Booker DeWitt

When he wakes up it's slowly, his neck screaming and his mouth tasting the wrong end of a horse. It's a familiar, if somewhat disorienting feeling. The kind of feeling he used to have waking up after - no. Not again. Booker's eyes fly open and the first thing he does is grab the paper. It's still on his desk, just like before, same date and everything. Whatever's happening is still happening and he'll be hanged if this time he doesn't stop it cold.

Reaching into his desk, he pulls out his revolver, checking to make sure it's loaded.

"What is it you Americans are so fond of saying? An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure?"

Lutece. Raising the gun, Booker takes aim at the man standing in the corner.

"Really, Mr. DeWitt, do you think that is going to get you out of this predicament? You should consider yourself lucky, my sister isn't nearly as convinced as I am of your eventual success. She'd simply allow you to keep going over and over again. Or she will. So hard to tell the difference sometimes."

Pulling the hammer back, Booker can hardly recognize the growl that comes up from his chest, "What kind of sick game is this? What do you want?"

"I want? Dear, man, haven't you guessed it yet, this has nothing to do with me. But do let's wait for the ladies to rejoin us so that we might all get on the same page. I fear some new ground rules need to be established."

Booker doesn't lower the gun, but he eases off the trigger a little. "Fine. We'll wait."

When he wakes up it's slowly, his neck screaming and his mouth tasting the wrong end of a horse. It's a familiar, if somewhat disorienting feeling. The kind of feeling he used to have waking up after a night of gambling at the saloon down the street, after passing out on his desk with a bottle in his hand. But that was before Columbia, before her and last night he can swear he fell asleep in the living room. Still with a bottle of whiskey in his hand and still after gambling away what he should probably be spending on food, but he shouldn't be face-down anywhere. Unless he's fallen off the sofa.

Wouldn't be the first time.

Cracking his eyes open, he blinks in the diffused light. Something's wrong. There's something over the window - shutters? He doesn't have shutters over his windows, just those blinds things. And some curtains Elizabeth bought. He's surprised she didn't take them with her. Maybe she did. Maybe that's why the light hurts. Groaning, he pulls himself upright, blinking as his eyes adjust... and then blinking again. In the gloom he can see a door across from him. An old familiar door with old familiar lettering. He can only see the backside of it, but he knows what it says: Booker DeWitt Investigations into Matters Both Public and Private. His eyes drift down and he can see the papers, New York, 1912.

He's home. Whatever that means.

Straining to his feet, he grabs the nearby, always nearby, bottle and takes a swig, carrying it as he heads to the washroom to relieve himself and splash some water on his face. Was it all a dream? Some kind of drunken hallucination. Whatever it was, he's mostly glad it's gone. The whole thing was a wreck from the minute that man knocked on his door.