Okay, I tried to be faster with the next upload this time! :)

This is the first real action scene I've ever written and I have absolutely no idea if I managed to do it right. There will be more bickering between Rosalind and Booker in the future, just because I enjoy writing those kinds of scenes. ;)

Enjoy reading the chapter and please let me know if you liked it!

"And now. The 1912 Raffle has officially begun!"

The voice of none other than Jeremiah Fink himself sounded above the lively chatter of the crowd.

Rosalind stayed slightly in DeWitt's shadow while observing the events with watchful eyes. No matter how often she and her brother had warned Booker not to pick number seventy-seven, the man had actually managed to successfully alert Comstock to his presence in all of their 122 previous attempts before even reaching the tower. It seemed that, despite throwing in herself as a new variable, the inevitably upcoming scene at the Raffle was a constant.

"Bring me the bowl!" Fink said cheerfully. "Is that not the prettiest young white girl in all of Columbia? Ha Ha!"

Rosalind bit back a snort. She'd never understood how anyone could fall for this false and pretentious façade of his, but the man was apt at giving grand speeches and manipulating people until they danced after his pipe.

"A bit racist, that Fink fella…," DeWitt muttered next to her.

"All right then… the winner is…" Fink pulled a red card out of the bowl. "Number seventy-seven!"

"Well, what do you know?" Booker said, looking down at the white ball in his hand.

"I warned you, didn't I?" Rosalind replied in a low voice.

Booker was about to tell her to keep her unwanted comments to herself, when he heard the familiar voice of the girl with the basket shout out: "Over here! Over here! He's the winner!"

Booker gritted his teeth. He could've strangled her right there and then. The people surrounding them turned their heads to see who had won the prize of the 1912 Raffle and Bookers alarm bells went off. He already saw some big-time trouble ahead in their immediate future and without a weapon, Booker wasn't sure how far they'd come.

"Number seventy-seven, come and claim your prize!" Fink said to the cheering of the crowd as Booker and Rosalind were pushed toward the stage by the eager hands of the other attendees. "First throw!"

"First throw?" Booker asked bewildered while he watched the red curtain behind Fink being slowly lifted.

He wasn't entirely sure where this was heading. Booker remembered the raffles from his youth to have prizes like candy bars or toys, first throws – whatever his target was going to be – had certainly never been part of them.

The crowd's cheering began to raise in volume: "First throw! First throw! First throw!" They were shouting excitedly and Booker couldn't believe his eyes when the stage props, some wooden bushes and tree branches, lifted and he could actually see what his target was – a man and a woman, tied to two wooden stakes.

"Please… please don't do this," the woman pleaded, struggling against her chains.

"It was me," the man next to her intervened immediately, obviously trying to convince Booker to leave his wife, or whatever she was, alone. "It was all me! Please! No…"

All Booker could do was stare at the scene in front of him, completely dump-struck from what he was seeing.

You racist bastard, he thought looking back at Fink who was watching him expectantly.

"Please, what are you doing!?" the man cried desperately.

"Come on," Fink said with a nasty laugh. "Are you gonna throw it… or are you taking your coffee black these days?"

Something in Bookers mind clicked upon hearing these words.

"Let her go, please!" the man screamed again, his eyes pleading. "I'm the one you want!"

"Oh, looks like we have a shy one here!" Fink laughed when Booker hesitated to throw the ball at the two prisoners. "We've gotta do something about that!"

But Booker had already made up his mind, not even thinking about the consequences his actions could evoke. He took a tight hold of the ball in his right hand and readied himself for the throw.

"I got something for you, you son of a bitch!" he muttered and raised his hand.

Booker didn't get far when his arm was suddenly grabbed from behind, stopping him in mid-motion.

"Wait!" Fink exclaimed, his voice having changed from cheerful to a dark seriousness Booker didn't like at all.

"It's him!" He heard someone shout from behind him.

Booker struggled to get free from the firm grip the police officer, who'd suddenly grabbed him, had on him, but his colleague immediately came to the man's help.

He couldn't see where Rosalind was and didn't even have time to look for her because Fink had bent down in front of him.

"Now, where'd you get that brand, boy?" the man asked in a low voice. "Don't you know that makes you the back-stabbing, snake-in-the-grass False Shepherd? And we ain't lettin' no False Shepherd into our flock. Show him what we got planned, boys!"

It happened so fast, Booker didn't even know how he got out of the situation alive. One moment, the police officer to his left activated that strange device in his left hand ready to smash Booker's head, and the next, his partner was laying face-down on the ground, the weapon stuck in his skull. It was an ugly sight but Booker didn't have time to think about the moral correctness of what he'd just done.

To be quite honest, Rosalind had never really witnessed DeWitt in action. She might have gotten a glance at him shooting one of his many enemies, but these observations had all been from afar. She wasn't the type to enjoy bloody fights and an exceeding amount of violence. Robert, however, had always been there to 'make sure DeWitt made it through all the hassle in one piece', as he'd liked to call it.

Seeing the man defend himself so vigorously, Rosalind couldn't help but wonder what had gone wrong with the previous 122 Bookers to have failed. Perhaps this one was a little bit more determined with a stronger will for survival or, perhaps, the others had just lacked the necessary fighting skills. No matter what it was that made this Booker stand out among his other selves, Rosalind certainly had no reason to complain about him if it meant she would get to her brother mainly unharmed.

There were two things, however, that worried her. First of all, Comstock was now aware of DeWitt's, or rather their presence in Columbia and would stop at nothing to thwart their plans to save the girl. Secondly, something that worried her even more, Fink had recognized her. She'd seen the expression in his eyes when he'd spotted her standing next to Booker. Yet, he hadn't seemed surprised, merely… annoyed, one could say. As if he'd already suspected to meet her there.

"Run!"

She vaguely noticed Booker's tall frame darting past her and for the stairs that led away from the stage. She was so used to her quantum superposition that it took her a moment to realize that she was no longer able to blink in and out of existence.

Booker sprinted up the stairs. He could already hear more police forces arriving but the stage area provided absolutely no cover at all. They'd be dead in less than a minute, decorated with dozens of bullet holes like Swiss cheese.

There was an empty ticket stand that was too narrow for two people to hide behind but Booker could see a first-aid kit that could come in handy should they get injured. Instead, he made for the giant poster slightly to his left, one that showed the False Shepherd's mark again – not that he needed a reminder of it, really.

Five seconds later, Rosalind was at his side, crouching down next to him.

"You've got a plan?" He asked, looking for a way out but the Columbian forces had reacted quicker than expected, they'd already shut off this part of the city from the rest.

"A plan?" Rosalind echoed. "I do not see why you should think I have a plan."

"You brought me here," Booker countered. "You got me into this mess! Besides, I thought you knew your way around here…"

"Kill him!"

Booker looked around the corner of their hideout just in time to see two policemen running toward them, each holding a wooden club ready to beat the shit out of him.

"You better think of something, lady!" he shouted over his shoulder before darting out of cover.

Booker dodged the first blow and managed to hit the man's shoulder with the device that was now hooked to his left arm. The police officer stumbled backwards which gave Booker a moment plan his next step and he barely avoided the incoming attack of the second man.

This was so not what he'd expected when he'd agreed to take this job. Moving through the city as a civilian, breaking the girl out of the tower and sneaking past security with her, yes, maybe even one of two rounds of fighting – not the entire military force of Columbia hard on his heels.

He groaned when one of the policemen broke through his defenses and hit him square in the stomach.

Damn, he'd forgotten how painful one-on-one combat actually was.

I need a pistol, Booker thought as he rammed his weapon straight into his enemy's neck, wincing internally at the unmistakable sound of breaking bones.

The second man came charging at him with a furious cry. The impact of the blow would have shattered Booker's skull had he not dodged it at the last second, the club hitting the ground with enough force to crack the wood at the top.

"Traitor!" the man shouted. "You shall not walk out of this alive!"

Using the officer's rage to his advantage, Booker simply continued dodging his blows until he got the opening he needed. Slipping past the other man, he struck him down with a powerful hit to the head.

There was blood covering the cobbled stones of the street and his own clothes. He was breathing heavily from the fighting and Booker was sure that a bruise had already formed where he'd been struck in the stomach.

He could see that the path seemed to continue down the right even though he had no idea where it led to, not that they had much of a choice anyway.

"Hey, Lutece!" Booker shouted over his shoulder, not caring to call her by her name. "Found our way out… I hope…"

"I'd very much prefer being addressed by my name, Mr. DeWitt," she said disapprovingly. "I'm not one of your fellow drunkards from New York. And yes, this way does seem to be our only option as of now, unless you have gained the ability to fly."

Booker suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "We'll have to work on that sense of humor of yours, Madame Lutece."

The sound of a gun shot made them both jump and Booker immediately dragged Rosalind behind the abandoned ticket stand, taking cover next to her. This was exactly what he'd hoped wouldn't happen – at least not this early on. If he wanted to get the upper hand, Booker either needed a way to distract the shooter or some goddamned luck to avoid being hit by a bullet.

"You shall not lead our lamb astray, False Shepherd!" They could hear the owner of the firearm shout. "The Prophet has foreseen this day would come!"

Carefully, Booker peeked around the corner. To his great relief, he could only make out a single policeman who slowly patrolled the area in search for him.

"Listen," he whispered to Rosalind. "We simply have to wait until he's close enough to take him out, preferably from behind. We gotta be fast though, otherwise we'll end up with a bullet in our heads."

Booker met her cool blue eyes with his green ones. To his surprise, the Lutece woman remained completely unfazed by seemingly everything that'd happened so far. Again, he asked himself how much she already knew. Hell, she could even be a part Comstock's complot and he could be running straight into a trap! Perhaps this was all a well-thought through plan to bring him to Columbia so this madman of a Prophet could slaughter him on the streets. The only question was, why?

Booker straightened up when the steps of the policeman were getting closer to their hideout. His plan sounded pretty solid in his head but acting it out would be more difficult than the theory part.

"Show yourself, False Shepherd!"

In a second, buddy, in second, Booker thought grimly, readying himself for the strike.

The man was almost close enough now, but he too was careful enough not to make himself much of a target.

"Come on," Booker muttered impatiently.

He barely had time to react when the man suddenly stood before him, pistol pointing straight at his face. Booker threw himself forward, reaching for the weapon to neutralize the most immediate danger but the police officer was stronger than anticipated and pressed Booker to the ground with all his weight. They continued their struggle for the upper hand, the man's other hand somehow finding Booker's throat while his right one kept a firm hold on the pistol.

"This will be your end, False Shepherd," the police office said through gritted teeth.

Booker gasped for breath, his vision getting blurry. He hadn't been fast enough, so focused on his inner monologue that he'd misjudged the distance between the Columbian policeman and himself.

Just when he thought he'd never see the light of day again, the grip around his throat lessened until it was gone entirely.

Coughing heavily, he straightened himself up to a sitting position, massaging his aching skin.

Rosalind, it seemed, had taken a wooden club from one of the fallen enemies who'd attacked them a few minutes ago and, somehow unseen by the man holding him down, had knocked him unconscious.

"Thanks…," Booker coughed, ignoring the chiding glance she gave him.

"Perhaps, Mr. DeWitt," Rosalind began coolly. "It would be to both our benefit if you concentrated more on the task at hand, not on whatever is going on in that head of yours."

She bent down to retrieve the pistol that had been pointed at Booker's face only moments ago and handed him the weapon.

"Oh, and do remember to actually make use of your vigors," she continued bluntly. "They can be the difference between life and death. Now, if you'd kindly follow me, I believe we're headed in this direction."

Booker stared after her, not sure if he should be thankful for her saving his life, or strangle her for sounding a wee bit too much like his mother. Shaking his head, he followed her to the staircase he'd discovered earlier.

Things were starting to get more and more interesting the farther they got – he just had to stay alive long enough to see this mission through.

I hope my two protagonists are still in character. We don't really get to see too many scenes with the Luteces but I imagine Rosalind to be the bossy kind since she'd had to fight for every achievement in her life, being a woman and all.