This shade of Hell in particular was one of some fairly unique circumstances and composition; certainly nothing like the hell Comstock promised his enemies. It was nothing like any of the lore Elizabeth had ever read, but by now the novelty had all worn off. She didn't really think about the things she's done in this town, because really, all of it paled in comparison to what she had already done.
Some additional petty theft (and a few other things) probably wouldn't tip the scales; after all, she had already been judged.
All means to an end, was her justification. Everything she did was to find Booker; every crooked deal, traded favor, every draco (Hell dollar) passed beneath the table. It was almost the only way to get anything done in this town.
She never expected him to just walk through the door.
In the moment, the muddy dimness kept him hidden. As her song drew to a close, one particularly poignant lyric ('and then he climbed my tower, and off the edge of me he ran') struck an unpleasant cord in her chest. In the end, it didn't matter that she didn't-- couldn't walk through that door with Booker; that she couldn't bare to be among the hands that drowned him. She saw it, felt it, from so many points of view that even skirting the memories made her mortal head split.
Elizabeth's reflections stirred her restlessness; though she finished the song softly, she was quick to flee the tiny stage. She didn't even bother to gather her tips, because to hell with it. A year is a long while to work so hard for nothing.
Well, maybe not nothing. She did have someone track down her bird pin; an accessory she was almost never without. It was perched upon the rich red velvet band she wore around her throat, clean over a few nicks and scratches.
It took her only moments to cross the cafe, striding purposefully for the door--
And she very nearly walked right into him. For a lengthy moment she could stare, a subtle war of fear and hope tarring up the blue of her eyes beneath a barely held composure. This was Hell, after all; it could be a trick, or a Booker that wasn't... her Booker. She gazed at him uncertainly; maybe she had outgrown the free and careless impulse to reach out and touch his face... but her hand lifted a few hesitant inches, regardless.
"Booker," she spoke uncertainly; a small amount of suspicion overcome by a wounded hope that had barely broken past her fear. "Is... it really you?" it didn't even matter to her that he smelled like a brewery. A small smile attempted to turn the corners of her lips, and for a moment it made her look younger and softer than the harsh suggestions of her makeup.
no subject
Some additional petty theft (and a few other things) probably wouldn't tip the scales; after all, she had already been judged.
All means to an end, was her justification. Everything she did was to find Booker; every crooked deal, traded favor, every draco (Hell dollar) passed beneath the table. It was almost the only way to get anything done in this town.
She never expected him to just walk through the door.
In the moment, the muddy dimness kept him hidden. As her song drew to a close, one particularly poignant lyric ('and then he climbed my tower, and off the edge of me he ran') struck an unpleasant cord in her chest. In the end, it didn't matter that she didn't-- couldn't walk through that door with Booker; that she couldn't bare to be among the hands that drowned him. She saw it, felt it, from so many points of view that even skirting the memories made her mortal head split.
Elizabeth's reflections stirred her restlessness; though she finished the song softly, she was quick to flee the tiny stage. She didn't even bother to gather her tips, because to hell with it. A year is a long while to work so hard for nothing.
Well, maybe not nothing. She did have someone track down her bird pin; an accessory she was almost never without. It was perched upon the rich red velvet band she wore around her throat, clean over a few nicks and scratches.
It took her only moments to cross the cafe, striding purposefully for the door--
And she very nearly walked right into him. For a lengthy moment she could stare, a subtle war of fear and hope tarring up the blue of her eyes beneath a barely held composure. This was Hell, after all; it could be a trick, or a Booker that wasn't... her Booker. She gazed at him uncertainly; maybe she had outgrown the free and careless impulse to reach out and touch his face... but her hand lifted a few hesitant inches, regardless.
"Booker," she spoke uncertainly; a small amount of suspicion overcome by a wounded hope that had barely broken past her fear. "Is... it really you?" it didn't even matter to her that he smelled like a brewery. A small smile attempted to turn the corners of her lips, and for a moment it made her look younger and softer than the harsh suggestions of her makeup.
"Are you really here?"