Booker's not sure why, but the booze here hits him faster and harder than anything he can remember having. Logically, he's sure that this was how alcohol hit him before his first death, but he remembers the blackouts more than he remembers this sensation.
This isn't drowning, it's floating, and he sits at the counter of the bar and drinks, eyes glazed and easy to smile.
There's freedom in this, and he's here to indulge as thoroughly as he can.
"Can I grab you anything?"
Ⅳ. AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER, I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A GANGSTER
It isn't surprising, really, that after so much time spent in that bar, he'd get picked up. Better him than the poor woman he'd mentioned her children, and he doesn't regret shoving her into the streets and occupying the officer in her stead.
Imprisonment should trigger a thread of panic but he's heard the coppers talking, and there's no worry of being trapped here forever, or of a death sentence that they won't be able to impose. No, just standard slap on the wrist stuff, and therefore he finds the four walls and their containment somewhat reassuring.
It's harder, to feel listless, when there's no where to go, and he eyes the people he sees with lazy intrigue, wondering what's brought them to this place. One can't struggle with obligation and purpose when they have no means to act on it.
Booker | OTA
Ⅱ. SPEAK EASY
Booker's not sure why, but the booze here hits him faster and harder than anything he can remember having. Logically, he's sure that this was how alcohol hit him before his first death, but he remembers the blackouts more than he remembers this sensation.
This isn't drowning, it's floating, and he sits at the counter of the bar and drinks, eyes glazed and easy to smile.
There's freedom in this, and he's here to indulge as thoroughly as he can.
"Can I grab you anything?"
Ⅳ. AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER, I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A GANGSTER
It isn't surprising, really, that after so much time spent in that bar, he'd get picked up. Better him than the poor woman he'd mentioned her children, and he doesn't regret shoving her into the streets and occupying the officer in her stead.
Imprisonment should trigger a thread of panic but he's heard the coppers talking, and there's no worry of being trapped here forever, or of a death sentence that they won't be able to impose. No, just standard slap on the wrist stuff, and therefore he finds the four walls and their containment somewhat reassuring.
It's harder, to feel listless, when there's no where to go, and he eyes the people he sees with lazy intrigue, wondering what's brought them to this place. One can't struggle with obligation and purpose when they have no means to act on it.