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Private Detective Needed
“Another me?” Booker shook his head. This Columbia was very different from the one he knew.
"then again, it's you, technically speaking ..." Rosalind replied. "It's a little more complicated than that, of course, but this'll do, for the time being anyway. I am not here to confuse you."
The prophet himself? I am honored.
Private Detective Needed
“He doesn’t; this is a time where the -” Rosalind cut herself off, heading over the marketplace. “Let’S discuss this when we’re inside. People here know about the mark, of course, it’s a story often told, unfortunately.”
And while they were inside, she’d better give him something to cover up that scar of his, too.
Booker nodded, “What ‘bout ‘Lizabeth? Is she in this time too?”
"Of course she is." Rosalind sighed, opening the door for him. "She won't be of your concern, however. That is for someone else to worry about. Or. to be more precise, another you."
Private Detective Needed
“I know where that is,” Booker said.
He remembered where most of the places were. Though he wasn’t keep on going back to them.
“So we get to your labs? Then what? Is Comstock gonna figure out we’re here?”
Booker covered his branded hand.
"He doesn't; this is a time where the -" Rosalind cut herself off, heading over the marketplace. "Let'S discuss this when we're inside. People here know about the mark, of course, it's a story often told, unfortunately."
And while they were inside, she'd better give him something to cover up that scar of his, too.
Hoh hoh! Temper, Ms. Lutece! It’s none too charming to see a woman lose her composure.
-Chuckles, flashing a hint of a grin.-
Well, I always assumed you two went hand in hand. A—what’s that fancy, scientific term?—symbiotic relationship?
Hm. Reckon I was wrong to believe otherwise. How terribly rude of me.
-Places a hand on his chest in false sincerity.-
My temper is just fine, if I may remark this. Do not worry about things that are decidedly none of your concern, please.
/She shakes her head./
We do, when it is appropriate, of course. We both are capable of working independently of each other; what good would we be if we could not work on our own?
Private Detective Needed
Booker hesitated but only for a moment. Stepping through he took a deep breath. Columbia. He had hoped to never come back here. Looking around the placed seemed familiar but different.
“Where do we start?”
"Lutece Laboratories." Rosalind replied,ushering him through the tear. As soon as they stepped through, the tear closed, leaving them standing in the middle of a mildly populated place. The sign that was hanging above the entrance to the area marked it down as 'Market District'.
"I thought it'd be best to send you off during a time where the Founders and the Vox have no yet seized the city. It does not make much of a difference, speaking from an universal point of view either way. No matter where we end up, the effects, cosmically speaking, are minimal."
There are some things that are better not rushed through, Mr DeWitt. Although I must say your usual approach to things proves to be quite effective, there’s matters better handled with care.
{/Booker squints hard at her. Can’t really tell if that was a compliment or not}
And what matters are those exactly?
Matters that require other means than running through a situation with a gun equipped. I was trying to point out that while I admire the way you fulfilled the objective given to you, the execution was ... something to get used to.
It was a compliment, to say it simply.
(So since I'll start with my finals this week - the first being this Friday - I'll be sparse on here.
You can find me on my main should you need me.)
-Merely tuts in response, tapping his temple.-
Why, I must say that you’re distinguished and intelligent enough to play the role of doctor, Ms. Lutece.
So sullen. My, my. Pray tell, where’s your charming brother?
Oh, don't be quite so pretentious. We both know why I cannot call myself by the title I deserve, as you were kind enough to point out, Mr Fink.
/She shakes her head, pursing her lips ever so slightly./
He's where he belongs. In the laboratory. Where else should he be? Against what seems to be the common idea, we are able to exist independently of each other. We are not required to be together at all times.
Private Detective Needed
He didn’t keep her waiting and followed her. “May I ask where we’re goin’?”
The box contained two vials, one red, and one yellow, as well as a key and a handwritten note.
"We're going back to Columbia, Mr DeWitt. I hope you're not scared of heights." With that, Rosalind opened the door to the hallway - but there was no hallway anymore, but a hall, viewed through a tear.
"Please hurry now, it's hard enough trying to keep this open without someone needlessly stalling."
Private Detective Needed
He grumbled something and picked up the box. Where had it come from? Matter of fact where had Rosalind come from?
“Didn’t feel like knockin’?”
"Maybe. I doubt it's something you should concern yourself with, however." She said, waiting for him to go through the box. She hadn't left that note for nothing, after all.
"Now, please, if you'd hurry."
Sunlit Skies, Bloodied Streets
A strident screech liberated him from the abyss of unconsciousness. Jumbled up in the bastard’s fatigued mind were arbitrary iconic sequences, fragments of what might have been memories garnered in the course of two different lives. He was the other man, that much was plain, yet the catalyst to their detachment still remained a mystery. Then again, most elements of this world - and his transition to it- were rather enigmatic. Equines crafted from sturdy metals, faintly resembling Westeros’ armoured warhorses, pulled wagons and carts laden with goods. Queerly flavoured drinks offered abnormal abilities, the likes of which only the most adept of those who dabbled in sorcery would hope to attain. Sentient sentinels held vigil, wont to stuff those they deemed harmful or guilty full of blazing lead; others bore helmets fashioned after horns, and crossing paths with them was as perilous. And the splendid metropolis in itself, floating in the sky like an ornate cloud, resplendent in the light of the evening sun. Vaguely he recalled the first moments he had spent in this wondrous realm, blindly stumbling about under the massive influence of the tear; not unlike now, pitch-blackness had been smothering him, albeit coloured by a bountiful amalgam of noises, foreign and enticing. The vista he had been met with once the murky haze dispersed had stunned him; looming white puffs coiled around airborne buildings to tunes no Westerosi minstrel had ever played, in his hearing at least. Contrarily, this time the only accents borne by the internal murk were sounds utterly mundane. Logs cracked in the hearth as the fire licked at them, water boiled, footsteps paced. No voices, no music, no howling of the wind whose kingdom they were transgressing.
Lazily, Ramsay opened his eyes, getting a blurry glimpse of the cozy space he was located in. A figure, slender and feminine stood out against the mussy angular shapes of various furnishings. Emporia. His forehead felt strangely moist, a sensation he found comfort in while the rest of his body lay fatigued and numb, nursed by the red recuperative substance the people of Columbia had dubbed a health kit; there had been instances in the days he had spent vagabonding that such a precious unit had come in handy, particularly after an impromptu skirmish or a wild pursuit. Had it not been for its tissue replenishing qualities, bullets embedded in his flesh would have left him bleeding in some desolate corner of the city, lamenting the contretemps with a vociferous laugh. In the civil war’s fray, he had earned himself a gunshot injury, that much was writ large, given the searing attribute of pain plaguing his upper arm, yet the overwhelming soreness that had rendered him nigh inanimate was something remembrance’s cues could not quite explain. Quantum. Emporia. Steam hissed as it escaped the confines of the kettle. Emporia Emporia Emporia. The bastard must have emitted a groan - an audible sign of his consciousness- for the lady rushed to his side, drenched towel in hand; he felt the soft, damp fabric dab his skin lightly. Ungracefully, he strove to rise, every fibre of his body remonstrating against the untimely movement. Emporia. Lutece. Lutece. Lutece.
“I never expected R. Lutece to be a wench.”
Rosalind did not speak while she cared for the unconscious man; silently, she set the kettle aside and set a cup and a saucer on a tray, preparing everything for a steaming cup of tea for once the stranger had woken. (No, not the stranger. She knew his name, she'd heard it being spoken once or twice through the tears she'd be eavesdropping on.) Every now and then, she'd return to the man, running the damp cloth over his head, hoping he'd wake up soon. She had a few burning questions that she felt could only be answered once she was sure he was awake, conscious, and willing to listen.
Then again, what she knew about him was just enough to make her want to step away, leaving the man to his fate. She had always been the one to count on fate more than anything, so very unlike her brother, who'd pushed her enough to even consider the thought experiment that the both of them had set up to right a wrong they had only been involved because of someone elses' desire to keep his power over a floating city he'd seen in a dream. Looking at it now, it all seemed a little too surreal to be, well, real. Then again, she thought, everything that had happened ever since she'd first had that dream, the one that prompted her mother to think her insane, or ridden with nightmares, had been surreal to say the least.
Rosalind had just moved to dab the man's head again when he moved; a small smile crept on her face as she thought of the questions she could surely ask him now. But her smile faltered when he spoke, and the cloth almost slipped out of her hands.
"Then I think it was foolish of me to assume a bastard could ever express anything even resembling manners."
…Hmph. What a pleasant surprise, Dr. Lutece. Well, I’ll be; You’re your usual, chipper self!
-Flicks out his wrist to shake the woman’s pale, slender hand.-
How do you do?
As are you, I'm afraid to say.
/She lets him shake her hand, pulling it away as soon as he lets go./
Not Doctor, as I'm sure you know, I might be renowned, but I do not get the luxury of calling myself a doctor. What a pity, once again.
Private Detective Needed
Booker did prepare that night. Slowly going over his few belongings. Sleep was restless and he woke up far to many times. He hadn’t been this antsy since he was sixteen. He ate nothing when he finally got out of bed. He only waited.
The door of his office hadn't move when suddenly, someone appeared next to him, as .suddenly as a bolt of lightning. It was Rosalind, but today, she was wearing a light dress instead of her usual jacket, tie and skirt. Her one hand was clutching an umbrella, and she was wearing a straw hat with a bouquet of flowers on it.
"I've been waiting." She scolded Booker, clutching her umbrella a little tighter. "There's something on the desk for you." She pointed over to the desk with her free hand, where a small wooden box was sitting.
"Read the letter inside it and come with me. We have someplace to go - or rather, you have."
!
Private Detective Needed
He nodded, “Like I said, I’ll be waiting.” Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he was getting himself into now. But you have to work hard to earn things. He knew that from growing up on a farm.
“I’ll be seein’ you again?”
"Hopefully soon as well." She replied, moving to head back to the ddoor. "It's been a pleasure talking to you again, Mr DeWitt."
She opened the door and left before he could say something else. If he were to look past the door a moment later, he'd find it empty, no trace of the ginger woman to be found.
Private Detective Needed
“You make it sound like I’m goin’ to war,” Booker mused, “But I’ll be waiting. Anything else you need to tell me?”
Something was strange about this job. If it paid well though who was he to refuse. He need the money and she looked like a woman who would have it. If it was a joke, well, someone was going to have to pay and it was going to be here.
"You might be." She said pointedly, shrugging her shoulders. "You never know. Better be prepared for worse than to strand in the middle of a fight with too little in your hands."
She slipped her own ones behind her back at these words. "Then it is settled, Mr DeWitt? Do as your instructions will tell you and everything should be fine."
