New York really was the city that never slept, no matter what year it was. The lights, the cars.. he wasn't exactly used to that, but the attitude and pure grunge of the city really didn't change from what he was used to. Corners still had trash and there were still bars that dared to stay open into the wee hours of dawn. Good things never really happened after midnight, so as Booker walked around the city breathing in that same old pungent, grimy air, he knew that the kind of folk he used to be associated with were lurking in the bowels of the city trying to make that last wager or finish that last bit of whiskey. For Booker, his night had only begun and he couldn't shake the feeling that this whole scene was wrong. He could comprehend some things that his brief time with Elizabeth had given him, but this, without her here to explain, it just didn't make sense and he needed a strong drink to calm the nerves.
Booker barely managed to get through the lesson about the computers, so for the most part, he stayed away from the modern technology. As advanced as everything was, there were no flying cars or floating cities, so he couldn't imagine all these wires being that far ahead. Words on paper were still words on a screen as far as he cared. It was clear he was still a man out of time if only by the way he dressed. A pair of dockers with a black belt around his waist secured a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up his arms. The red tie that may have been formerly done at one point dangled slack from his neck like a noose waiting to be jerked tight. His shoes were polished, clearly handmade with time and care and not shipped over from a sweatshop in India. The dark colored vest he wore was probably the biggest give away, made from wool and sewn together in an outdated pattern with large buttons on either side.
It didn't really matter which bar he went into, but he was done walking, so the first one that came up was the one he'd pop into. The cigarette he'd been smoking was nearly out, but he tugged it from his lips and crushed it against the brick along the wall of the building before flicking it off onto the sidewalk before stepping inside. He was quiet, except for his footsteps. He wasn't a huge man, but he built, maybe a soldier, maybe a cop; but he definitely looked like a fellow you didn't start trouble with. Eyes took a few moments to count the patrons wallowing away in the remnants of their drinks before he made his way up to the bartop, taking a seat. "Whiskey cocktail," he stated, no more interested in the woman behind the counter than he was of the atmosphere of the bar.