Columbia burns under the flames of the uprising, as blood paints the floors red. Through the streets of the shantytown, Booker DeWitt runs forward and aims his machine gun at anything that moves.

Deemed martyr in this revolution, he is still very much alive—in his full form–and for that, it's not only Comstock's men that desire his death, it's also Vox Populi.

"Get out of my way!"

At least Booker bothers to spare the innocent, yelling at a small group of children who stumble in his way. What is the state of this city?–killing all that breathes just for sake of a victory that is unachievable.

Behind him, another revolutionary emerges, so Booker shoots—his gun clicks—only to realise his magazine is empty. "Fuck!"

Fortunately, he kills the bastard with his sky hook instead, ramming the spinning wheels into his skull and splitting it in half. The dead body lands at his feet, soon pooling blood around his already dirty shoes, and he curses again, now out of ammunition.

Lucky for him, you've been snooping around the corner, few bullets in your pockets waiting to be used. The revolution isn't lost to you; and so isn't Booker DeWitt.

You shout his name. Once. Twice.

And when he fails to hear you, over the humbug around you two, you jump; slam into his back and knock out a huff from his tired, burning lungs, before he suddenly spins and has your cornerer against the wall.

"Who are you?"

The sharp edges of his sky hook find your chin, metal wheels just an inch from slicing your skin and staining your torn blouse with blood. You don't look dangerous, which could mean the very opposite.

Trembling with exhaustion, Booker stares at you with big, empty eyes, and perhaps prolongs this moment just so he could finally catch a breath. He is tired, so incredibly tired.

"What side are you on?"