There were a lot of rules that I learned while in Columbia. The first was that you shouldn't trust a person more than you could shoot them. While I didn't much care for this rule myself, it was something my father made sure I would never forget. Which made sense, considering that he owned a gun shop himself. People are rarely against the thing which wins them bread.

The second was that no matter how great you think you are, chances were that there was someone that was much greater. I am constantly reminded of this everyday I see depictions of Christ throughout our great city. No matter what you do in life, you're not going to be better than Jesus or God. They are at the top of the heap.

And three, no matter how great someone looks on the surface, they all bleed blood. Another lesson that my dad taught, but this one was actually useful. It taught me that no matter how incredible something might seem at first glance, it is still going to be filled with faults.

Even as a young boy, I knew that there was something fishy in the air of Columbia. Behind the American flags and the Christian crosses, there was something foul beneath the surface. Maybe it was the fact that everyone looked the same or that you couldn't actually speak your mind without first washing your mouth, but Columbia was far from a perfect place.

Perhaps I should introduce myself before this long-running monologue becomes too much for us all to bare.

My name is Booker DeWitt, and I'm not a person of particular interest. Like a lot of people, I went through my day without giving much thought to what kept my city afloat. The copple stones I had tread on each day had to have been manufactured and embedded in the street somehow. Behind every creation there was a group of men with a singular vision. And when great men who think alike come together, the vision is unifying.

Unless of course your vision doesn't quite line-up with your fellow Bible thumpers.

My fondest memory in the past was when I was a boy and I went to mass. There were hundreds of people all jammed together in one little building, all singing praises to the same omnipotent God. And there I was, practically forced to say the same hymns without once vocalizing my objections.

Why do we sing to God? If God existed then why were much of the white folks rich and the blacks poor? Why was my family able to do so well by selling firearms, yet the man across the way who sold rare books from beyond Columbia's walls got kicked from his place of business?

Perhaps I should explain what I mean by off-land. You see, the city of Columbia actually floats above the Earth. We are a portion of America which had separated from the Union. From my understanding, it had something to do with the fact that the old America had become filled with heathens and that the old virtuous ways had been lost in the dirt.

They don't teach you a whole lot about that subject in school. Why there was a rebellion. Why we chose to come up to the skies. I knew that America as we had known it couldn't be pure evil. There had to be something more to that story. There usually is.

But anyways, the city. The city which I now found my twenty-year old self was about as over-the-top joyous as you could imagine. As you walked down the street you saw people in bright colored shirts smiling and waving at you. Women spoke of their rights in the street corners, only to be quickly interrupted by their husbands who had come with another dozen cookbooks from which they expected their supper.

I suppose I wasn't one of the types that smiled all that often. Really, I just kept to myself. Looking down to the floor, praying that someday I would be able to turn invisible so that people didn't bother to greet me.

Though I hope I don't come across as a bragger, but I was and am still to this day quite a looker. A chizzled jaw and eyes that were sharp enough to cut through anyone's defenses were my two weapons. Sadly, they almost always misfired when I was least wanted them to.

I had wished someone else could have taken my charming rogue look away. It didn't suit me at all, and though I adored women, all the amorous onlookers hadn't really interested me. All they had to offer was more of the same routine. I had seen it countless times with married men who cheat on their wives.

They have a fling, they feel guilty, and then they pray to Jesus for forgiveness. I had seen enough of it to know that I didn't want to walk that path.

For most of my days I walked the straight and narrow path of the diligent servant. Never questioning and never whining.

That was until one day, my destiny fell right into my lap.

Then I wished I could have the complacency all back.

X-X-X-X-X

I don't like writing. I can't believe Booker actually convinced me to write this, but I suppose he thinks it's important.

Let me fill you in on what I believe. I believe it is bullshit.

We had done so many awful things. More than either of us could count. I know what it is he is trying to do. He is trying to free himself from his precious guilt. The guilt that he always thinks is the thing keeping him down, when in actuality it is his only distinguishing feature other than his sharp tongue and pretty looks.

I'll dispense with pleasantries. My name is Elizabeth. Just Elizabeth. If I dispensed with my last name, there would be no pleasantry. In fact, it is very possible that I would be tracked down and killed right where I sit. In a shitty rocking chair with a thin wool blanket in another dimension, might I add.

Not Columbia, the city you had just been introduced to. We'll catch you up with that later.

My story is linked with Booker's, which is why he's making me write. But I don't do the whole novel format thing he's trying to push. Frankly, I don't think our 'adventure' really deserves that kind of glorified justice.

Instead, I'm just gonna write like I'm talking. I am talking to you right now. And if you're still listening to me, I implore you to stop. Don't give this man the satisfaction. For though I love him more than anyone will ever know, I also hate him like a tyrant.

So now that we are in the sugar and candy land which is Booker at age twenty, I suppose it would be appropriate to talk about Elizabeth age nineteen.

I worked. I worked harder than anyone I knew. I worked until my legs felt like they were going to snap like twigs. I worked until my hair was damp with my sweat and I couldn't breathe. I worked until the day 'the asshole' came into my life.

Things were actually happier before 'the asshole' arrived. If there was anything that I actually enjoyed doing, it was taking care of my mother's restaurant. A tiny little hole in the wall that no one particularly liked. But we were a proud people, and the paying customers came more for the hospitality than a bite.

Unlike 'the asshole', I was never a particularly attractive girl. I could have been if I put forth the effort. But instead, I found the luxury of fashion to be quite unbecoming when you are scrubbing the tiles in the kitchen and cleaning vomit from restroom walls.

Before I had turned eighteen, the place was a disaster. Cobwebs in the drawers and leftovers in the pans. Right from the moment I had a standing within my parent's business, I knew I was going to have to do something with the place. And who else could do it but me?

Elizabeth. Psychic girl and dimension hopper extraordinaire.

Did I mention that I have magical powers that come out of my hands? Or maybe that, like so many things I've already mentioned, are best saved for later…

X-X-X-X-X
Booker DeWitt. Charmer and rogue in your dreams.

There was this restaurant that I liked to drop by after I was done polishing my father's pistols. At the time, I wasn't even sure if it had a name. The sign outside had become so faded with time that it was difficult to make out the brass lettering. It almost looked like it had been in Columbia since the founding.

The family who ran the establishment was probably the nicest people that you could ever meet, or so I had thought upon first impressions. They were really quick on their feet and always found kind words to greet their paying customers with. But it wasn't like the people on the street who wanted you to listen to the book of Exodus. I actually genuinely believed these people liked customers, and not just as walking money bags.

There were never a whole lot of business in the place, which was perfect for a young man of my inclinations. If I really wanted to get away from the pretty blue eyes of a group of blondes, I could always dive into the place and disappear like a puff of smoke.

As I recall, all of the dishes available tasted like a flavorless paste. Not particularly unpleasant, but certainly nothing that you would recommend to friends or loved ones. The atmosphere wasn't much better, though it reminded me of another of my father's famous lessons.

'There is no use in cleaning horse shit if it's just gonna be horse shit.'

It was something like that. He was an eccentric man.

The father and mother of the family busied themselves with taking orders and finding new ways to create flavorless paste. They were all very wiry and skinny with raven black hair. I think between the two parents and the daughter, they might have weighed 330 pounds between the lot of them. Give that a good hard think.

This is the part in my story where I'm going to get a little sappy, as young men are frequently drawn to such expressions. But another reason why I ducked into the place was that the parents knew me. And I figured if the parents knew me, then maybe someday I would get a few good words with the daughter.

I would always order a bowl of soup, and while I sipped away at it I would slip glances over at her from my table. Sadly, there were a few times when she had noticed me, and shot me a glance that would stop my heart in its tracks.

She wasn't really much to look at. She was ungodly skinny and there was a part of me that just wanted to give her a good long shower. From head to toe there always seemed to be some sort of smut or grime on her person.

Despite the fact that this daughter scrubbed and cleaned for hours on end, she didn't seem to gain much admiration from the folks which had given birth to her. In fact, they almost seemed to ignore her. Like she was just a tool that helped keep their business running.

One fateful day, it was just the two of us. I had no idea where her parents had gone off to or if they were coming back, but the air between us was rather tense. As she shuffled about the kitchen, I ordered my usual. For once, it didn't taste like paste.

"What did you put in here?" I didn't ask the question quite as politely as I could have. In fact, it may have come off as a little too enthusiastic. 'Damn it,' I told myself. 'Now is not the time to glibber and gabber.'

"Just some spices," she replied while mopping the floor. "My mother usually delivers as is, but I always try and add something different." She didn't make eye contact with me, but I was okay with it. If she did, I might have lost all my nerve. "You're one of our only returning customers. Fancy that."

"The place doesn't reek of processed patriotism. That's certainly a start." Almost every restaurant or store that you entered in Columbia was of the same ilk. There was always an American flag somewhere. "You don't pretend to be happy to see people."

She scoffed, but I didn't think that it was at me specifically. Or at least I hoped that it wasn't at me. "We have drunks stumble in here from time to time. You can smell their breath all the way out the door. Mother says that we need to cook them something. Make something that will subdue the drink, right?" She looked up towards the door, looking straight past me. "If it were up to me, I would kick em' straight out on their drunken asses." She rolled her eyes, and returned right back to her mopping. "But as you can see, I'm not. So I'll never have the pleasure."

"I think you've got a little bit of entrepreneur in you."
"Yeah well…" Now she was looking up at the ceiling. There was something striking about her eyes. It was as though a spirit of a different woman was trapped somewhere within her scrawny wrapper. "I don't really like discussing my hopes and dreams with strangers, Mister Whatever-Your-Name-Is." Right back to work.

"It's DeWitt. Booker DeWitt."

"Elizabeth. And just Elizabeth." I could not understand what she found so goddamn captivating about her mop. "Someday I want to find myself my own last name."

"What's wrong with the one you have?"

"Nothing. Just don't like how it sounds."

"Try me."

She looked me straight in the eyes, though it was far from the flirtatious glance that I might have liked. This girl didn't tremble because I was a looker. She didn't start quaking because my smile could melt a thousand hearts. No.

She looked at me pure unbridled fury, though her voice wouldn't let her on. "If you want to keep eating here, I suggest you keep your nose in your soup and out of my business, Mr. DeWitt." She abandoned her mop and went straight to the counter.

I for the life of me didn't understand what I had done to offend her. She was the one who had brought up her past and not me. And despite this threat, she kept on talking. "So, your name. It sounds like a soldier's. Did you ever serve?"

"No. I'm a little tender hearted. I don't think that I could ever stand killing another human being, even in self-defense."

"Sap." As I studied her motions from my table, I was starting to notice that most of her activities were drawn out and unnecessary. The counter was as clean as it was ever going to get, and I had a feeling that no tremendous spill had occurred across the floor of the kitchen.

"You think you could? A little thing like yourself."

She groaned before pulling an invisible pistol from her hip, aiming it right at me. "If a man were to threaten me or my livelihood in any way." She made a firing mouth with the side of her mouth. "I wouldn't hesitate."

I imagined a bullet going right through my heart. Those eyes that told truths signaled that she meant every word, and it was probably best not to get on her bad side. "That's kind of cold."

"When you're a woman in this world, sometimes you have to be cold." She holstered her gun and laughed. "Or a man for that matter. If you end up getting drafted, how are you going to deal with that?"

Right there, at that moment, she had tapped into one of my worst fears. That someday if the circumstances were to become grim enough, I would be pulled from my position as shopkeeper with my father and forced to become a killing machine for the government. "Columbia has never needed a draft. I doubt they'll need one in the near future."

"Oh please, don't you read history books?" For once in our entire meeting, she dropped everything that she was doing. She aimed her wells of knowledge straight at me. "We're in a city in the sky. We developed the technology and we utilized it, right? So what happens when other nations start to build their own air-bound cities? Pretty soon there will be a British version of Columbia, or a Chinese, or a Japanese, or a Russian. It doesn't matter. The point is that we won't be alone in the sky. And as soon as two large forces meet each other on any sort of level, war isn't too far behind." She actually got out from behind her counter and took a seat from across me. The move startled me, as did her intent. "So I can bet within the next ten years they are going to call upon every man and child who can hold a gun and ask them to kill in the good name of Columbia. And from that, all of our peace and quiet will crumble right from under our feet."

"You're such an optimistic lady."

"I've seen it." She peered down at the table, her thumbs seeming to wrestle with each other. "I mean, I've seen it happening. That's why I stay where I am, even when there is no work to do. Even when there's nobody left. I just cook. Because people are frightening, no matter how happy they might seem." Just as quickly as she had sat down, she was already back to her position of labor, this time scrubbing the lining of a sink with a brush.

We both sat in silence while I desperately tried to come up with some sort of follow-up to that statement. I had never seen a woman be that vocal before. I had never really known women to be anything more than tittering little birds that hovered around me like manic pixies.

So when this girl whom I had studied from afar ended up being as sharp as a tack, the minor crush grew to fascination.

I had become glued to my seat, gazing over at her. "Do you like Columbia?"

She tapped her finger against the faucet, as though testing its durability. But I knew that she was really wondering if she should test the water or not. "No. I don't particularly." She turned the faucet on, drenching the brush in the water. "I don't like that my life has just begun and already my family is pestering me about getting a husband." The brush attacked the edges of the sink, clearing out all the filth that remained. "I don't like the fact that I can't walk around at night without a fine gentleman telling me it's too dangerous and that he shall escort me to my home. I don't like that I own a gun, but it would be considered above me to practice firing on unused utensils. And worst of all, I hate that I would be disconnected from my family if I were to so much as march out of here and find some work of my own."

The brush snapped and the sink didn't look any cleaner. "My mother says that I'm unstable," she continued. "That I should be happy that I have a roof over my head and lots of eligible customers to choose from." She turned off the water. "What do you think?"

I gulped. Her edges were even sharper than I'd imagined. "I think that you're just about the most interesting woman I've ever met, Elizabeth."

"And next you'll be asking my hand in marriage. Or placing some kind of jacket over the puddle in front of me so that I don't slip."

"The puddle thing, maybe. The marriage thing…" Now was not the time to tell her that I was actually quite fond of the thought of marriage, though not specifically with her. "…Nah. Not until I'm much older. And especially not with you." I didn't want to show romantic interest for someone who clearly didn't want it. But somehow, I worried that my playful jab would rub her the wrong way.

Thankfully, she was not your ordinary woman. She smiled at me.

"I like you."

"I like the soup."

"Liar. The soup is terrible."

"Better than when your mum cooks it."

"Ha!"

We both went silent.

From that moment on, I knew that there was something special about Elizabeth.

If I had only known how much, I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble.

x-x-x-x-x

Elizabeth, and Just Elizabeth

Jesus christ, he was gorgeous. Every time he would come in, I would have to contain myself. I would watch my every move, making sure that I looked just like the stupid ideal handmaid I had come to despise.

But what I had said to him that day was all true. I didn't much care for the idea of marriage. I had once voiced this opinion with my mother, who then explained to me that life wasn't worth living unless I was the under the wing of a righteous and noble man.

There was a part of me that wanted to scream out that I was a lesbian right there and then. That men were the farthest thing that I ever wished to be under the wing of. Sadly, I neither had the courage nor the tenacity to execute such a lie.

And look at me now. Now I'm writing an adventure story where I'm the star! That would be a lark if it wasn't based on true events. Instead, it's all just rather depressing.

Anyways, I would always got nervous whenever Booker was around. We didn't talk much on his first couple of visits and I didn't even know his name. But there was something about him that was different. Maybe it was just the girl inside of me that couldn't help but notice that he was a peck above the rest of the men in Columbia.

Even in that moment when he insulted my mom's cooking, there was something different in the air. It was like an electricity and a fire. The sort of thing that warmed your loins and reared you for a night of passionate lovemaking.

Oh my. My mind doth wander.

Keep in mind that this was before I realized that he was 'the asshole'. That he was there to lead me down the wrong path. And that like most devils, he looked pretty when he talked. He looked pretty when he didn't talk. Hell, he just looked pretty all the time.

After he was done with his soup, he left without saying another word. It bothered me more than it should have. It felt as though we had started a conversation that could have lasted well into the evening, and yet he just cut it off like so much string.

No customers came in after that, and I was left up to my own devices. No people coming in and no people coming out meant that I didn't need to keep up appearances. I didn't need to appear busy for my own sake after all. I knew perfectly well that there was nothing that needed doing, and the soup could just simmer until someone else wanted a bite.

But the question was whenever I hit a time like this, what was I supposed to do?

Reality was always drab and boring. The walls around me were brown as shit and the floor was scuffed and old. If I were to call it quits and leave the shop unattended, all I would be greeted with was the great American dream. A dream, might I add, which didn't much care what I did with myself. Just as long as I was taking care of someone else's ambition, everything would work out and I would discover true womanly happiness.

I sighed as I crossed into the supply cabinet. It really wasn't much to look at. All of the assorted goods were beginning to pile up. Pretty soon my family wouldn't be able to pay the costs it took to keep the building. We would be on the street, like so many less fortunate families in Columbia.

When backed into a situation like this, where reality wished me to remain a slave, I found that fantasy was a far more alluring alternative.

At the time, I didn't think that opening portals to other worlds was anything different from what any other young girl would do in her time. I was on the sheltered side, and it wasn't until I had gone to school that I realized that most children didn't share my gift. And after one particularly terrible incident with a boy named Mark Stewart, I decided to keep it entirely to myself.

It may seem strange to you, but to me this was just a part of my everyday life. When no one was looking, I would open doorways to other worlds. Sometimes they would be worse than the world that I was currently in. Sometimes they would be better. Sometimes they were so fantastic that to gaze upon them was to swim in envy.

Though I had created portals throughout my life, I dared not cross into them. I knew that it was probably possible. That I could walk through the little tear in reality I had created and live my fantasies as a free woman.

But everytime I would step forward, a great shuddering force would come down upon my shoulders. I would fall to the ground, suddenly unable to pull myself back together. And moments later, the rip would fix itself and I would be stuck in reality again.

I never tried to fight back against the force that kept me complacent. I was always afraid that if I went to the other side, there might never be any going back.

On this night, it was no different.

I stood in the center of the kitchen and attempted to clear my mind. Take out of the clutter that had been filling it. No more pretty Mr. DeWitt. No more family responsibilities. No more cleaning. No more scrubbing. No more cooking.

I would find myself somewhere that would fit me like a glove.

When I opened my eyes, I saw it.

Endless fields of green grass with yellow daisies sprouting from the soil. It was down on the earth and nowhere near the sky. You could see the sun in the horizon, and it was much further than I was ever used to seeing it.

If I wanted, I could sprint forward into the field. My whole life would change. I wouldn't need to go back to the kitchen or to Columbia. I could leave the whole world behind and discover what this new world had in store for me. If I was lucky, maybe they would actually treat me like a human being and not like a pet.

For a whole minute I gazed out into the fields. Imagining what the breeze must feel like on the ground. How it would feel to run through the grass without a skyscraper or landmark in sight.

Again, I had waited too long, and my portal to a better life collapsed.

I was to live another day in the doldrums of Columbia.

And the saddest thing was, my deepest bond was now with a man I barely even knew. The only individual in my life I could still stand.
Before I realized he was an asshole. But I suppose I'll have to save that for another time.

X-X-X-X-X

Author's Notes:
I'm a wannabe writer in training, and I use fan-fiction as a means of 'playing with action figures'. Which sounds weird, but it's totally not in my mind.

When I'm writing my own work, I take it very seriously. I want the grammar to be just right. I want all of the sentences to flow like wine. It's a very grueling and time-consuming process.

When I write fan-fiction, I just write. I write and I write, and then I eventually stop and publish.

Because of this process, some stuff in this fic is going to be a bit rough. But besides that, I hope you all enjoy this crazy little Booker/Elizabeth story.

Please leave some honest feedback and reviews. I love em'! They're my favorite things in the whole gosh darned world. I am not kidding! So if you hate it, tell me. If you love it, tell me. If you're indifferent, definitely tell me. Leave some constructive criticism so that while I do my 'stream of consciousness' thing, I'm also working out my writing process.

Fabulous! See you in Chapter 2.