Dishonored 2

The Sea Wyrm

Chapter One

Damian Jacks had stayed out too late, and with too little to show for it. The fish he'd caught would barely be enough to keep him going for the week; less if Alexandria came to see him again. But none of that would matter if he never made it home.

The cobble streets that ran along the shoreline were poorly lit. Only the cold light of the moon and the occasional dim, flickering glow of an oil lantern in someone's window led Jacks home. The dark corners, Jacks knew, were not to be trifled with. He stuck to what little light he could find, because, Jack remembered, 'to stray from the path is to get lost in the dark. And it's in the dark where you will find the danger.'

His father's words. He had spoken of rats and weepers at the time, when the rat plague was still fresh in everyone's heads. But it had been a decade since the plague, and the only thing Jacks worried about when he peered into the dark was the Hooks.

Jacks heard something clatter up the street beyond and flinched. He pulled his rucksack closer to his body and slowed his pace, pressing himself against a wall and staring into the semi-dark in front of him. He watched the shadows, his breath clouding in the cold and damp, watching for movement-but there was none.

Satisfied, Jacks continued on his way. The fear and the chilly night air pulled at his body, asking him if it wouldn't be easier to just curl up somewhere and sleep, sleep forever, sleep until this hard life was behind him. But Jacks ignored that voice inside him, as he had his whole life, and thought about the good things. Fresh bread. A stiff drink. The comfort of a loved one. Alexandria.

Alexandria. A Serkonan girl with thick, dark hair and tan skin. Shining brown eyes and quick with a smile. And a damn fine cook.

She had come to Caulkenny seeking her fortune. As many of the denizens of Caulkenny had pointed out upon her arrival, she had come to the wrong place for that. Caulkenny was the place you left when you wanted to seek fortune. The only ones who ever came here were selling fish and cheap whiskey. The rest could never afford to leave.

None of this fazed Alexandria. She got a job pouring beer for the sailors that passed through town, and she lived in what Alexandria called a youth hostal, a kind of big, old house shared by a group of different young men and women. She hated it, though, and spent many of her nights with Jacks.

Jacks focused on those nights as he headed towards the bridge. He thought of the warmth of her pressed up against him; wrapped around him. Her laughter. Her optimism-that one day they'll escape Morley for good and she'll take Jacks to Serkonos, where the wine flows like water and it never gets cold.

One day, Jacks thought, stepping onto the bridge. He was almost home. One day. The bridge creaked beneath his feet. Jacks stared beneath the planks of wood at the rushing water beneath, washing dirt and waste out into the churning ocean. One day. The bridge creaked again, only it was not Jacks' doing. He froze and looked up.

Harold Caulfield stood at the end of the bridge, hands in the pockets of his long, leather coat. He grinned lopsidedly at Jacks. "Hello, Jacksy. You're out awfully late."

"Later than I intended," Jacks replied slowly. The bridge creaked again, and Jacks turned to see two more boys standing behind him. They wore the same kind of trenchcoats as Jack, and they wore the same kinds of grins.

"Haven't seen you much since we left school," Harold said, walking languorously towards Jacks. "Saw you once at the Squid's End, though. Flirting with that Serkonan barmaid. Can't blame you. She's a fit one." Jacks chewed his tongue, holding back the anger that flared within him.

"I work a lot," Jacks said. "Have a drink when I can. Same as the rest of us."

"And go out for midnight strolls?" Harold looked at Jacks' rucksack. "What's in the bag?" Jacks knew Harold would take the fish if he told him. Food was a commodity here, and gangs liked to control commodities. But if the other option was getting hurt, or worse, Jacks knew what he had to say.

"Fish," he said honestly. "Borrowed one of the rowboats from work. Good way to bring some extra food to the table."

"I'm sure," Harold said. "Got any to spare? You know, for an old friend and that."

"Sure, Harold," Jacks said bitterly. He lowered the bag to the ground and pulled out four of the six trout he'd managed to catch, wrapped in cloth.

"Say, Damian." Jacks looked up to see the gleaming point of a whaler's hook, held in Harold's thin, pale hand, inches from his face. "Why don't you just hand over the whole bag. Be easier in the long run, don't you think?"

Jacks slid the fish back into his rucksack and handed it to Harold. "Much obliged," Harold said.

"I need to get home," Jacks said, defeated.

"Of course, of course. Just one more thing." Jacks looked at Harold. "You're out after curfew."

"What?"

"Curfew, Jacksy. Hadn't you heard? Us Hooks been putting some rules in place. Need to keep the citizens safe at night. After all the happenings in Dunwall-murder and betrayal, Empress gone missing, assassins and witchery getting the Overseers all in a tizzy-world's a dangerous place nowadays. We want to care of our people."

"I didn't know about any curfew. I don't have any money," Jacks said. "I can-I can catch you fish. I can pay you that way."

"Oh, Damian, no." Jacks cocked his head. He could hear the other two boys coming up behind him. "We've already decided on your payment."

The Hooks behind Jacks grabbed him, holding him against the edge of the bridge. "Harold, please." The fear again. Gnawing at his bones.

"I've learned more since we left school than I ever learned in school. You know that, Jacksy?" Jacks stared at Harold, unable to move, unable to breathe.

"I used to think the world was about… About proving yourself. Showing you're not to be fucked with. But that was only the tip of the iceberg, ya know?" Harold pulled the rucksack over his shoulders, and played with the hook in his hand. "Ever since getting with the Hooks, I realized what the world's really about. It's about power. You find power, you don't need ta prove yourself ta nobody. Power gives you control. Over them who don't have power." Harold gripped the hook tightly. "I'm sorry, Jacksy. I really am. But you? You don't got power."

The Hook landed in Jacks' side with a wet, spongy thunk, and a searing flash of pain. Jacks cried out in agony-just as Harold's croneys threw him off the bridge.

Jacks' body was caught up in the current immediately, tossed and turned and whisked straight out into the waves. Jacks flailed against the current, his side burning where the Hook cut into him and his body cold, trapped in the dark waves.

His head broke above the water once or twice, and he gasped for a little breath, but mostly got salty sea foam. Amidst the currents dragging him under, Jacks felt a numbness seep into him. He'd felt it before, creeping at the edge of his consciousness every time he went too long without eating, or without drinking clean water, or every time he got sick. It was the numbness of death.

When the momentum of the drainpipe began to subside, a good ways out into the ocean, the numbness had crept so deep into Jacks that his limbs had stopped moving properly. His mouth slid open against his will, letting the cold ocean water down his throat and into his lungs. Jacks felt his body sink, and saw the last of the moonlight above fade into nothing; only the darkness of the depths to keep him company.

And it was there, in the overwhelming darkness, in that tiny sliver of purgatory between the last moments of his life and the first of his death, Jacks heard the voice.

"Oh, Damian. The world has not been kind to you."

Another current. It pulled him now, instead of pushing him. It pulled him further down. The weight of the water hade made Jacks feel heavy and sluggish, but the new current was slowly making him feel lighter, and lighter, and lighter, until he was no longer sinking-he was falling.

Jacks dreamed of a colossal whale, bigger than any seen by man, bigger than any ship made to traverse the ocean, and pale as bone. A leviathan of legend. It looked at Jacks with gleaming black eyes and spoke in a hard-edged voice.

"You have fought so hard, desperately trying to carve a place for yourself in the fathomless enormity of existence. And for what? A blade between the ribs and lungs full of seawater. It was all for naught."

Jacks opened his eyes and saw darkness. Then he opened them again, and retched.

Oily green water expelled from his lungs, splattering across pale grey stone. Jacks coughed and gasped for air, blinking away the salt in his eyes, and rolled onto his back.

Above him stretched boundless black skies. In the distance Jacks could see shapes floating against the horizon: grey, amorphous blocks of stone like that which he lay on now. Gentle, haunting melodies like whale songs floated through the air, sending shakes down Jacks' spine.

He pulled himself to his feet and staggered away from the edge of the stone, which dropped off into the nothingness, and looked around. A set of stairs led up into a stone structure floating some ways above, where blue and yellow torchlight burned and flickered.

There, silhouetted against the torchlight, was a young man. More than a boy, but not yet fully a man, and with the blackest eyes Jacks could never have imagined looking upon.

"You've been at the mercy of the world for too long, Damian," the young man said. "I think it's time we spoke."