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To Belong	By : BringtheHawt Category: +A through F > Bioshock Views: 20677 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the bioshock franchise or any of its characters. I am not attempting to make any money off of writing/sharing this.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Author's Note: This chapter is a LOT of Booker and Lillian(Lillian is important for the Buffalo storyarch, so she's going to be developed alongside Booker). Sorry it took so long to update - I really had to focus on school or risk failing one of my important classes.
If you're interested in Lillian but need a refresh of the story details surrounding her, you may want to reread the last scene of chapter 3 and the first and third scenes of chapter 5 for a complete understanding of what happened between her and Noah(and there's some Lillian sex in the second scene in chapter 4, too). Lord knows I released those chapters months ago so I cant blame anybody for forgetting... lol.
Enjoy!
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
At New York's Grand Central Terminal, Booker hid in the corner of the facility, keeping to himself. From afar, he spied his client, Milton Boudain, with a crew Booker assumed was the man's family. A wife and two children, seated on a wooden bench. The woman was a picture of elegance - her hair was tied in a neat chignon, her back was straight, her hands were folded in her lap. The children, a boy and a girl, exchanged whispers and giggles. It was a family any sane man would be proud to call their own.
They made him think of the state of his own family.
Mm. Elizabeth. Booker wondered if she wanted her own child. Elizabeth certainly treated Anna as her own, but still, women always seem to plan out their motherhood ... He suspected all females have had their potential child's names, faces and personalities picked out by the age eleven, and an adoptive child wasn't usually a part of those plans.
Booker considered the implications of having another child. The truth is Anna's birth, even at the expense of his wife's life, saved him. All colors were grey and black until those blue eyes entered his life, and then Elizabeth arrived and offered even more of it.
Financially speaking, however, he was having a hard enough time just taking care of the three of them ... But, if he could work off his debt quickly with Reed and get back to focusing on his private investigation business, and if Elizabeth continued working for Mr. Surgoy, then they'd earn enough income to save up and purchase a small home within a couple years ...
Then there'd be room for at least one more child.
Another daughter would be nice, Booker decided. Not that he wouldn't love a son. Booker just didn't know what he'd do with a son; he wouldn't want to teach a boy the wrong things. He wouldn't teach the kid how to hold a gun, that's for sure. And he'd definitely smack the kid if he ever sat at a poker table.
Be everything I'm not, Booker would tell his hypothetical son. Then maybe his son would be able to avoid violent jobs and other reckless decisions.
Eventually, Milton spotted Booker and ventured away from his family to speak with him.
"Mr. DeWitt?"
"Call me Booker. - Is that your family?" Booker asked, gesturing with his chin toward the bench where the woman and children were seated.
"Yes, they are," the dark-eyed man answered warily, reaching into his suitjacket to pull out a cigarette case, "care for a cigarette?"
Booker nodded. It's been a rough day; he could really use a cigarette. Booker would probably be a chronic smoker if he could afford the damn things.
"I haven't been completely forthright with you ... Booker," the client admitted as he presented the cigarette to the ex-soldier.
Booker pointedly left the nicotine offering lingering in the air between them as he waited for the man's incoming admission.
"My ... misfortunes, involve the mafia," Milton admitted anxiously.
Booker remained stone-faced for a small moment before a look of intense frustration emerged. He should abandon the job. Right now. He should abandon it and return home to Elizabeth and Anna. This client was a liar and possibly a criminal, and Booker had enough of his own damn dealings with the mafia and criminals.
Why do you think he offered you five-hundred dollars for less than two days worth of work? Booker questioned himself silently, because the job didn't have any risks? Because this man wasn't in serious trouble?
"I'm - ... I apologize for the deceit, Booker -"
"- Call me Mr. DeWitt," Booker sneered.
"I was honest with the four men I propositioned before you and they," the man huffed nervously as he lowered his cigarette-wielding hand, "they wouldn't accept the job.-"
"-What exactly did you do?" Booker growled, setting his hands on his hips as he stared down the smaller man, "how motivated are they to kill you?"
"I- "
"- Nevermind the first question, I don't even want to know," Booker interrupted, "just tell me which Mafia and how much trouble you're expecting."
"The Bianchis ... and they're ... motivated. There ... there will almost certainly be trouble in Buffalo" Milton admitted quietly.
"Ya, and I'm not dying in another city for a damn criminal," Booker decided gruffly, beginning to step away from the man.
"Mr. DeWitt, please," Milton pleaded, "I ... I'll pay you in advance! I just want to protect my family!"
The words forced a pause in Booker's retreat. He unintentionally found himself glancing at Milton's oblivious wife and children from afar.
"You really think the Bianchis are going to go after them?" Booker asked as he focused a stare at the anxious man.
"I ... don't know," Milton admitted somberly, "but if it comes down to it, if they come for me and there's no chance for escape, I'll surrender myself. And you ... all I ask is that you make sure that they leave Buffalo safely. Once they're en route to Chicago, I know they'll be safe."
Booker decided he hated this short, sniveling criminal. Who knows what the hell this Milton guy did that makes him believe the Bianchis might kill his entire damn family. Still ... Milton was saying all the right things, words of love and fear and self-sacrifice and all the noble shit that made Booker want to see the job through. The ex-soldier couldn't help but see some of himself in the frightened man. He knew all of Milton's anxieties: fear for his family, fear for his own life, fear of shadows and murderers ...
Booker found himself glancing at the Boudain family again; it didn't help that the man's wife was pretty and the kids were really fucking cute.
Just gotta keep his family safe ... they're innocent, no matter what this prick's crimes may have been, they're innocent.
"God dammit," the ex-Pinkerton muttered, "give me that damn cigarette."
"Oh god, thank you," Milton breathed, handing Booker the cigarette.
"And give me the damn money," Booker added, since the guy offered to pay in advance.
Milton removed a pouch from his belt and handed it to Booker. Booker didn't even bother to count it.
"Listen," Booker began, eyeing the guy with a severe expression, "after you light this cigarette, you don't know me. Don't speak to me or look at me from this point on. Not on the train, and not in Buffalo. I'll follow at a distance, and I'll keep your family safe. If they come for you ... "
"Then I'll give myself up," Milton agreed with a sullen nod.
" ... I'll complete the job, either way," Booker promised.
"I can ... count on you, then?" Milton asked hesitantly, lighting Booker's cigarette.
"Ya ... I'll take care of them," Booker sighed, "now, go. And don't forget that you don't know me."
oooooooooooooooooooooo
The people at the train station were looking at her.
Men always looked at her. Many women did, too. Sometimes the looks were incredibly unashamed leers, sometimes the looks were subtle over-the-shoulder glances, but people always looked. Always.
It's why she made a lot of money parting her thighs for unfamiliar men.
It's why the Bianchis were happy to take most of that money.
Angelo Acconci, the soft-spoken bastard the Bianchis had chosen to replace the entirely dead Sergio Belini, knew how to make women feel like garbage. He asked Sergio's nine former prostitutes for the identity of the deceased pimp's killer, and no one spoke. Only two of the women knew that answer, Maria and Lillian herself, and Maria kept her silence out of fear while Lillian kept silent out of loyalty. Loyalty to the man who killed Sergio Belini, of course. She had been smacked around a few too many times by the now-dead pimp to have any loyalty toward her employers.
So Angelo, with a perfectly calm voice, insisted the nine whores strip. Then he beckoned them to follow him outside ... on a cold morning, onto New York's cold city streets. Most of the women did the best to cover their breasts as a crowd of New York's cityfolk gathered to either leer, cheer or jeer at them ...
Feeling bitter and humiliated, Lillian wondered if Angelo would look so completely composed if she took a knife to his throat and sliced his jugular, just as her tall, blonde savior had shown her.
Was the following intervention fated? Because he came. Mr. Reed. She didn't even know his name at the time, but there he was, again, to the rescue. With a mob boss, apparently. The Galucci mob boss.
Visually, the two men were complete opposites: Mr. Galucci was tanned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with intense facial expressions that seemed to shout as loud as his voice carried ... Mr. Reed, conversely, was pale with light-colored features and an unrelenting smile. Then there was, of course, the size disparity. Mr. Galucci looked short, though any normal-sized man standing next to the criminal colossus was doomed to look small.
There were other men, too. Rugged-looking men. Mafiosos, probably. But they lagged behind the mouthy mob boss and the nonchalant murderer ... because this wasn't their show.
Her eyes remained unavoidably locked onto the blonde man. He was quietly watching Angelo and the Galucci mob boss' confrontation with an amused expression.
Look at me, she insisted silently, from her place among the other naked whores. Was he even aware of her presence? She wanted his attention. She wanted to shout 'it's me! The whore who pleasured you. The battered woman who watched you pop an eyeball out of Sergio's skull. The student who learned where to find a man's carotid and where to find a man's jugular, and I've since sliced three despicable men's throats. I've kept your secret!'
As Mr. Galucci filled the air with bizarre insults and demands, Lillian found herself wondering if the man would be so bold without Mr. Reed by his side. She attempted to listen to the conversation - it involved a territory dispute and threats and snarls and a ridiculous promise by Mr. Galucci that he was going to have 'the Negotiator' castrate Angelo and have his balls delivered in a package to his mother's property.
The subject of castration seemed to finally encourage Reed's following interjection - words that Lillian would remember.
"I assure you, Mr. Acconci, I have no plans involving your genitalia," he clarified, "though, tell me, are you still located at 36 Convent Avenue with that pretty wife of yours? I heard the pair of you produced twins three months ago - congratulations."
And the words escaped from him so casually. Like Angelo was his old friend and they were talking about old memories. Like they were about to share coffee and discuss inane subjects such as the weather or sports.
And Angelo finally looked disturbed. It was amusing ... all of Mr. Galucci's zealous barking hadn't affected him at all, but Reed's silky, subtle threat caused a tightening in the pimp's jaw, a nearly imperceptible change in his posture.
Lillian smiled, mentally cheering her savior on. He had known about Sergio, too. Sergio's past, Sergio's lack of family, Sergio's sad position at the bottom of the Bianchi chain.
Knowledge begets power, he had told her after he wiped off the blood from his knife. Lillian remembered. She remembered everything from that night.
"So," Reed stepped forward, standing directly before the Bianchi pimp. His voice became quiet, too quiet for the fascinated crowd to hear, but Lillian heard: "you're humiliating these women because you wish to know who murdered Sergio Belini?"
Angelo tilted his head to the side before slowly speaking: "No ... No, I find myself remarkably uninterested in that information" a pause, "you live up to your reputation ... Mr. Reed."
"These ladies have earned the day off," Mr. Galucci decided, now that Angelo was clearly ready to back down, "so run home with your tail tucked between your legs, you filthy Bianchi dog."
That's when Lillian saw Reed smirk at Angelo. A smirk with a silent promise. A smirk that said 'we're going to walk off with your women and you will do nothing to stop us.'
Then the rain began, and she found herself shuddering. It would soon turn into an honest morning shower, but for now it was Just a sprinkle - an entirely unwanted sprinkle for the nine shivering, bare women.
Mr. Galucci cursed before shouting: "Fucking New York weather. Let's go, ladies! Get you all to a damn department store so we can get you all some damn dresses."
Reed broke off his staredown with Angelo and began to shed off his long coat. Then he finally ... finally acknowledged her.
"Lillian," he called out, without even looking at her.
Lillian's heart beat surged. She slowly walked by the other whores and moved to stand beside the tall man as he finished removing his coat.
"Mr. Reed?" She responded softly.
He turned to face her. There was a pause, a pause to enjoy the view of her bare body, of the way her breasts shifted with her breaths. She smirked a little - Mr. Reed was still a man, at the end of the day, though certainly one unlike any other. Lillian liked the fact that he took a moment to enjoy the sight of her.
"I may start a riot by shielding this gorgeous body of yours from our spectators' eyes," Reed announced with a smirk of his own. Lord, she had nearly forgotten the crowd of observers.
Then Reed stepped intimately close to her and wrapped his coat about her slender shoulders. His proximity and offering instantly warmed her. Right in front of the other prostitutes, right in front of his own fellow criminals, right in front of the crowd of murmuring New Yorkers, right in front of her perturbed pimp, Mr. Reed was wrapping his coat about her like she was a princess, not a simple whore.
Thank God for the rain.
The coat looked ridiculous on her, of course. She had to fold her arms to keep it from sliding off, and the length of it extended down to her ankles.
Several criminals followed Reed's lead, pulling off their coats to wrap up the unfortunate prostitutes. Even Mr. Galucci shed off his coat to wrap it around the smallest of the whores: Maria.
And, at this point, Reed shifted his gaze back toward Angelo with a confident expression, "I like this one very much. Assure me you'll treat her well. You can start by only charging her twenty percent of her earnings for the Bianchi family's protection, rather than robbing her seventy percent of her income."
Angelo swallowed. He looked angry, but he nodded.
Lillian smiled mockingly at her pimp; perhaps Mr. Reed's antagonistic personality was infectious.
And though her heart and spirits soared over this remarkable morning she'd never forget, it wouldn't take long for Reed to bring her back down to Earth and remind her she was just a whore ... a highly favored whore, but just a whore.
They walked off, arm-in-arm. Lillian suggested that they rent a room so that she may show him exactly how much she appreciated his intervention.
"Your gratitude is misplaced. I came at Mr. Galucci's insistence," Reed admitted, then he smirked, "though I'd wager he'd decline your offer."
This forced a pause. It was odd ... she was usually very confident around men, but Mr. Reed brought a nearly juvenile shyness from her.
" ... You ... told Angelo to decrease the fees he charges me," she argued, "so ... my offer remains."
" ... Tempting proposal, but I must pass, for now."
"Must you?" she inquired, squeezing his arm. She had been unable to strain the disappointment from her voice.
"I've a date with an exceptional woman."
The words left her feeling stunned.
"Surely I can ...please you more than this other woman can," Lillian argued, glancing at his face.
The criminal was smirking.
"I know not even her name, but I've seen her eyes. Truly beautiful. She's also a rare spirit ... feisty. Bold. Even in the presence of a man such as myself. She excites me. I absolutely cannot refuse her beckon. Still," and he paused to turn toward her, reached a gloved hand up to cup her cheek, "I do read the New York Times; my naughty little whore has been busy."
Yes, three throats slashed in three days. Three dead men found in three different hotels. She hadn't realized her work had made an appearance in the local newspaper ... mostly because she didn't know how to read.
As he touched her cheek, Lillian wondered if she could perhaps change his mind. She flashed her sexiest smile, one that made nearly all of her clients melt, and leaned into his hand ... tongue slipping out to snipe a quick lick of the man's leathered thumb.
" ... I must say you fascinate me, as well," Reed admitted, leaning close to her, "and I certainly appreciate your loyalty. But, I can have you whenever I please, can't I? Any man with a half-full wallet could."
Her smile slowly vanished; Reed slid a lock of her hair away from her face.
"You'd never refuse my call, would you, Lillian?" Reed taunted, feeding off her blatant frustration, "of course I can have you at a moment's whim; I certainly pay well enough."
She suddenly felt cold, again.
But at least his coat kept her dry.
He even let her keep it.
Lillian could forgive her savior's cockiness and demeaning words. If only because this 'date' he had spoken of must have gone poorly. A couple of hours later she received a phonecall from Mr. Reed and, soon after, was bucking beneath the delicious man at hotel Astor. And that's when he offered her the opportunity to be something that wasn't a whore.
And now she was at the train station, about to depart on a weekend trip to Buffalo. She had stopped at home, of course. She informed her mother she was leaving, kissed her two sons on their cheeks and packed a few belongings for the trip. A brush, a nightgown, two well-kept dresses, some stockings, her knife, Mr. Reed's business card, so that she could contact him from Buffalo, and his coat - she didn't want to part with it, and It'd certainly keep her warm at night.
As she walked through the terminal alone, she caught another man staring heavily at her. She swiftly slipped through the crowd and beyond his sight as she touched her own lip. The swelling on her face had gone away. There was still a bruise on the left side of her jaw, and she still had to be careful eating with her busted lip, but ultimately she was healing nicely. And she was confident these looks she had received were a product of lust, not morbid curiosity by her remaining bruises.
As Lillian glanced about the train terminal, she recalled the physical description of the man she was supposed to be following: a six-foot tall, strong-looking, tanned-skinned, brown-haired, green-eyed thirty-eight year old with a rough, worn look.
After fifteen minutes of subtle searching, she spotted about six men total at the terminal that potentially fit the description. She found her gaze lingering on one possibility in particular ... one that was standing in the corner of the station, smoking a cigarette. This one looked like trouble.
Lillian smirked; perhaps this trip to Buffalo was going to be a lot more fun than she originally suspected.
oooooooooooooooooooooo
Once Booker got past the first thirty-minutes of gut-twisting tension, the train ride was doomed to be a long, dull journey. He just had to get through the first thirty nerve-gnawing minutes.
For whatever reason, Milton seemed entirely certain the trouble would happen in Buffalo. Not before their departure, not during the train ride itself, but in Buffalo. So he waited until the traincar was half-full before presenting the station employee his ticket and getting on himself. This gave him the opportunity to briefly look over the other occupants. He counted about five tough-looking guys that each appeared to be traveling alone, but it was little consolation being able to identify these suspicious-looking men. Sometimes it wasn't the tough guys that caused problems. Sometimes it was the smaller, clean-shaven men who flashed effortless smiles that could pull out a gun with a viper's grace.
Booker sat in the back of the train car, along the aisle. Just in case there was trouble. Just in case he had to get up quickly to crack a criminal's skull open. Just in case.
The Boudain family were seated four rows in front of him - he could hear the childrens' laughter.
Everything was going to be fine, Booker promised himself. No ugly thug was about to walk through the train car door, step up to Milton Boudain and shoot the man right in front of his wife and kids. Everything was going to be fine.
Booker wished he had a drink. Or another cigarette. Or Elizabeth's company. Elizabeth could calm him in the same way humankind's dirtiest addictive vices could.
Elizabeth. He wondered if this trip would be a mistake. An escort trip to Buffalo on behalf of Milton Boudain ... who was a liar, a criminal, and who the hell knows what else. Milton was damn lucky this job was offered while Booker was desperately scrounging for money. So now Booker was heading to Buffalo while Elizabeth and Anna stayed in New York. Elizabeth had been in tears when he walked away from her for this trip - yesterday morning was still the last time he saw her smile - and he walked away from her for Milton Boudain. And five hundred-dollars.
Elizabeth and Anna. Alone. And who knows if that cocky little youngun or the giant prick collector were going to pay the apartment a visit. He shouldn't have left them, what the hell was he thinking?
A woman's soft voice stirred him from his thoughts.
"Is that seat beside you occupied, sir?"
Booker looked up.
An attractive woman was gazing down at him. Very attractive, to be honest about it. She was tall, for a woman. Her skin looked smooth, and her long, staw-colored hair was tied back, not up in a fancy chignon the way most fashionable women did in these times. There was something about the way he she smiled, something about her confidence, that made him think she wasn't just using natural charm on him - this woman was a professional.
The bruise on her face practically confirmed his silent suspicion.
"No," he responded.
"May I, then?" She asked.
Booker wanted to say no. He nearly did, because she had a face and a bust that turned heads, and half the damn traincar's occupants were looking at them right now because of it. He didn't want that kind of attention, he had a job to do, two kids and an innocent lady's lives may be on the line. But saying no to her would take the focus off her and put it on him. What sort of man would deny that pretty woman a seat? A heartless man. A man looking to cause trouble.
Booker silently stood upward and out of the way so the female could sneak into the seat beside his. He kept his eyes averted from her body. She was easy to look at, but Booker was good at not looking, especially now that he had Elizabeth in his life. And he didn't need any distractions today.
"Do you have a name, sir?" the beautiful female asked as she settled into her seat.
"I do," Booker responded shortly.
He sat back down, and he kept his name to himself. He heard the woman beside him sigh softly.
It was going to be a long trainride; It'd take at least eight hours to reach Buffalo. And he was tired and his broken rib hurt and he hadn't ate a damn thing today.
oooooooooooooooooooooo
The train seats were uncomfortable; Booker straightened his posture.
About an hour into the trainride, a meaty-looking, bald guy had turned in his seat to look at him. Twice. Well, Baldy may have been looking at the pretty blonde beside him. It was impossible to say for sure. Either way, Baldy looked like the sort of guy that could throw some pretty mean punches. Probably not as nasty as the punches he took from Noah earlier in the day, but certainly mean ones. And that disturbed Booker.
ooooooooooooooooooooooo
Lillian was gazing out the train's window. The lovely evergreen-filled mountains they passed by were quite the sight, but overall she decided she did not like trains. The motion was making her a little queasy, and she was a woman of the streets - she liked the comfort of stone roads beneath her feet.
She glanced at the quiet man seated beside her. He certainly fit the description of the man she was supposed to be following, but he had refused to give her his name, so she couldn't be sure.
He was quite handsome for an older man - with stubble on his cheeks and very masculine features. It was the sort of good-looks that took a minute to see. You may pass him on the street without noticing him, but if you sat across from him at a dinner table and took the time to examine his face, he'd slowly draw you in without a word.
There was a sense of sadness about him, she realized. That's what kept him from being instantly attractive. He was a handsome man wrapped in an ugly cloak.
The man was glaring at various occupants of the train car with the eye movements of a famished predator.
Lillian decided it was time to attempt conversation with the man.
"Where are you traveling to, sir?" she asked in a polite tone.
"Mm," he responded. It was the man's way of saying, 'I heard your question, I simply don't care to answer it.'
Lillian tilted her head to the side as she continued to watch his eyes shift through the traincar.
"If your eyes could shoot bullets, I suspect you'd make victims of half this train's occupants."
The man flashed her a quick, humorless look before returning to his silent task.
Determined to get the man to at least speak to her, Lillian followed the direction of the quiet man's eyes. They seemed to be gazing upon a man wearing a chocolate-colored Homburg hat.
"I know that man ... " she teased.
Her neighbor didn't respond.
" ... His name is Bernie McPoppycock," she announced, "he has thirty-six children ... all named Henry. He will be forever remembered as the man that brought thirty-six Henry McPoppycocks into this world."
" ... that's quite an accomplishment," the man muttered.
Though the man seemed annoyed, the success of encouraging speech from him compelled Lillian to proceed.
"Now, the man next to Mr. McPoppycock ... he's a farmer named Edith Prisswater. He laments that his mother gave him a woman's name, and he has an inappropriate attraction to one of his sheep - "
" - You see that guy in the front corner?" the man interrupted with an unkind tone, "the one sitting next to the blonde lady. He's heading home to his beautiful wife and daughter. And even though he just wants to enjoy this train ride in peace, the blonde whore sitting next to him insists on pestering him. It irritates him: every word she speaks seems to add another hour to an already lengthy long train ride."
There was a pause before Booker added: "gotta say I feel bad for the guy."
Lillian's lips pursed. Everyone seemed to want to remind her that she's just a whore, today. What did she even say or do that revealed to him her profession? Lillian became motionless, brown eyes fixating on the man's neck. After a long moment, she adopted an angered tone as she asked: "is this a trip for you, sir, or a permanent relocation?"
"Why?" he asked impatiently.
"Because New York city has plenty of heartless bastards," she quipped, "and it'd please me to know it has shed at least one of them this day."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Four hours into the trainride and Booker was beginning to lose focus. Fatigue, pain, hunger and long train rides were a terrible combination.
His blonde traintrip-companion had been absolutely silent since he insulted her. Which was a good thing.
Booker's eyes ventured back toward Milton and his wife, four rows in front of him. The back of their heads, specifically. And that's when he heard the Boudain children's laughter, again.
A sister and her younger brother.
It's a familiar relationship. One Booker had lost long ago.
Some dark memories began to simmer within his mind; memories that were about three decades old. Booker found himself wondering what his sister would look like if she were still alive. They had looked pretty similar - green eyes, light brown hair. Though their mother let her grow out her hair ... past her waistline, even. Would she still have worn her hair long if she had survived until adulthood?
Her name was Samantha. She had been ... troubled.
There had been signs of it. Even in his youth, Booker had noticed them. Saw a few of those signs in himself, too.
There was a single memory that lingered in his mind as the most significant indicator that there was something wrong with her ... something wrong with them both.
He was only seven at the time ... two years younger than Samantha
"Booker! Look, a goose egg. I took it from a nest I found. Its mother hissed at me! I didn't even know they made such a sound. Did you know geese hiss?"
" ... no."
"Let's see what it looks like!"
Booker would like to think it was just a cruel act committed out of a terrible mix of childish curiosity and ignorance, but he remembered the way Samantha's eyes lit up when she used the butt of a knife to crack open the egg's shell ...
The act revealed an almost entirely formed creature, still sucking on the egg's yolk. It took a couple hours before the sad little thing stopped breathing.
Perhaps he would have forgotten this little memory if she hadn't gone off the next day to gather the remaining five eggs from the nest she had found.
"Come on, Booker! We'll crack them all open."
"We ... already know what happens when we crack their shell," he argued.
" ... I know. I know that, Booker," Samantha responded with calm eyes, "but ... it'l be fun. Come on, now, you can crack the first one."
He did crack the first one, that time. At first he felt a little nauseous about it, but the way Samantha giggled and smiled and complimented him soothed away his anxiety.
They cracked each of those eggs open; they watched five little almost-born geese struggle to live.
Booker remembered too much of his youth. Too much of these odd little memories. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wishing his mind would stop thinking for just a few minutes. But it wouldn't stop. And suddenly he remembered the last time he touched Samantha ... skin slick, body limp ... lifeless.
He started to feel sick. His stomach pulled itself into a knot, and he found himself wishing his brain could just spit out these memories so he could pretend they never happened. He wanted a beer. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted Elizabeth, but she wasn't here. Elizabeth made thoughts and memories like this go away. She made Samantha go away. She made Wounded Knee go away. She made the Homestead Strike go away. Her smile made it all vanish, and he hadn't seen her smile in over thirty hours.
"You left me in the lake ... "
Booker heard the words. In his ear. A female's voice. He could swear the words were real. They had to be real. They were real. It wasn't a memory, no one's ever made that damn comment to him before today. And he turned, suddenly and forcefully, toward his blonde trainride-companion and he was ready to smack her for saying those words.
The blameless female jumped at his unexpected movement. She looked surprised, of course.
His teeth clenched and his jaw became tight.
She didn't say it. She didn't say anything. You called her a whore then she called you a bastard and she hasn't said a damn thing to you since.
Anger flashed in the woman's eyes. She knew what he wanted to do. Of course she did. She was a whore. She knew the souls of men. She had a bruise on her jaw and Booker was absolutely certain a man was the one that placed it there.
Get a hold of yourself, Booker.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The sudden movement had frightened Lillian. And the dark look she spied in the angered man's eyes did little to console her. It was the look of a man that wanted to hit something. Or someone. She's seen the look before, she's felt the strike that follows the look.
Lillian's expression became hard, strong. The last time a man hit her, his throat was slashed and his right eye was removed from his skull. Not by her own hands, but still ... the fact comforted her, and she was convinced this broody bastard beside her would endure a similar fate at Mr. Reed's hands should he attempt to hurt her. And that was only if she never got the chance to take a knife to the despicable man's neck herself.
"Sir?" she growled. She was about to dare him to make his strike before this strange man, again, surprised her.
" ... sorry," he murmured, as his harsh expression melted into a truly grim, broken look.
Lillian had been surrounded by prostitutes, criminals and desperate men her whole life. She had seen people break, fall to pieces, starve ... and, truly, this man's miserable expression ranked among the worst of what she had seen on a person's face.
Pity welled up inside her; a subtle sympathy appeared within her eyes.
This man's one of her own, she realized. A fellow member of New York City's teeming trashpile - where the sad and the hollow live, breed, and die.
Yes. He was definitely one of her own.
"I'm Lillian," she offered gently, breaking the agonized silence.
" ... Booker."
So. This was the man she was looking for. The realization somehow left her feeling both relieved and conflicted at once.
"It's ... been a rough road, hasn't it?" she asked quietly.
Booker nodded, before straightening in his seat. Lillian watched his eyes return to the task of scanning the occupants of the traincar. They exchanged no more words for the remainder of the trainride, but Lillian was now more comfortable with the silence they shared.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
They finally reached Buffalo. It was cool. The sun was beginning to set.
The apprehension Booker had felt at the beginning of the trainride now returned to him with increased potency.
Lillian had slipped off the train car before either the Boudain family or Booker himself could, and she had patted the back of Booker's shoulder as she stepped past him. It meant something ... perhaps 'good bye' or 'take care' or 'I forgive you,' ... he wasn't sure of the meaning, exactly, but he found himself appreciative of the sentiment.
Now, Booker forced his entire focus on the Boudains. He carefully followed them, off the train, through the terminal, outside ... keeping a decent distance from them the entire time. His fingers instinctively lingered at the level of his hip ... subconsciously he anticipated violence, subconsciously he was prepared to draw his gun.
Even from afar, Booker could spy the tension ... the fear, in Milton's posture and movements. Booker struggled to remain calm, hoping Milton would be wrong about Buffalo.
But Milton wasn't wrong about Buffalo. It didn't take the Bianchi thugs long to reveal themselves. The Boundains had only stepped several feet outside of the terminal before two nasty-looking men stepped into their path.
Every inch of skeletal muscle in Booker's body tensed. He examined the thugs. One of them was Baldy - He was just as meaty as the back of his fat head had promised on the traincar. The guy next to him was far smaller, though just as nasty-looking.
There was undoubtedly more than just these two men lurking in the crowd ... perhaps even in the surrounding buildings, but they wisely chose not to reveal themselves.
Booker watched Milton lift his hands in a gesture of surrender.
This was how it was supposed to be, right? Milton was going to surrender himself, and his family would live on without him. Booker just had to make sure there weren't any plot-twists, just had to get the man's wife and little ones onto tomorrow morning's trainride to Chicago, and he could walk off with Milton's five-hundred dollar payment guilt-free.
Just change the names and the faces and this may as well be my story, Booker realized. A handful of hours ago he had nearly sacrificed himself for Anna and Elizabeth ... He would have, if Elizabeth hadn't slapped his chest and told him not to give up because she had a plan.
The two thugs allowed Milton to say his good-byes.
There's Noah and his lackey, Piero, hissing taunts and breathing laughter ...
Mrs. Boudain cried out loudly as Milton turned about to give her a lingering hug.
There's Elizabeth ... embracing me one last time.
Milton leaned down to kiss his little ones and whisper in their ears. One last 'I love you,' of course. Perhaps one last piece of fatherly advice. They didn't understand what was going on, but their mother was shrieking and crying and now they were starting to cry themselves.
There's Anna ... who's going to become an adult without me.
And finally, Milton turned to the two mafiosos, nodding with a solemn version of bravery. He was ready to go.
There I am; goodbye, Booker.
Booker watched Milton, watched the brave show he was putting on, watched the noble sacrifice he was about to make. And, when Booker found that he couldn't watch any more, he made a silent promise to Milton: You're going to Chicago with your family.
He didn't know Milton Boudain. The man could be anything. There's thousands of crimes Milton Boudain may have or may not have committed.
But he knew the man's story, and that was enough.
With the ease of a practiced killer, with the quickness of a desperate man, Booker drew his pistol.
oooooooooooooooooooooooo
Author's Note:
BIG
BIG
BIG
thank you to ALL my reviewers. Honestly it was really hard to get back into writing after taking a month off to focus on school, and all the support really helped me get through this chapter. I love you guys, you all have no idea how much hearing from you all means to me. Even little comments are greatly valued!
Omni-thanks to my fab-four repeat reviewers: Mr. Brown, Incidental Vegan Cannibal, Shtoops and Wouldyoukindly. I would have literally quit this story at chapter 7 if it weren't for you guys(only got one review for that chapter outside of you four and it was from someone who hated the story lol ... ).
Small message to people concerned about Elizabeth's characterization: Stay tuned. ;D
Repeat Reviewer Shout-outs!
Wouldyoukindly: Thanks for test reviewing for me. This would be an entirely different story without you. You give me confidence and ideas and direction when I really need it. I'm very happy with how Booker turned out this chapter, and that's thanks to the fact that you've spent an hour chatting about him with me. You're awesome. Amazing. Beautiful. Je t'aime.
Paul Perkins: Thanks for reviewing, man! I swear a carnality update is coming soon. I swear. I promise. Really!
Shtoops: Shtoooooops! You be cracking the whip on me this chapter! XD Love to hear from ya, as always. I literally finished Burial at Sea this morning and while I may use a few concepts from it, I don't think I'll be able to fit it into my story. We'll see what happens when BAS pt 2 is released.
Glad Noah produced Shtoops-rage. XD I was actually surprised you read The Collector's Whore, you never appealled to me as a fan of Noah or my sex scenes lol. Thanks for the review over there, too! I actually had your comments in mind when I wrote the sex scenes, so it was really awesome to hear from you over there and get a fav for it.
Indigo: Thanks for the repeat reviews, my friend! The ongoing support has been super flattering(you even made a profile for me ... love ya!) Hope you enjoyed the chapter!
Mr. Brown: Hey, my muse! I actually LOVE your monster idea, it won't necessarily fit into this story, but I may use it in a different fic or an AU version of this one after it's completed. Thank you so much for your ongoing support ... I kinda thought you hated chapter 9 so much that you decided not to review and my heart nearly flew out my chest. I'd really hate to let you down, I hope you enjoy chapter 10! You've mentioned an interest in Lillian in the past so I hope you like her scenes!
Final note: ENJOY THE HOLIDAYS EVERYONE!
- 9
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- 11
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