Masks of Anarchy, A Dishonored Fiction Options

[Colonel Mustard]

Yep, this is a Dishonored story. For those of you unfamiliar with Dishonored, I'll do my best to provide enough background for it as I write (also, seriously, play this game), but it'll also be departing from the main storyline at points. We'll see how it goes.

Finally, Liz, I just want you to know that this story is all your fault.


Masks of Anarchy

Chapter 1

One of the most fascinating things about life is, I find, beginnings. The 'what' may be the meat of the matter, but every what is preceded by a 'why'. Why is this so, and not that? Why did such events proceed in such a way?

The what that I speak of is an interesting one. Fascinating, in fact, a few short weeks of anarchy and revolution when an empire hung in the balance, when the fate of millions was held in the hands of just a few. But why this happened, where it started, is a question that is difficult to answer.

Perhaps, you might say, it began with the whales and with Esmond Roseburrow, with the oil that which made Dunwall's fortune and poisoned the city. Perhaps it started with Hiram Burrows' plot against the poor. Perhaps it started when a man outside Dunwall's designated infection zone grew sick with a fever, on the day that it passed when he wept blood and stumbled from his home without a mind. Maybe it was the day Jenny Aching first put on her mask and ran through the night streets of Dunwall with a smoking pistol in her hand and blade soaked in a watchman's blood. Or perhaps it began with a shot fired by Lucas Cornell, a shot that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

These are all small reasons why the momentous events of Dunwall's most tumultuous weeks began. Why the major players took to the stage. There was one moment when the alchemical formula of these events were poured into a catalyst, a day when it all came to a head, when the blood of an empress was spilled, when an oath of vengeance was taken, when conspiracy came to a head, that all of these small whys came together in that one moment where the lever tipped on the fulcrum and everything changed.

Sit back, dear reader, and let me tell you a tale.

The whaling ship was a predator just like its prey. Huge, unwieldy, slow, lumbering, yet dignified and majestic in spite of this. Coasting along the Wrenhaven Estuary, a dying leviathan trussed up in its slaughter-harness, butchers scurrying across its body like flies.

For Corvo Attano, there was no stronger reminder that he was back in Dunwall.

The engine of the small boat he was in puttered as it made its way towards Dunwall Tower, hull cutting through the water and the technicolour membrane of industrial scum that smothered the river. He ignored the chatter of the driver and ship's officer who shared the boat with him, focussing his gaze on the city on the far bank, the squalid sprawl of brick houses and factories, grubby and tight-packed as a rat's nest. Behind him, on the near shore, the fortification of white stone that was Dunwall Tower rose up high, gleaming in the weak morning sun and stark contrast to the rest of the city.

"Mind if I ask if you brought back any good news on the plague, Lord?" the driver asked. "Been all we've been talking about back here in Dunwall."

"Classified," Corvo replied, his hand touching the left side of his breast where the letter lay in the inner pocket of the indigo coat he wore. "Empress' eyes only."

"Yeah, thought so," the man shrugged, the epaulettes of his City Watch uniform rising and falling with the movement. "Can't blame a man for asking."

He cut the engine as the boat drew towards a tower in the side of fortress-palace, drifting through the doorway in its side, leading out to the water. As the boat came through, prow bumping against the far wall, Corvo scanned the waterline on instinct, looking for places where potential intruders might climb up and into the palace.

"Ho there!" the officer called up. "Bring us up!"

"Getting her ready!" someone else replied, hidden from view by the long square pit between the entrance and the rest of the building. "Turning on the pipes...and she's rising."

Water gushed from pipes and faucets in the walls, spray splashing up from other side and causing the boat's three occupants to raise their arms to protect themselves.

"I hate this damn system," the driver grumbled as they rose. "Couldn't they just use a winch or something? Gonna stink of riverwater for the rest of the day."

Corvo remained silent, blinking away the spray that had collected on his lashes as the water elevator came to a halt. The room he had entered into was one he did not recognise, nor indeed did he recognise the tower that they had scaled in scant moments, something between a boathouse and a pumping room. With disapproval, he noted the lack of spotlights on the water around the building's base, the absence of armed guards and the fact that no challenge had been given; laxity had grown in his absence. He would take it up with Jessamine later; he knew that her response would most likely be to laugh and tell him that he hadn't changed a bit, but she would implement his recommendations nonetheless.

The guards on duty, clad in their distinctive domed helmets and indigo uniforms much like his own, saluted Corvo as he passed them, the Lord Protector returning the gesture with a nod as he stepped onto the white stone bridge that connected the pump house with the rest of Dunwall Tower. He had no time for formality, no time for anything else, simply getting the message to Jessamine as quickly as possible. He knew that today would be a busy day, that there would be much planning for the days and weeks and months ahead and that he would be needed-

The young girl dressed in white who appeared at the far end of the bridge cut off that train of thought in a moment. Although he was not a man who smiled often, Corvo smiled as she ran into his open arms, lifting Emily Kaldwin up as if she weighed nothing, whirling her around him and pulling her close for an embrace. She kissed him on his cheek, ignoring the rough stubble that he had lacked the time to shave off that morning, hugging him close before Corvo finally set her down.

"I can't believe you're back!" Emily declared, smiling and bouncing on her feet. "What was your journey like? Did you see any whales? Were there pirates? What was Morley like, and Serkonos and Tyvia? Was there anyone with an eyepatch and a peg leg? Did you-"

Corvo held up a hand in an attempt to stem the flow of questions.

"Later, Emily," he said. "I promise I will answer all of your questions later."

"Right, right, of course," Emily nodded, enthusiasm barely dented. "I want to hear all about it, though. Can we play hide and seek, then?"

Corvo blinked; he had forgotten how Emily would sometimes jump from subject to subject with the same ease and swiftness as a veteran sailor clambering between ropes.

"Later," he said, the letter in his pocket like an anchor dragging him to duty. Emily's face fell.

"Promise?" she asked.

Corvo's finger traced an 'X' over his heart, and Emily smiled. In her eyes, that was as good a promise as an Overseer's oath taken in Holger Square, and with the reassurance that they could play her favourite game later, she took his hand.

"Come on," she said, hurrying along with Corvo in her wake. "Mother's in the garden, talking to that nasty old spymaster again."

It was a strange sight; a tall, olive-skinned Serkonan in the navy greatcoat of the Lord Protector, sword at his hip and an oil-lock pistol across his belt, being lead by the hand by a ten year-old girl in a white dress, towards the gardens of Dunwall Tower. There were a few guards that saluted him on his way, though they remained carefully expressionless at what they saw. Only one person on their route saw fit to address them.

"Corvo, back two days early, I see. This is certainly a surprise."

The countenance of the man who spoke was cruel, craggy features harsh and merciless as a sea gale, grand and intimidating in the crimson uniform of the High Overseer, leader of the Abbey of the Everyman and holiest man in Gristol. His likeness was taking shape on a canvas before him, formed by the brush of the bearded painter at work, the famed inventor and artist Anton Sokolov.

"Campbell," Corvo nodded. "My work was done ahead of schedule. There was no reason to delay."

"In any case," Campbell said. "Welcome back."

The words were insincere, formalities and nothing else; neither Campbell nor Corvo had any love for each other, and the Lord Protector couldn't help but wonder what the High Overseer was doing at the tower. Having his portrait taken, of course, but that could have been done anywhere.

"Stop moving, Campbell," Sokolov grumbled from his painting. "And Corvo, welcome back from wherever you've been."

"All across the Isles," Campbell said. "Begging the other nations for aid in dealing with Rat Plague."

"My elixir has that problem solved already," Sokolov said dismissively. "Now keep still, High Overseer."

"I'll leave you both to that," Corvo said as a farewell, letting Emily lead him on towards the garden.

"Is it just me?" she asked as they headed up the white steps. "Or does that painting not look much like Campbell?"

Any answer Corvo would have given died on his lips as they entered the small garden of Dunwall Tower. Beneath a domed pavilion supported by pillars of white stone, Empress Jessamine Kaldwin stood in argument with Hiram Burrows. As always, her attire was businesslike, a black jacket and white shirt, a high, ruffed-collar surrounding her neck, laced edges brushing the bun that her black hair was pulled into.

"They are sick people, not criminals," she was saying to her spymaster, a look of anger on her face.

"We have been over this before, your Majesty," Hiram said. "It moved past that point long ago."

"And what do you suggest?" Jessamine asked. "Besides, of course, mass murder of my people? That is not happening, Hiram; they are my citizens, and while there's hope of saving them there shall be no killing."

"Mother!" Emily called, hurrying to Jessamine's side. "Corvo is back!"

Jessamine glanced over her shoulder, and her face lit up as she saw Corvo, the Lord Protector bowing his head in acknowledgement.

"Spymaster, please leave us," she said. "And we shall not talk of this matter again."

"Of course, your Majesty, I suspect that we shall not," Hiram said, bowing low and stepping away. As he passed Corvo, he added; "Lord Protector."

"Spymaster."

With Hiram gone, Jessamine turned to the Lord Protector. There was eagerness in her eyes, tempered with a quiet, carefully concealed desperation, hope for a solution to the problem that was threatening to swallow Dunwall like a whale gulping down a shoal of hagfish. The look on Corvo's face as he handed her the letter quashed that hope even before she broke the seal.

Her expression darkened as she read, and after a moment, she let it drop on the floor.

"They're blockading us," she said. "They'll take no Gristol ships into their ports. They'll wait to see if we die of the plague or not, and they'll hasten the job by starving trade. I knew that this mission was a fool's hope."

She sighed a sigh that bubbled with frustration.

"Void take them," she said. "Every last one of the cowards."

"Mother, what's wrong?" Emily asked, tugging at the tail of Jessamine's jacket in worry. "Why are you sad?"

"I'm not, dear," Jessamine said. "I'm just...just tired after a busy morning, that's all."

The look on Emily's face showed that she believe that lie no more than she believed the sky to be pink, but she remained silent, resolved. Over the head of her daughter, Jessamine shot Corvo a despairing look, and the Lord Protector shrugged as if to say; "We'll work something out."

"Mother," Emily suddenly spoke, breaking out of her embrace with Jessamine and pointing to a rooftop. "Who's that, over there?"

In the distance, dark figures figures flitted over the tiles of Dunwall Tower's rooftops, moving from one place to another with unnatural speed. Every movement seemed swift and certain, potent with an undeniable malice, and Corvo's expression darkened as he saw the darting figures.

"Get behind me," he ordered, drawing blade and oil-lock. "Who in the Void are these-"

He was cut off when one of the figures appeared before him. Somehow the trespasser materialised from empty air, a figure in a gas mask and dark rain slicks arriving as if from the Void itself. Some men may have stopped at that moment, shocked by the impossible sight, but Corvo raised his pistol and fired the moment the attacker came into view. They reeled back in a cloud of black ash and from the side of his vision Corvo saw another enemy lunging for him.

Wheeling around, flipping the grip of his pistol in his hand so that he held the barrel, Corvo dodged the stab and smashed the firearm's butt into the throat of the assailant. They toppled to the floor, choking and wheezing, and Corvo ignored them as he turned to face a third, dodging a slash that would have taken his head from his shoulder. The Lord Protector grunted in pain as it scored a red line across his arm, parried the assassin's backswing and slammed his own blade into the man's gut.

Another stab sliced towards him from nowhere, Corvo whirling out of the way of the blade even as it sliced a red line across his side. His response was to slash across the attacker's throat, head flopping back with a spray of viscera as windpipe and tendons were severed.

No mortal force could have stopped Corvo Attano that day; even as fresh attackers appeared around the Lord Protector, he fought, blade weaving around him in an arc of graceful lethality. He was like a machine, a machine of terrifying precision and grace and fuelled a terrible determination to protect Emily and Jessamine with his life.

What stopped Corvo Attano was no mortal force.

Something grabbed him, an invisible hand that picked him up and pinned him to a pillar. He couldn't move, vainly attempting to struggle against the eldritch power humming in the hands of an assassin in a red coat. He couldn't even open his mouth as another figure, a killer without a gas mask, ripped out of thin air, blade in hand.

"Get back," Jessamine yelled, pushing Emily behind her. The assassin reached for Jessamine, and she slapped him away. The killer's free hand, encased in a glove of black leather, grabbed her wrist.

Blood spattered on the white stone floor of the gazebo as his blade stabbed into her midriff. Emily tried to break free but the killer who had Corvo pinned grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up as the girl kicked and struggled.

"I've got her Daud, let's go!" the assailant said, a woman's voice audible even beneath the mask.

The man who had killed Jessamine glanced up at Corvo, and the Serkonan made a vow that the next time he looked upon that man's hard features, he would bury his blade in his heart. "Leave him."

The power holding Corvo in place abated, and he collapsed to the ground as the killers disappeared. Scrambling on his hands and knees, he hurried to where Jessamine was fallen, scooping her up in his arms, fingers scrabbling for a pulse as he muttered barely-audible denials. There, a beat, faint and feeling transient as a summer snowflake. She lived, she breathed. There was hope.

"Corvo," she managed to breathe, eyelids fluttering open. "Corvo, you need to...need to find Emily. Keep her safe. You're the only one who can...help her. Please."

Her eyes closed, the final beats of her pulse fading. Corvo tried to speak. He tried to form words, tried to say something, anything, make some final farewell.

The man who had been duelling with the skill and lethality of something born of the Void mere moments before, hadn't a single word to say.

When he looked up, he stared down the barrel of a musket. He blinked in surprise, at the Watchman who held the weapon and the platoon of his comrades who had fanned out around him, the maws of their pistols and muskets all gaping at Corvo like hungry predators. There were two more officers of the watch behind him, pistols in one hand, swords in the other, and behind them, Thaddeus Campbell and Hiram Burrows.

"He...he killed the Empress!" Burrows exclaimed, the tone on the Spymaster's voice so shocked that it could have been genuine.

"Her own bodyguard as well," Campbell added. "Ironic."

"Arrest him! Arrest him at once!" Hiram ordered. "Take him to Coldridge, immediately!"

Perhaps Corvo could have made it out of that situation. He was a seasoned killer, a veteran of combat, swift and lethal as an elyctric bolt from an arc pylon. Perhaps he could have fought his way free, dodged and rolled and evaded the bullets and blades, made his escape into the intestinal tangle of Dunwall's streets. A Corvo Attano who was not numb with shock, who had not seen his world crashing down around him in a single cataclysmic moment, might have achieved this. The Corvo Attano who lay on his knees, steeped in the blood of himself, assassins and the Empress, was not this man.

The hilt of a sword crashed against his temple, and darkness swallowed him like the Void.

[Colonel Mustard]

Liz: Red Jenny isn't the only OC I'm bringing into this. It's up to you if you think that that's a good or a bad thing

H.E.R.: It's going to be a little blurry over how much of the mask's effects are in Jenny's head and how much of it is from the Outsider's power. And it would be Glasgow you're thinking of; Edinburgh is the capital of Scotland and is/was the cultural and governmental centre of the country, while Glasgow had a lot more industry. As industry in the UK got viciously kneecapped by Thatcher, it now has a lot more poverty instead.

I can't say I was specifically angling for an H.G. Wells vibe with the story (I haven't read tons of his work), but thank you very much all the same!

Also, if you do see typos, feel free to point them out; I'm a grown-up enough boy to handle someone pointing out typos and it improves the story anyway, so go for it.

Jack Cloudy: Hehe, thanks very much. I'll admit that it can be a bit odd for Corvo to be this terrifying entity if you're trying to do things as cleanly as possible, though I'll admit that it was even worse for me when I was playing the Knife of Dunwall and Brigmore Witches DLCs, where Daud the Master Assassin instead became Daud the Clumsy Oaf who keeps Failing to Sneak Up on People.

Glad you liked Red Jenny, though she isn't exactly what I'd call a ninja; her style is a lot more blase than you'd expect from a ninja, and though that mask gives her some cool powers (as well as a distinctive costume) she's nowhere near as powerful as Corvo and Daud are.



Thanks for reading, everyone, and enjoy the next part!


Chapter 3

One Month Later

The echo of the gunshot inside his skull was what woke Lucas Cornell from his sleep. He blinked a few times, disorientated and hyperventilating, struggling for his bearings. Finally, he found them; at home, in his bed, the first rays of sun creeping through the curtains.

He checked the clock on the cabinet opposite him, and nodded. There were still five minutes to go before the alarm bell chimed and he would have to rise, and he took a moment to lie back in his bed. That moment was slow, and it ached.

The clock chimed, the noise enough to drag him out of memory and into the day. Thanking the device for the distraction, Lucas slid out of bed, flicked the alarm off for the next morning, and drew back the curtains. Weak natural light filtered through the window, Lucas blinking before it. Night-time rain had left the street slick and damp, as if it had just crawled from the womb of some abominable urban goddess, but there were already people in the cobbled roadways.

He carried out his morning routine in silence, dressing, eating a light breakfast, brushing his teeth, moving through his small, empty apartment without saying a word. There was nobody to say anything to, after all.

Once the short period of preparation was done, he stepped outside onto the street. He wasn’t in his uniform at the moment, just some nobody in a long coat to ward off the chill and damp, hands tucked into his pockets. Nobody paid him any attention as he walked out of his small apartment building, locking the door behind him, making his way down the street.

He stopped by the mouth of an alleyway, a block away from his home, and reached into the inside of his pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a tin of brined hagfish, peeling the lid off, and placed it down by his feet.

“Jessie!” he called. “Here girl! C’mon!”

He whistled, and the call was answered by barking and the sound of hurrying paws. A dog hurried into the alleyway’s mouth, tongue lolling and tail wagging, and Lucas crouched down by her as she came close, looking up at him with mute adulation and worship.

“Go on, girl,” he said, ruffling the fur behind the dog’s ears. “Tuck in.”

Without further encouragement, the dog tucked in, wolfing down the contents of the tin and licking it clean in mere moments. Meal already finished, Jessie looked up at him, an expectant look in her eye, but Lucas just shook his head and smiled, petting her head.

“Hey now,” he said. “Don’t get greedy. I’ll be back from work later, and I’ll get some more food for you then.”

Jessie barked her enthusiasm and followed him down the street as he went. Lucas had no idea exactly who Jessie belonged to, and he had called her Jessie only because she looked like a girl, but she had obviously had an owner before Lucas had adopted her; she was too tame to be one of the semi-feral street dogs that roamed some of Dunwall’s backstreets, and she was, unless Lucas was very much mistaken, a purebred Tivean Sheephound. If it weren’t for the fact that his landlady put a ban on keeping pets of any kind, he would have put the girl up in his apartment. The company would be pleasant, but as it was their current arrangement was working well enough.

They parted ways outside the local City Watch station, Jessie heading back into the streets that were her home and Lucas stepping through the front doors of the imposing brick building. His face was well known and he was let past the front desk without a word of challenge beyond the man behind the desk wishing him a good morning.

Taking his uniform from his locker and changing quickly, Captain Lucas Cornell of the City Watch was finally fully ready to face his day. It decided that it would start busy and go from there.

“We’ve got another attack carried out by Red Jenny and her friends,” was Captain Urdan’s answer to Lucas’ enquiries about what had happened the previous night. The man was grimy from pulling a busy all-nighter, eyes bloodshot and shadowed from lack of sleep. A faint crop of stubble darkened his chin. “We had a cart full of weapons attacked; the two watchmen driving it were killed, and everything on board was taken. There was more than three thousand Coin’s worth of muskets, pistols, grenades and ammunition on board that cart, and they took it all.”

“How do you know that it was Red Jenny’s work?” Lucas asked. In response, Urdan slid a wicker picnic basket across to him. Frowning, Lucas pulled the lid up to reveal loaves of bread, and on top of them, a note.

‘Your weapons have been requisitioned for a just cause. Give these to the people instead of your bullets. Kindest regards, Red Jenny.’

“Outsider damn the crazy bitch,” Lucas cursed. “Any witnesses?”

“None, or at least there aren’t any who’ll say anything against her,” Urdan said. “Lord Commander’s gonna have my head for this.”

He shook his head.

“Remember when this job used to be easy?”

“Hah,” Lucas snorted. “I’m still longing for the days when the worst we had to deal with was ganger trouble. No weepers, no rioters, no revolutionaries.”

“Well, I’ve got some good news, at least,” Urdan said. “The first shipment of Sokolov’s new toys came in. They’re trying them out in the yard. C’mon, let me show you.”

The sight that greeted Lucas in the yard was nothing short of awe-inspiring. Standing fifteen feet in height atop two spindly legs, an armoured nest protecting the single pilot, a group of machines walked the Watch Station’s yard. The men atop the platforms had bows in their hands and the weapons would have been anachronistically archaic in comparison to their mounts if it weren’t for the fact that Lucas could see they were tipped with cartridges of explosive whale oil.

“Tallboys, they call ‘em,” Urdan said. “This was the ‘riot suppression measure’ we were all promised.”

“How many do we have?” Lucas asked, watching one of the machines step over a pair of spectating watchmen in a single immense stride.

“Half a dozen, with more to come.”

“That’s a measure that’ll suppress riots, alright,” Lucas said. “They’ll be enough to stop them before they start.”

“Exactly the point. The intimidation factor on those things is through the roof, and even if it doesn’t scare people off then it can rip through a crowd in no time.”

“Y-yes,” Lucas managed to nod. “That would be a good thing too, I suppose. Who’s piloting those? Are we going to need to rework shifts if we’ve got men on Tallboy duty?”

“The pilots came in from outside the station,” Urdan replied. “They’ve been having special training in these for the last couple of months, top secret stuff that they’ve been doing in Dunwall Tower.”

Lucas gave a grimace of disapproval.

“Everything alright?” Urdan asked.

“Rather have men who know the area piloting those things, that’s all,” Lucas said.

“Not as if we’re going to be sending those things out on patrol,” Urdan pointed out. “Exceptional circumstances only, that sort of thing.”

He blinked, as if remembering something.

“Thinking of special circumstances, Commander Tellerson said he wanted to see you,” he added. “Said that there was an assignment he had for you, to see him as soon as you could.”

Lucas nodded.

“I’ll see him right away,” he said. “Talk to you later, Urdan.”

“Hah, fat chance,” Urdan retorted. “My shift’s over, I’m heading home.”

“Alright then, tomorrow,” Lucas said. He headed into the interior of the station, the bustling mix of whitewashed corridors, cells, offices, Watchmen and prisoners. There was the sound of bellowed threats from one cell, of a man yelling in pain and pleading for mercy, and Lucas shook his head. The Watch had changed since he had first joined, and he was beginning to feel more and more that it hadn’t changed for the better.

He came to a halt before the door of Commander Tellerson’s office, and rapped his knuckles on the oak.

“Come in,” the Commander’s voice rasped from the other side. Door creaking as he pushed it open, Lucas entered. “Ah, Captain Cornell, I was expecting you.”

The body of Commander Tellerson was that of a man who had, in his prime, been the height of strength and athleticism; tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. Now, with the advance of age, those muscles had turned to fat, his hair had greyed and the pipe he had favoured for decades had left his voice as a deep rasp.

Standing behind the Commander to his left was another figure, wearing the indigo uniform and sneering golden mask of an Overseer.

“Sir,” Lucas saluted. “Who’s this?”

“Patrir Balkin,” the Overseer said, stepping forwards with a hand extended. Lucas shook it. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain Cornell.”

“And you too,” Lucas replied. “What’s this about, Commander? I take it Overseer Balkin’s here for more than just a social visit.”

“You’re quite correct, Captain,” Tellerson said, moustache wobbling as he spoke. “I’m assigning you new duties; the apprehension of the anarchist known as Red Jenny.”

“The Abbey of the Everyman has reason to suspect that she traffics with the Outsider,” Balkin answered before Lucas could ask the inevitable question. “Naturally, we wish to have her detained and executed for heresy, and I was assigned the task of hunting her down by the Abbey. I knew the City Watch also wished to have her taken in, so it made sense to me that we should pool our resources instead of conducting separate investigations; the Watch may know things the Abbey may not, and vice versa, and it reduces the risk of us accidentally treading on each other’s toes.”

“I see,” Lucas said. “What does this have to do with me?”

“All to do with our break-in last month when she sprang her friend,” Tellerson said. “You’re the only member of the Watch to have encountered her face-to-face and lived.”

“Indeed,” Balkin added. “I requested that you might help me in this assignment. That, and your prior history with dealing with riots and strikers means that you may well have an insight on the revolutionary mindset that I lack.”

“I’ve given you access to all of the reports we have on Red Jenny to help you both,” Tellerson said. “May be that you find something useful.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Balkin said. “Unless there is something the captain wishes to speak to you about, then I do not see any reason to use up any more of your time.”

Tellerson glanced to Lucas.

“Nothing else to add, sir,” the Captain said. “We’ll get to work.”

“So,” Lucas said to Balken as they stepped into the corridor. “How are we doing this?”

“The investigation?” Balken asked, looking at him with Lucas guessed was a curious expression beneath the sneering countenance of his mask. “The usual manner, I had thought; conducting interviews, reviewing evidence, attempting to work out where she would appear next, that sort of thing.”

“No, no, not that,” Lucas shook his head. “I meant us two. Is this something you’re determined to take charge of?”

“On the contrary, I would much rather we worked together as partners and equals,” Balken said. “You are experienced in hunting criminals, and I am experiences in hunting occultists. Seeing as we are hunting a criminal occultist, neither of us really has any precedent for taking charge over the other.”

“Works for me,” Lucas nodded. At least the Balken was fairly intelligent, it seemed; he had worked with Overseers before, when the Watch had had to collaborate with them on some matters, and those men had been blinkered, frothing-at-the-mouth lunatics. It was still possible that Balken was as zealous as the others and had merely tempered that zeal with a little humility, but whales might have just grown wings and flown and he could have found himself partnered with a reasonable Overseer. “Do you have an office or anything here, Overseer?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Balken said. “And please, just call me Patrir.”

“Well, we might as well use mine for this, then,” Lucas said. “We’ll get everything relevant from the archives and bring it up here, see what we can find out. And call me Lucas, by the way.”

Their visit to the station’s archives and evidence room was not a long one, the pair picking up the files that had been compiled on Red Jenny as well as the latest few editions of Dunwall’s Voice that had been confiscated.

“Any reason why you’re picking up that seditionist little rag, Lucas?” Balken asked.

“It’s only ever been a hunch, but I’m pretty sure the Voice and Red Jenny are linked,” Lucas explained as he led the way to his office. “She’s always seen at the rallies or strikes that the Voice incites, and they portray her as some kind of hero for the people. Might just be that they have a mutual interest, but it could be a chance to work out where she’s going to appear next.”

“Good thinking,” Balken nodded.

They reached Lucas’ office, and the captain pushed the door open. It was a carefully kept, neat room, uncluttered and clean, with a few mementos on his desk but little else.

“Tell me, captain, when you faced down Red Jenny, did you see anything to suggest any Outsider affiliation?” Balken asked. “Anything uncanny or not right about her?”

“She was a lot stronger and a lot quicker than I expected,” Lucas said. “We went sword-to-sword when I ran into her, and she took me by surprise with that.”

“Unnaturally so?”

“Maybe unnatural wouldn’t be quite the right word to describe it, but she was an amateur. She lacked technique. A master swordsman would have had her level of speed and strength, but I’m talking about someone who’s trained from when they were young and she definitely hasn’t. Technique was the reason that I survived, and if she hadn’t shot me I might have actually beaten her.”

He rubbed his right shoulder at that, at the deep furrow that the bullet had dug along it. It wasn’t a debilitating injury, but it had been enough for him to drop his weapon and stun him; Red Jenny had taken the opportunity to flee with her rescued comrade.

“I see,” Balken said. “And do you think you saw anything that might have given her such abilities?”

“I can’t say for certain, but you know that mask she wears? I got a funny feeling whenever I looked at it. It could have been that which was giving her that advantage.”

“Her mask,” Balken nodded. “I see. It would make sense; the Outsider and its followers are known to have a fondness for such things.”

“If that is the case, do you have to counter that?” Lucas asked. “You Overseers are the ones who are specialised in dealing with magic, after all.”

“There is something we have,” Balken nodded, drawing what looked like a small music box from his pocket. He pulled open the lit and his thumb flicked a lever, and a discordant chime echoed from it. “It has only just recently been developed, but this little device can temporarily disable Outsider magic; if we use it on Red Jenny it should be enough to put her at a disadvantage and make it possible to apprehend her.”

“Yeah, I can see how that would be useful,” Lucas nodded. He tapped the files and the small box of Dunwall’s Voice copies on his desk. “Now let’s see if we can track her down.”