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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
- 10
- 11
- 12
Author's Notes: Sorry it took forever to update everyone! Hoping not everyone gave up on the fic, lol.
There are UPDATES to the To Belong character listing for characters that are either introduced this chapter or will be mentioned/appear soon.(Benjamin Boyd, George Growland, Wretched and Daniel McCabe).
The link:
tobelongfic . liverjournal . com
(take out the spaces)
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Elizabeth's fingers were still tracing across smooth, cool skin.
She had never touched a corpse, but she imagined this was close to what one felt like. Still, Noah had perceivable signs of both survival and recovery. She could feel his pulse underneath his skin when she touched his neck. She could hear his breaths - no longer chest-heavy heaves for air, but still an abnormal depth and pattern. She could see his eyes ... not with her own, as his head was still in her lap and faced toward the fireplace, but with her powers that could see beyond physical sight.
Those eyes certainly suited him, Elizabeth decided. Gray is a cold, terrible color. The color of tombstones and knives and all sorts of cruel, lifeless things. At least they were honest - something Noah could not hide. That muscular body was always concealed beneath expensive suits ... those hands - the hands of both a brawler and a murderer - were always adorned with those leather gloves. And that light-colored hair ... it was a color that could produce envy, a color that felt deceptive when worn by a serial killer.
"Do you remember what powerlessness is like, Songbird?" Elizabeth asked softly, tapping his cheek. He's had long enough to rest.
Her jaw tightened when the sound of Noah's soft laughs filled her ear.
" … as, you're as insane as I am … " he murmured as his laughs steadily began to increase in volume.
Elizabeth knew there were physical ways of silencing the Negotiator, but she truly, truly wanted to teach him to control his mouth.
Noah stopped laughing when his body disappeared in a flash of light, only to be set several inches above the chair in the corner of the living room. He collapsed into its seat. Elizabeth watched his eyes shift and blink repeatedly ... an attempt to control the dizziness created by the combination of bloodloss and an unexpected shift in position.
Still unhappy with Noah's decision to comment on her ... 'insanity,' Elizabeth stood up from the floor and eyed the softly breathing criminal.
"You believe yourself capable of evaluating the minds of others, Songbird?" she inquired casually, taking slow steps toward Noah, "do you realize that on history's scale of insanity you rank somewhere between Ivan the Terrible and Vlad the Impaler?"
" ... I have no knowledge of either men ... but I approve of their titles," Noah admitted ... reclaiming his soft smirk as he tightly gripped onto the arms of his chair. He was no stranger to pain but significant bloodloss and the state of anemia that accompanied it was a new experience for him.
"Of course you would," Elizabeth commented as she mused over his words. Ernest had given Noah an incomplete education but technically Ivan the Terrible and Vlad the Impaler may not have been leaders in this version of reality. She made a mental note to research the history of this world before making any more historical references.
"You're ... you're the only one of your kind, aren't you ... ?" Noah breathed, smiling, tapping his fingers on the arm chair as he stared at her, "you're the only one that can ... do this to me."
"I am," Elizabeth confirmed, pleased with this shift in their conversation. She moved beside his armchair, maintaining eye contact with him. What was in his eyes? Admiration? Lust? Amusement?
Elizabeth noticed that even while sitting Noah was nearly as tall as she was ... she also noticed that Noah was actually beginning to shiver - now that he was away from the fireplace and regaining some of his strength. She sat down on the sturdy arm of the chair, sliding an arm across his large shoulders and hooking her arm so she could once again start touching his neck.
"I could do this to you every night, Songbird ... - "
Noah interrupted her with a quiet chuckle: "of course you'd want more ... this first date of ours, has gone so well ... - "
" - I could do this to you every night, Songbird," Elizabeth repeated, pressing her nails into the skin of his neck, "we could choose a specific time. Say, nine in the evening. Perhaps I'll drop you into the harbor bay, each night ... a foot higher, each time. Higher and higher ... until I find the exact height your bones begin to break."
Elizabeth paused for a moment to give Noah the opportunity to interject some sort of sarcastic, belligerent comment. He chose not to - he was just staring into her eyes, smiling ... at least it was a smile that lacked the air of superiority he had earlier.
"I could drop you from that very height each evening, Songbird," Elizabeth recommended, "Again and again. Until each weakened bone in your body cracks. Which part of you would give up first, I wonder? Your insane mind or ... this body of yours?"
As Elizabeth spoke the last four words she slid her palm across his neck then underneath his tattered dress-shirt to press into the muscle of his shoulder.
"Perhaps we should do that, Noah," Elizabeth teased, patting his shoulder, "perhaps I'll visit you each night and slowly break you ... "
"I suppose I can ... fit you into my schedule," he replied facetiously. Smirking, of course.
Elizabeth lips twitched. She almost laughed. The comment wasn't even that funny ... but she had to give the Negotiator credit, he was a remarkably persistent instigator.
She was planning Noah's next punishment when he surprised her.
"You do not realize," he murmured, shifting closer to her, pressing his cheek against her collarbone, "what you're doing to me ... You do not realize, Elizabeth."
Elizabeth's breathing paused as she watched Noah's hand extend toward her thigh ... That hand ended up grasping onto the fabric of her dress.
"You're ... the only one of your kind," Noah whispered as he inched toward Elizabeth's neck, "... the only one that could do this to me ... no other."
Feeling Noah's cool lips touch her neck finally prompted intervention.
"What do you think is going to happen, right now, Songbird?" Elizabeth asked nonchalantly, using her powers to look over Noah's body: torn clothes, scraped skin, dried blood, deep-chested breaths, corpse-colored skin, the occasional shiver ... "Do you think I'm going to sigh and ask you to satisfy me? Are you capable of pleasuring a woman, right now?"
Noah pressed a chuckle into her skin.
"I'm an optimist," he answered.
Elizabeth smiled as she added a final question: "Do you even have the strength to stand at this moment, Songbird?"
Before Noah could respond, his body disappeared in a flash of Elizabeth's light from the chair. He was displaced in a standing position roughly two feet above the floor. He wasn't prepared for the manuever, and Noah's limited blood supply made this sudden upward shift a debilitating experience ... Instead of landing on his feet, he collapsed forward heavily onto his hands and knees, body shuddering, glasses falling from his face.
Noah put on a bitter smile after the potent wave of dizziness passed. He truly preferred the tree, the cliff and the ocean-dive over the bloodletting. Enduring pain can be ignored; stolen strength required recovery.
Elizabeth stood and walked toward the fallen criminal. The sight of Reed patting the ground in search of his glasses while on his hands and knees made her feel quite proud.
When Noah found his glasses, his posture straightened. He was about to shift out of his kneeling position to prove he could, indeed, stand before Elizabeth called out to him ...
"No, Songbird. Remain as you are," she insisted, stepping close to Noah's kneeling form, "this is the position you belong in."
Noah smirked. Of course. Kneeling was the position he belonged in. So says the dark goddess. He had challenged her to force him to kneel, earlier. A string of quiet laughter burst from him. He placed a trembling hand upon his own mouth, trying to stop himself, but a glance toward Elizabeth's unimpressed expression beckoned even harsher laughs from him.
"You're ridiculous," Elizabeth accused quietly.
He spoke … his laughter and words battling within his mouth: "What have you … What have you done to me?"
This powerlessness was maddening. Elizabeth's proximity was maddening. His desire for her was maddening. Who could even dream of this woman? This powerful, fascinating, peculiar, naive, foolish, beautiful ... beautiful woman.
To think he was the only one who knew of Elizabeth. No one else knew of her power, no one else knew of her insanity. He'll keep this secret. This wonderful secret. His secret goddess. The goddess that has placed him on his knees.
Noah managed to stop laughing and looked up to Elizabeth. He observed those enchanting, harsh blue eyes … then his vision travelled downward across her bust and stopped at her slender abdomen. He imagined her pale skin.
Beautiful.
"You cannot look at me with anything but lust, can you, Songbird?" Elizabeth asked ... tone soft and even.
Control yourself, Noah instructed silently. Be clever.
"You've earned your victory, Elizabeth," Noah declared, "I'm yours."
Elizabeth titled her head as the smallest touch of a smile emerged on her face.
"A new tactic?" she accused in a sweet tone.
"Oh, this little dance of ours has been an absolute delight," Noah admitted as he reached out to set one of his hands on her hips ... but, with a flash of light his hand was displaced - same as Vincenzo's had been earlier. Noah - with that odd little smile of his -stared at the circle of light at his wrist. So strange that he could move his hand without having any idea where it is.
"But your spectacular plan promises to be even more fun," Noah finally finished, looking up at her.
In the corner of his eye, he saw Elizabeth's light vanish and his hand return.
"You'll do as I say?" she asked.
"Yes," Noah chuckled, "let's execute over five-hundred men. I've never been involved in such large-scale violence; I'm excited."
Elizabeth's expression darkened.
Noah smiled slyly.
"That is what you decreed, is it not?" Noah remarked lightly, "no judgment, no investigations, mass-slaughter is our only purpose."
The blue-eyed female attempted to remain stone-face, but her inner-conflict forced a twist of her pretty features. She ignored the implications of Noah's words – instead focusing on the man himself. She thought of Reed's ridiculous antics at Time's Square, she thought of Booker's warning … that she was 'too young, too innocent' to handle a seasoned criminal like Noah Reed.
Elizabeth frowned. Noah may have declared her the victor of this confrontation, but, somehow, even while on his knees, he still wasn't acting like it.
Stay calm. You're in control of this situation.
"What's your goal, Songbird?" Elizabeth asked finally, watching another shudder roll through Reed's broad shoulders, "trying to protect your criminal peers?"
"Oh, no," Noah denied with an amused snort, "no no. There is not an ounce of concern for my criminal peers. Killing them over the most trivial offenses is an absolute thrill for me. I am attempting to protect you."
Elizabeth stared at Noah for a silent moment, attempting to discern the purpose behind these words … and whether his purpose would be a help or hindrance to her ultimate goals.
"There are moments when you absolutely fascinate me, Elizabeth," Noah breathed, eyes once again wandering along the contours of her body, "moments that convince me you could make a slave of me. But I've witnessed moments that leave me … unimpressed."
"Oh goodness," Elizabeth muttered, folding her arms across her chest, "I so hate the thought of disappointing you."
"Do you understand we're about to make widows of hundreds of wives and an even greater number of children fatherless?" Noah inquired smugly "do you realize not every mafioso in this city is guilty of violent crimes?"
"I'm not a fool, Noah," Elizabeth remarked impatiently, "I know you're trying to manipulate me - "
" - Oh, what's the term for when someone allows the truth to manipulate them? ... Sanity, I believe?" Noah retorted playfully, "you may want to seek someone else if you require further elaboration. I'm not exactly an expert."
Elizabeth's lips pursed. She lifted a slender brow and titled her head to the side.
"Songbird, do you realize ... " Elizabeth brought her hand toward her own neck, tracing two fingers along the flesh, "there's a noose around your neck. It tightens with each brash word that escapes your mouth ... "
Noah watched Elizabeth's fingers; he imagined his own upon her neck.
The broken criminal smiled; such dark thoughts she had unwittingly planted within his mind.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
A promise was made between the confident goddess and her obsessive songbird.
Songbird pledged to never leave her side.
The goddess vowed to hold the broken man when it was time for him to die.
Noah admitted he had always imagined dying in the arms of a beautiful woman.
Elizabeth would never forget the details of the scene: the sight of the wounded, shivering criminal ... his unnerving smile ... the way his hand hesitantly reached to touch her hair ...
She'd certainly never forget his following words, nor the silky way they touched her ear when he whispered them: "Point to me all your enemies, Elizabeth ... I'll bury them."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
It was like walking into an Edgar Allan Poe tale.
Stefano, after forty minutes of driving and roughly twenty minutes of jogging through the woods to reach Noah's secluded cabin, finally arrived. At the front door, he squeezed the handle of his gun anxiously before peeking inside.
Dried blood and the accompanying smell of metal was all over the living room floor. Noah himself was on his knees at the center of it - clothes wet, tattered, stained ... hair disheveled ...bloody scrapes and wounds evident on the man's skin. He was breathing, at least. Wounded but intact and functional.
It was an incredibly disconcerting sight for Stefano. Noah looked like he had been tied to a vehicle and dragged along the forest floor for several miles. And all that fucking blood on the floor ...
Noah caught the sight of Stefano eyeballing the scene.
"My employer sends her regards - said you were quite charming on the phone," Noah muttered with a smirk.
"Jesus-fucking-Christ," Stefano huffed out as he dashed through the door, "what did they fucking do to you?"
"Oh, there was no 'they'," Reed murmured as he watched little Stefano kneel at his side, "simply a lone female ... "
"Big guy, you've lost a lot of blood. A lone female couldn't do this; you're not fucking thinking straight. Now shut up and stand," Stefano growled quickly as he grabbed at Noah's arm, "we need to get the hell out of here! It's not safe."
Stefano's words forced Noah to erupt into sharp laughter. There was no place safe from a goddess of space and time. He tried to stop laughing but he couldn't control himself. He had been subdued by a dippy damsel that was willing to slaughter hundreds to protect the pathetic, melancholy parasite she shares her bedchamber with. DeWitt had to be the reason she was doing this - it was not a coincidence that this nonsensical plan of hers was revealed on the exact day DeWitt ran out of money.
"This doesn't make any fucking sense. Where's the - stop laughing - where's the fucking wound Noah? Where did all this blood come from?"
But Reed could not focus. He continued to laugh. His beautiful goddess. His deranged, ridiculous, wonderful goddess. The silly damsel - young and emotional and naive. Can such a woman be charmed? Can such a woman be controlled? Perhaps if he was smart ... if he was clever. He had already convinced her to temporarily spare Stefano - Of course she can be controlled.
"Noah, Noah! I will put you in a goddamn tub filled with dog spunk if you don't stop. fucking. laughing."
Oh, if beautiful Elizabeth lost her powers for a single day ... a single day ... The possibilities! Perhaps he'd give her proper instruction on the concept of powerlessness. Perhaps he'd kill her worthless leech-lover directly before her eyes and kiss the inevitable tears off her cheeks. Then he'd carry the alluring female to the nearest bedchamber and press her lovely face into the sheets and -
Force away these thoughts.
What had she done? Noah had never entertained the possibility of forcing his lustful urges upon an unwilling female before this night. Dark, intoxicating thoughts were swarming within his mind with a tempest's fury.
His own. Elizabeth must be his own. Whether by charm or by force, she ...
You mustn't ever hurt her.
The laughter grew louder - it was becoming difficult to breathe. The Negotiator's chest shook, his hands clenched into fists. Elizabeth may never lose her powers, but he was entirely convinced that one day, she would make a mistake. She would make a mistake, and her Songbird would be ready.
Songbird. Such a ridiculous title. Did she truly believe the Negotiator was some sort of frail, pretty little creature that should sing in a cage? One day, she'd know better. She'd -
The butt of Stefano's gun slammed into Noah's cheek. It produced a trifle amount of pain - especially when compared to the pain in the rest of his body - but it did end the stream of laughter.
"Better?" Stefano asked. In truth the mob boss was slightly annoyed that the strike didn't even seem to surprise the oversized criminal, much less hurt him.
"Yes," the Negotiator admitted with a smirk, looking toward the little Galucci leader, "though I must confess that the one-hundred and fifteen pound female that just left hits significantly harder."
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Buffalo Arc
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
George remembered the White Injun.
Anyone that saw the White Injun on the battlefield would remember him. Inexperienced but cocky. Young and bloodthirsty. Bullets were striking the backs of fleeing men and women's skulls, scalps were removed from the fallen.
Who would have thought a single teenager could create such a large pile of dead savages?
It had been ... a privilege to serve with Booker.
George wanted to see him, again. Not only to reminisce about war, not only to update each other on how their lives have withered since then, but to apologize.
The man that had called him on the phone - the 'Negotiator' - he had been tricky. The first time he called George, he offered a decent amount of money in exchange for a simple interview. George, excited for both easy money and an opportunity to rant about the past, accepted the offer.
The interview started with innocuous questions on George's childhood, then the war ... but eventually this Negotiator started asking about any notable fellow cavalrymen.
George mentioned Booker. Then a lot of questions were asked of Booker. So many that George eventually realized that Booker was this interviewer's true interest. He couldn't help but wonder if his ex-comrade was in some kind of trouble ...
George was told Booker would arriving in Buffalo today; there would be an opportunity to ask for forgiveness.
Just before George arrived at the train station, the familiar sound of gunshots filled the air. The former soldier ran toward a nearby building. He cussed quietly and wished he had brought one of his guns.
Strangely, the sound of further gunshots made him smile a bit. George had been looking for Booker DeWitt; he was pretty sure he found the man.
Heaven help whoever stood in the White Injun's path.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
There was a tumor inside Booker - a vicious mass that would pulse inside him. Sometimes the he could ignore it, sometimes it seemed to throb so fiercely that he wanted to slice into his own belly so he could rip the damn thing out. It was a cancerous sickness that only plagued the worst of men. This tumor was a part of Booker - denials and alcohol didn't make it go away, it just allowed Booker to pretend it wasn't there.
The ex-soldier could feel it right now, tugging at his insides. He could feel it as he pulled the trigger of his gun twice successively.
The two men that had confronted Milton and his family fell. A bullet for the thinner one, a bullet for tough-looking baldy - looks like Booker would never have to find out if the gangster could throw a punch as fierce as Noah's. The pain in his ribs silently thanked him for that.
That's when the screams began.
The screams of a street full of white folk. The screams of a field full of Injuns. The sounds were exactly the same - something Booker did not understand during his teenage years.
The crowd roared and dispersed. Some people took cover, some turned and ran back toward the train terminal, some fled down the street. Milton and his wife did not hesitate. They quickly gathered their two children into their arms and ran back toward the terminal.
Booker heard additional gunshots - probably aimed toward the Boudain family. It confirmed his suspicions: there were more mafiosos lurking in the vicinity, and their goal had been upgraded from abduction to murder. The ex-soldier's instincts took over. He dashed toward a nearby vehicle for cover, attempting to identify the most likely spots additional gunmen would be lurking within: places that provided cover and clear vantage points.
His eyes scanned across the windows and rooftops of nearby buildings as additional shots were fired. The man frowned. Booker had drew his pistol Impulsively and confidently, and while the skilled ex-soldier knew no innocent people would die by his own gun - starting a gunfight in a crowded area was doomed to produce an unintended victim or two ...
Kill them before they hit anybody.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Milton's heart rate had doubled as fear plagued him. A gunfight in the streets against who knows how many men? This Booker DeWitt was mad.
So now the Boudains were fleeing - and though Milton could easily out-run his wife his pace remained slow enough to keep near her. His daughter in his arms was asking anxious questions, his son, carried by his wife, was crying loudly. They had all just witnessed two men get shot in the head together ... a terrible experience for an entire family to share.
There were more gunshots. Milton's wife cried out as a bullet struck the concrete ground beside them.
Please God do not let them hit us! Milton beseeched silently. What if his wife tripped on her dress? If any member of his family fell, his plan was to throw his own body on top of theirs and take any bullets fired at them.
Hope swelled within Milton as they neared the terminal, only to be pierced seconds later. A nearby stranger - an older man who couldn't be more than seven feet away from the Boundain family -screamed. It was a very different sound from the panicked shrieks that filled the area. It was a scream of pain. The stranger fell to the ground.
Guilt instantly exploded within Milton's mind, but neither he nor his wife paused. He didn't even turn to look to see if the fallen man was simply wounded or dead.
His fault. This was all his fault. He struggled to pry the sound of the victim's scream from his mind as they reached the terminal.
Just as they stepped past the threshold of the train terminal, a female's voice called to him loudly and insistently.
"Caution, mister!"
Milton and his wife turned to spy a beautiful blonde woman that had been had took cover to the side of the door. He recalled seeing her on the train ...
"There's at least one gunman entering the building from the opposite entrance," the female stranger informed them in hushed tones, "follow me, I know of a place you may hide safely."
Milton nodded, trying to reassure his frightened daughter with a small squeeze.
"Thank you, miss," Milton's wife breathed as she clutched their son.
They trusted the woman; Milton could not think of a reason not to.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Booker's eyes locked on a man in the window of a factory building across the street. DeWitt aimed a shot that hit the brick wall beside the gunman's head. A second bullet would strike the mafioso directly in the face.
Three down.
A window of the car he had been using as cover shattered as a bullet pierced it.
"Shit," Booker huffed as he ducked low behind the Ford vehicle. One of the remaining gunman had spotted him - he no longer had both a surprise and ambiguity advantage. He mused over the location of this man that had found him - perhaps this mafioso was shooting from the same building as Booker's latest kill.
The ex-Pinkerton attempted to peek out from behind the car, but moving just four-inches summoned an extra gunshot. He instinctively hunkered downward.
The bastard must be shooting from the rooftop.
This was a tough situation, being pinned down by an unseen gunman - probably a sniper. Booker's fingers squeezed his gun fiercely as he tried to form a plan. He quickly scanned the environment. The entire Boundain family had successfully fled back into the train terminal. A man had fallen, shot in the leg, but was still moving. No one had bothered to try to help the victim to safety. Booker grimaced and had to actively ignore the urge to run over and try to assist the man - he couldn't take that risk while being pinned down by a hypothetical sniper. The sinner knew God probably did not bother with the prayers of a man that had just shot three men in their heads, but he asked anyway: Please let the man live ...
The horrified victim attempted to crawl toward the terminal.
Another gunshot. This one seemed to hit the road directly beside the fallen man, and he gasped out fearfully.
Booker recognized this intentional miss was a warning. If anyone moved within the sniper's field of vision, they were going to be shot.
"Don't move or he'll shoot you," DeWitt warned.
"Sir, please, I ... the bleeding- "
" - Don't. Move!"
Booker was about to muse over his next move when he heard the wounded man again shout out.
"Help me, miss, please! I'm shot in the leg!"
Those green eyes flashed about to find the 'miss' the gunshot victim was speaking to and, to his surprise, he spied a familiar face peeking out from the safety of the terminal.
Lillian.
Even from a distance, DeWitt could see the resolve in her expression - she was going to run out into the open area and help the fallen man.
Would the sniper shoot at a lady? He had been blasting into a crowd of people to try to shoot a man directly in front of his family ... he just fired an ominous warning directly beside a wounded, unarmed man ... it was best not to count on this dangerous stranger's morality.
"Lillian, don't even think about it!"
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
No one stopped to help the wounded man.
That was the way of the world.
Lillian's hands clenched into fists as her gaze moved to Booker. It annoyed her no one had been brave enough to try to help the fallen man, and it especially annoyed her that Booker was instructing her not to. She saw what happened. Booker had started this gunfight - did he not feel at all responsible for this man's fate?
Mr. Reed had been entirely correct about this Booker. He had informed her that this DeWitt character was violent and destined to cause trouble in any city he ventured to.
"Someone needs to help him!" she insisted loudly.
"There's a sniper in the building across the street - he'll gun you down," Booker promised.
"Oh god, please help me, miss!" the gunshot victim groaned out, "I can, with a little help I can walk - please miss! I'm bleeding out!"
The torn female's heart felt like it was going to burst. She shouldn't be putting herself in harm's way ... she had children at home, children without a father, but ...
"Surely the sniper would not shoot at a lady attempting to assist a wounded man!" Lillian called back to Booker as she attempted to gather back her nerve.
"You don't know that, Lillian!" Booker argued, "get back in the terminal! You're not a hero!"
Determination manifested within Lillian. Booker had provided her exactly what she needed to hear to reclaim her resolve. She was truly sick of men telling her what she was and wasn't, today - she was a whore, she wasn't a hero. For one day, for one damn day, she wanted to decide for herself what she was or wasn't.
"Be ready for me, sir!" she called out to the wounded man, "I'll race to you at the count of three!"
"Lillian," Booker hollered at her as he pointed his gun at the wounded man, "you take one step out of that station and I'll shoot him in the damn head."
Rage planted itself on Lillian's pretty face as she glared at the ex-Pinkerton.
"You wouldn't!"
"Don't test me, Lillian," Booker warned harshly. His expression was nasty, cold ... but the blonde woman's demeanor maintained a visible mix of courage and spite.
"I'm coming, sir," the spirited blonde vowed, attention shifting back toward the wounded man. Gathering all the inner strength she had, the female began to count loudly: "One!"
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Booker cursed. Lillian was going to run out into the open despite his warnings and the threat. Shooting the fallen man may have protected the stubborn girl from making a potentially fatal mistake, but the ex-Pinkerton didn't have the nerve to go through with it. Not today, anyway. Not a man who's only known crime had been being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Just before Lillian's count reached three, Booker dashed out from behind the car with his gun and fired his own warning shot at the rooftop of the suspected building. At the very least he hoped to distract the man from shooting at Lillian, but maybe he'd get lucky and hit the bastard.
The ex-soldier's blind warning shot missed, of course, but he finally caught sight of the sniper.
The sniper fired his own shot - and from this distance Booker couldn't be sure what the man was shooting at. If it was aimed a Booker, it missed. If it was aimed at Lillian ... well, for all he knew, the courageous courtesan was on the ground in front of the terminal with a bullet lodged in her brain.
Still, the ex-soldier knew how to focus. He didn't look back to check on Lillian, his dash didn't pause and he fired a second shot as he sprinted toward the factory building the sniper stood upon.
After the shot, the sniper disappeared from sight. Perhaps the bullet struck and the man had fallen - either dead or wounded. Perhaps Booker missed and the sniper was simply reloading. Either way, the ex-Pinkerton wanted to get off the street, find the bastard and kill him if he wasn't already dead.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooo
With both fear and pride swelling within her heart, Lillian raced toward the wounded man.
Thankfully, Booker was simply bluffing. She was relieved to see DeWitt rise to his feet and shoot toward the rooftop, successfully peeling attention away from her rescue effort.
"Come, sir," she beckoned as she knelt beside the terrified man. Up close he looked to be in his fifties - a gray-haired man with small eyes. He was thin, perhaps even frail, and his leg seemed to be bleeding profusely ... They managed to get him to his feet due to the combination of the man's lightness and the fair amount of strength Lillian had in her arms.
"T-thank you - "
"- hush, hurry," Lillian beckoned as they hobbled back toward the terminal.
It was only a small victory amidst the violent situation ... but still, a victory. Maybe someday she'd be able to convince men like Mr. Reed and Booker that she wasn't simply a whore. She certainly wasn't a simple whore to the man that was limping at her side.
Still, she felt anxious as she and the wounded man entered the terminal. Booker had ran after the sniper on the roof, but there was still at least one man that was circling the building. A man she recognized - Benjamin Boyd: an aggressive brute who worked for the Bianchi family. He would certainly be able to identify her - he's even purchased her services a couple of times. Lillian wasn't exactly fond of such memories - Mr. Boyd was not a courteous companion.
It was rotten luck for Lillian that this mess involved the Bianchi family. Her pimp was a member of the Bianchis ... and if the higher-ranking members of the Bianchi family found out she had been sent to Buffalo to gather information on a man that had just killed at least three of their members, they would have questions ... and Lillian understood her employers well enough to know that when they want answers, they never ask nicely.
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Booker was reloading as he sprinted toward the factory. A convenient twist occurred as he reached the front door of the building - an armed man from the other side of the door had charged through it. A chubby but tough-looking, professionally-dressed man. Another thug.
Booker instinctively shoved his fist into the surprised man's face. The criminal released a pained grunt and attempted to aim his gun at Booker's gut, but the ex-soldier slammed his shoulder into the man's chest. The thick thug actually stumbled.
The ex-Pinkerton dropped his own unloaded gun to the ground so he could wrench his opponent's gun out of the man's sweaty palm. The fat mafioso grabbed at Booker's gun-wielding wrist, attempting to keep the weapon pointed away from his body.
"Who are you guys?" DeWit snarled, easing back so he could once more shove his shoulder into the center of the man's chest, "how many more of you bastards are there?"
"Fuck you," the Mafioso grunted.
It'd be his last words. Booker slammed his foot down as hard as possible on top of the criminal's, which cause the mafioso's grip on his wrist to loosen slightly - just enough for Booker to twist his hand free and shoot the man in his bulging belly.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
DeWitt found the stairwell that led to the factory's rooftop and raced up it. The sniper was still on the roof - wounded, but alive. He was clutching his wounded shoulder, his sniper rifle lying across his lap.
The man had not anticipated Booker's arrival and immediately lifted his hands in the air when the ex-Pinkerton appeared.
"J-jesus Christ ... did you just kill all of us?" the sniper murmured.
As Booker slowly stepped toward the wounded criminal, he came to a grim realization. This thug looked fairly young for a mafioso ... Eighteen? Nineteen perhaps?
"You tell me," Booker insisted roughly, "I've killed four of you. How many are left?"
" ... Jesus Christ - "
" - Answer the damn question," Booker sneered.
"Seven, there was seven of us," the sniper answered, "-do you know ... do you know who we fucking are? We're ... we're Bianchis. They'll ... hunt you down for this."
Well. That information sealed the teenager's fate. If Booker killed all seven of them, none of them would be able to identify him as the shooter.
"Do you," the criminal breathed, "do you even know what that bastard Milton did? Do you know - "
" - I don't care," Booker interrupted before he shot the young man directly between the eyes.
As the sniper's body slumped over, DeWitt grimaced. He'd like to believe he just spared the world a young thug that may have had a lifetime of violence and murder ahead of him ... but the scenario's only certain truth was that he just shot a defenseless teenager in the face.
The sound of three gunshots from the direction of the train terminal pulled Booker away from his state of miserable self-reflection.
ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
The wounded man groaned as Lillian's slender hands pressed into bloody flesh. It was the only act she could think of that might help the poor man she had just collected from the street.
Apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. That's what you're supposed to do with such wounds, right?
"Is this ... is this helping?" She asked the man.
"I'm ... I'm not sure," he huffed, staring at his marred leg.
Mr. Reed would know what to do ... Lillian mused.
But Mr. Reed wasn't there.
"What is your name, sir?"
"Fred," the wounded man responded.
She was about to offer some comforting words before sounds to their left startled her - but it was just two other frightened survivors timidly approaching them: two middle-aged men. One with a long beard, one clean-shaven.
Lillian granted them both a quiet glare. Both of these fit men had ran passed Fred after the poor man had been shot in the leg.
"Is it safe?" the bearded man asked, oblivious to Lillian's silent accusation of cowardice.
A single gunshot from outside the terminal seemed to provide them their answer.
"Shit, shit, shit," the clean-shaven man mumbled, "we have to get out of here. More men are coming - miss, you should come with us ... "
The suggestion forced an angered look from Lillian. She understood the smooth-faced man wanted her to abandon the barely-mobile gunshot victim ...
"Do not include me in any of your plans, sir," the irritated female snapped.
" - we should stay," the bearded man suggested, "it's safe here, and surely there are law enforcers are on their way by now."
The two man argued, filling Lillian's ears with their cowardly, selfish bickering. She imagined slicing their throats would silence them. The annoyed murderess had no intention of actually performing this deed ... but imagining it calmed her slightly.
Another gunshot from outside ended the discussion.
Fred grabbed Lillian's arm and locked eyes with her before whispering: "Run, miss, they're coming ... "
Anxiety choked the troubled female's mind as she looked into the wounded man's eyes. Outwardly, her body was as still as stone. Inwardly, her heart trembled.
She now heard the close-by footsteps.
"Run, go on, go ... " Fred repeated with a panicked whisper, giving her arm a firm shake .
But she couldn't gather the nerve to move.
"Beautiful day for a trip to Buffalo, isn't it?" a familiar voice asked unkindly.
Sadness finally enveloped Lillian's expression as she continued to look into Fred's eyes. She was so proud of the fact that she had helped him ... had she simply sealed his fate?
The other survivors turned to face the source of this voice: a muscular, middle-aged man whose pale skin and sharp blue eyes acted as a fierce contrast to his black suit and hair.
It was Benjamin Boyd, and one of his hands was concealed behind his back.
A criminal companion stood next to Benjamin, but he was visually muted in comparison. Either tan or brown all over: hair, eyes, skin, suit. He was taller than Benjamin, but considerably thinner.
Before any of the unnerved survivors could speak, Ben suddenly revealed his pistol and fired three shots. The clean-shaven man first, the bearded man second, Fred last.
Fred, being the last man targeted, had enough time to gasp out the word 'mercy' before Benjamin shot him in the skull.
Several drops of Fred's blood landed on Lillian's cheek. Her heart and mind went numb as she watched Fred's body slump against the wall. She hadn't moved the entire time - not even a flinch when Ben's three bullets were shot within several feet of her. In fact, her hand was still on Fred's leg wound.
The frozen female felt a grip tighten around the tendrils of her long hair. She cried out softly as she was yanked to her feet. Those soft hands reached upward to instinctively try to free her hair from the offender, but it was a useless effort.
"Lilly Lilly Lilly," Benjamin greeted, roping his gun-wielding arm about the pretty female's waist to pull her into his bulky chest, "do you remember me, Dollface? I certainly remember you."
"I do, Mr. Boyd," Lillian responded as she craned her neck to try to ease the strain caused by the grip in her hair, "you - "
" - Small world, isn't it? - Look at me, sweetheart," Ben insisted, releasing that blonde hair but tightening his grip around her waist.
Lillian gathered her courage and obeyed the command. Looking into the mafioso's light-colored eyes was more difficult than she thought it'd be - everything about them was sharp and unyielding. No warmth, no humor, just a gaze with a razor's edge.
"I want to ask you a question, and believe me, doll, I'm only going to ask this once," and Benjamin lifted his gun and pressed the tip of it into the gorgeous woman's neck, "what the fuck are you doing in Buffalo?"
Lillian opened her mouth to speak, but words failed to form. Did they know that during the trainride she had sat next to Booker - the man who had just shot and killed at least two of their members? Did they suspect a connection? Should she simply reveal the truth - that she was sent to follow him? She couldn't imagine her employers being pleased that she was here on behalf of Mr. Reed ...
"Go on, Lilly, take your time!" Ben sneered as he leaned forward to speak so close to her face that their noses touched and their lips brushed together, "because if you accidentally blurt out the wrong answer, I'll be making a very pretty corpse out of you."
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Author's Notes: So, crossing my fingers that people are still interested in the story! Reviews are appreciated/loved. I lost a couple of my old reviewers but got a lot of really nice, inspiring comments from new fans, which is always wonderful!
If you're either a Noah fan or a fan of my writing in general go check out 'ninety-seven' on fictionpress(sorry, cant link it here). It's a very dark, tongue-in-cheek, 24k-word story that's meant to define Noah's philosophies a bit further - it has Ernest/Martha Jacoby cameos and it features an original character that's definitely one of my favorites: Wretched.
Shout-outs for my awesome repeat reviewers:
Shtoops: I own Last of Us ... I just gotta play the damn game(When Im not in clinicals or studying I'm either writing or with my significant other). I do love Silent Hill 2, though I didn't necessarily find it horrifying ... just twisted and soul-crushing. I haven't read any good books lately but I have several books I like to recommend to people!
Booker is interesting for me to write because he really doesn't always say what's on his mind, so I noticed a lot of scenes with him in it are either introspective or action-packed compared to other characters(like Noah, Noah's scenes are often dialogue-heavy).
I'm glad you enjoyed Samantha! Her and Booker's story shall be revealed in later chapters.
I do think you'd enjoy my spin-off fic because it's pretty twisted and (hopefully)emotional, and that seems to be right up your alley. Thanks for the ongoing support, you know you're entirely/absolutely/completely awesome!
Byakk: Thanks for commenting on two of my fics! I'm glad you're enjoying the story and it thrills me when adultfanfictionnet fans take the time to review/rate. :D
Mr. Brown: Ahh ... so happy to hear from you as always! I really hope this chapter doesn't let you down. You're one of the major reasons I want to keep going with this fic despite all my real life interference. Lillian's got some interesting plot-plans coming, and there's more chaos to come with Elizabeth and Noah's, err, professional relationship!
WouldYouKindly: Thank you for all your help. Again and again. I totally adore you. Your writing should be one-thousand times more popular than mine. You always steer me in intelligent directions because you are a writing goddess and honestly you should be making millions as an author right now. Billions, even!
Badkidoh: Thank you for the repeat reviews, good sir! Hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
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