oo1 ♠audio♠ 521 @ 0419 🚬

[alternate123]

[ Dead air. ]

Now.. how does.. [ beep. ] Uh...

[ Dead air for three minutes. ]


God-damn-it!


Okay -- Hullo? [ He's got the audio working again! ]

Look, if you can hear me.. anyone.. My name's DeWitt, listen.. I don't know what kind of business this place thinks I can handle but this whole fighting a war of the gods and energy sharing thing isn't really something I'm familiar with.

Now.. [ beep; Booker accidentally activated the video function and Asgard gets a quick view of his 1910s brown shoes. The broadcast was soon back on audio only. ] If someone could just.. give me a few pointers I'd be appreciative.

Comments

[alternate123]

"No, not often.." He looked down to his side and then glanced quickly at the hand in his own. His fingers naturally curled around her small hand and he was a moment wondering when the last time it was that he had a hand in his own. For leisure, for luxury, for the simplicity of being in one's company by utter choice versus circumstance.

But still, who was this girl? Why was he hired to retrieve her, and was she worth his debt -- of course even with the money repaid his soul was far too late to save.

Booker looked to their left, then right. "Usually organizations that are conspiring against the government, some drug rings, one hooch factory.. I once did an investigation on some stolen property, cars that were used as mules for prostitution -- they had the girls--" erk. He stopped himself as he suddenly realized that this wasn't a proper story for such a naive girl. "Anyway.. usually work that is not as .. fighting off fire-breathing dragons to save princesses from towers." Wait. "Oh, Songbirds.. fighting song birds.."

[constants_and_variables]

Elizabeth's eyes were wide as she looked back, watching him, wanting every detail of his story. She was so clued to watching him and waiting with bated breath his next word that she tripped lightly on the curb because she wasn't watching where she was going. Elizabeth gave a laugh at herself and got safely up onto the sidewalk. Once there, she let go of Booker's hand, though she missed the touch almost immediately. It was a warm and secure feeling, his rough fingers against her smaller ones.

"Drugs, alcohol, prostitution. All those things really happen, down below? Is it really as bad as all my books say? They make it sound as if that's what rules the United States. I can't imagine."

[alternate123]

"Well," he brought his now free hand up to scratch gently at his chin. "Guess that's the thing about books, they're written by people." He dropped his hand to his side and brought his other hand up with his cigarette to his lips to take a drag. Exhaling he explained further, "see, they're only going to write what they want you to know.. So, reckon Columbia, being some alternative better living, would have you believe that there's nothing good down below." He paused in thought, brought his cigarette away from. Booker spared a glance to the ash that fell from the cherry. "Is that why you want to go to Paris? Because you think the States is full of people doing bad things?"

[constants_and_variables]

"Paris? Well..." Elizabeth smiled softly to herself as she thought about all the times she opened tears to view the magical city. It was hard to put into words just what Paris meant to her; it brought such a complex wanderlust inside of her that made her excited, with no nervousness at all like she might have if she went down to the United States where Booker was from.

"I love the language, the poetry, the architecture, the culture, even their food looks spectacular. Their culture is so insular and protected from other cultures, they take pride in what they are and yet redefine what they are with avant-garde fashion and art. They set trends but they do it for their own enrichment, not for the approval of anyone else. I like the whole idea of that."

Elizabeth smiled up at Booker, wondering if he would approve of her reasoning and she oddly found that she hoped that he would. Although if he didn't, she promised herself she wouldn't be disappointed either.

[alternate123]

Booker kept his eyes mostly on her but they did stray off with the occasional nod for acknowledgement more than any sort of empathy for her sentiments. These were unkind times and though she may have plucked out a few gratifying attributes from Paris, that place was no better than any other. He's never been but his imagination didn't stretch too far from the fact that anywhere there's people there's trouble.

"Theodore Roosevelt went to Paris and delivered a mighty fine speech, if you ask any citizen of the States." Booker snorted because he couldn't really give two feelings for it if he tried and damned if he couldn't remember for all the times it was repeated back to him:

"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat."

It wasn't because he felt spoken for or influenced by, but because he heard that goddamn speech everywhere he went. Proud citizens in the street hollering out the words of Roosevelt to one another then merrily going about their way, on with their lives. Then, to him, comrades of his trade, clients, victims, newspapers, memos, it was a trend. But like all trends, sooner or later it would fade away.

"April 23, 1910." He looked over Elizabeth aware that he really didn't have much of a contributing factor in his response to Elizabeth's poetic love for the city. His own reflection of Paris was what it had to do with current (even if years old) events and what he's heard in the backwash of politic endeavors or warfare. "Uh.. well someone like that is what we call someone from the arena -- courage, strength, sweat, even blood to get things done. It's better than sitting in a tower just reading about it."

[constants_and_variables]

Elizabeth's already big blue eyes got a little wider as she listened to the quote. Booker had a nice voice, with a slight accent to it speaking of New York where he had said he was from, and it was pleasant to listen to. It was the most he had said at once and she found that she liked listening to him talk. Part of this was due to the fact that she had never figured him for a philosopher and yet these were lofty thoughts and ideals to be expressing in open conversation. It was, somehow, exciting and fulfilling. When she had been younger she thought herself to have conversations with the doctors which had proved frustrating and even depressing in their failure.

This was what friends did, Elizabeth decided. They spoke at length with one another, on important topics. The nature of man and the choices he makes -- how much more important a topic could she have hoped for? "That was lovely, Mr. DeWitt. Thank you for sharing it with me."

Inevitably, her hand found its way back up to the crook of his elbow as they walked. "If I had been able to get out of the tower before now I surely would have. My lack of freedom was not for my many attempts to free myself. I even learned how to lock pick in the hopes it would avail me and, as you see, it did not." Elizabeth gave an admiring smile up at the man at her side. "It was a good thing I had a man of courage and strength coming to get me."

[alternate123]

Booker brought the cigarette up to his lips, huffed and puffed, then flicked it away as they continued on down the road. Her hand back on his arm and an uncomfortable and awkward feeling in his chest. There wasn't too often a woman by his side, even less one as pretty as she was. However he didn't let the thought get to his head. He wasn't forgetful of who he was and who she was--strange as the naive girl was, she was still a good sort and he was never the less the bad. He didn't know their destination, he didn't know if he even wanted to get there. Such as this Hel House, getting there was just as well accepting being here.

But where would he be other than here? It was a stupid idea to procrastinate the obvious and unavoidable truth: he was in Asgard, a place of gods warring against giants. Maybe the gods thought bringing Elizabeth here too was somehow going to make things easier -- or maybe it was just a coincidence and they found one another out of luck?

Whatever it was Booker was beginning to think maybe they were destined to meet after all. Despite how uncomfortable the thought of destiny was.