don't want you to hate me.
want you to judge me and just get it over with because it's going to happen someday and it's going to kill me.
want to keep trying.
don't know how to keep trying.]
I have no idea what I'm doing.
[Booker rubs a hand over his face and the laughter that follows? The quiet, choked sound of it? Is desperate.]
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And that's why I won't leave you here. Because I know I can help, even a little.
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Booker swallowed thickly and sighed. If Elizabeth were anyone else he'd offer her a drink but...well, part of him was scared she'd find the same balm he did in the bottle.]
We're a fine pair, aren't we?