I love this. I saw your racist bigot picture with booker, and that was funny, and to be honest, Booker's beat up face in this is kinda funny too. But then... wow. That's just heartwarming and gutwrenching. Poor Liz.
Here is a summed up explanation. On other worlds Booker took the baptism and became Comstock, on other worlds he refused and became a deranged alcoholic gambler. At the ending when he was about to be drowned, he was asked who he was. He was answered he was "both", thus Comstock and the Booker who gave away Anna was both "smothered in their Crib". Reality was reset. Comstock never existed, Columbia was never built, Booker was not in debt, at least not to Comstock, as it was revealed that he was the man he was indebted to ,and Anna was never given away. Leaving Elizabeth to be raised by Booker. I wish them good luck.
When the last of both of Columbia's Finest and another squad of Vox Populi routed, both Elizabeth and Booker deWitt sat on one of the few untarnished benches as the sounds of warfare echoed in the distance.
The last hour of combat had left them both a less than presentable mess. Tears on their clothes, blood splotches everywhere, and dust left them both utterly filthy in a city that had been, not the day before, pristine as a diamond.
"B... Booker?" Elizabeth asked as she moved a few strands of mussed hair out of her face to stare in utter horror in the distance as more explosions went off, "Will... will this happen every time?" Just the day before, she had a life where the worst thing that would happen to her was misplacing a book she loved to read. Now, she was in a perpetual state of quiver. The constant hail of munitions left her wondering if she could still hear at times.
Booker took a drag of the cigarette he had acquired from one of the stores they had passed through, knowing that since the owners were nothing more than bloodied giblets because of either the police or the Vox, they wouldn't be missed. He breathed in deep and let out another puff of smoke before he answered, his voice dried from involuntarily breathing the ozone from the constant warfare, "Yeah."
"So..." Elizabeth continued, her voice quaking with the unpleasant implications, "it'll happen again?"
Booker fought back another groan of pain as his swollen eye pulsed angrily. She sounded not unlike a few of the recruits he had fought with back at Wounded Knee. Poor kids didn't have the slightest idea when they signed up to be soldiers. Like himself. Somehow, he had learned to deal with the regret of the decisions and the horrific images that would sometimes plague his dreams. It never got easier. He nodded once. "Yes."
Elizabeth, still shivering from their last encounter with the Handy-Man, failed to fight the moisture gathering in her eyes and the quiver of her lower lip as her right hand involuntarily creep from her thigh to his, her palm raised upward.
When he held the cigarette with his free hand, he noticed the small, pristine, and shaking little hand on his thigh. He had no reason to do anything, really. It was just a job. However, his larger, scarred, and steady hand slowly intertwined the fingers of hers with his own. He then turned to her as she leaned against him, noticed the tears flowing uncontrollably from her closed eyes, and her shoulders starting to hiccup with small sobs.
"It's alright," he whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "it's over." He healed his head atop hers, noticing the last remnants of the soap she had used to clean herself with in her hair, and soon his body followed suit, to let her know that he was there.
"I won't leave you," he said quietly as his eyes closed. It had been a job at one point. He hand her over to the people who held his life in their hands, she'd go her way and he'd go his, and the debt would be paid. Things change, however.
"Thank you," she answered in kind.
For the moment, that was all they would need. It would be all they would have.
(Sorry, just finished it last night and I found your picture and felt it appropriate to do so. Thank you very much for sharing this.)
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