A/N: Yep, started another Dishonored fic. This one, however, is almost entirely OC driven.

For those following my other story, An Assassin's Tale, have no fear - I do intend to continue with that fic. However, I promised a friend of mine that I would start publishing this first chap by February 1st, and I didn't want to break my word to her. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Dishonored or any of the canon characters and ideas - wish I did, but all I own are my original OCs and ideas.

UPDATED: This chapter has been updated as of December 29, 2018

Favors

Prologue

The Fourth Day of the First Month, the Month of Earth, 1836

A Year before the death of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin

The Tailors' District

…

…

The Clocktower of Dunwall sounded the last of its twelve chimes of midnight.

Raucous laughter spilled forth from the Crooked Road, a pub renowned both as an establishment of ill repute and for its staggering popularity amongst the locals. The two were not mutually exclusive.

Usually the singing and gaiety inside continued with neither notice nor concern for the late hour. As the new day began, however, the front door of the alehouse suddenly burst open. A large, muscular, blond man strode out into the cool night air, a struggling figure dressed in bright yellow and white slung over his shoulder.

"No!" the smaller figure cried out, kicking her legs in frustration. "Put me down! Put me down!"

The large man harrumphed as his victim continued her fruitless resistance.

"You know the rules, Netty my dear," he said, concern lacking in his voice. "I can't be losing the trust of the patrons, now can I?"

The man stopped near the edge of the short stone veranda at the pub's entrance.

"Wh-what are you doing?" the girl asked, eyes wide. She craned her neck to see what her assailant was planning.

He began swaying the girl back and forth, building up momentum.

"Oh no, Iver! Doooon't!" Realization dawned a moment before he flung her out onto the hard cobblestone street. She landed painfully, bruising her arms, elbows, and legs.

The large man straightened his thin mustache as he scowled down at her.

"Nobody steals from my customers, you got that, Netty?" he said with a cruel smirk, then jabbed a thumb at his chest. "Nobody but me, that is."

He giggled at his own jest and turned to go, but the girl called out after him.

"You've done it now, Iver," she threatened as she climbed gingerly to her feet. "Maybe I should go to a Watchman and let him know what goes on here? Hm?"

The pub owner turned back to her.

"Oh, you didn't think I knew what you had going on in the back rooms, eh?" She smiled confidently as her gaze returned to him. "I'd like to see you explain that to your beloved clientele once the word is out!"

"You little trollop!" he snarled, his large hands clenching into fists. "Be off with you!"

With a gasp, she backpedaled until she bumped into a metal streetlamp.

"I'm not afraid of you, Iver!" she taunted him. "None of the girls are! If we were all to leave, you'd see! Your business would fall off right quick!"

With a growl he advanced toward the much smaller woman. Uttering a quick yelp, she spun on her heel and dashed past the lamppost then onto a side street.

The -clack- -clack- -clack- of her heels upon the stonework echoed down the empty corridor of tightly packed boarding houses. After nearly twisting her ankle twice along the uneven ground, she slowed and then finally braced herself against a dark grey building. Catching her breath, she listened for signs of pursuit. Hearing nothing - she was certain Iver wouldn't venture far from his precious pub for the likes of her - she turned and glumly began making her way towards the far end of the thin street.

"I didn't do it. I honestly didn't take the pouch."

Passing by a shop, she paused to glance at her reflection in the dusty glass window. She grimaced at what she saw. Her long blonde hair had come undone and sat tangled above her shoulders. Dirt, no doubt from her tumble in the street, had smeared across her left cheek. Worse, her ensemble was a mess.

Her hose were ripped in two places, one of which had a smatter of blood where she scraped her knee. Her bright yellow and white corset, of which she had been particularly proud, had smudges on the side. The lace on one of her finger loop gloves was torn at the seam. Worse, her favorite bonnet was missing, no doubt left at the Crooked Road.

"Ah, Etiennette girl," she said with a slight shake of her head. "Look at the mess you're in now." She sighed deeply. "How are you going to nab a gent for the night like this, eh? May have to cut your price in half to but four coins."

Etiennette Mersell, Netty to those who knew her here, had been a courtesan in the Tailors' District for nearly six months. She'd hoped to get taken in by one of the brothels – the Duke and Dancer Alehouse, the Golden Cat, or even the Smoke Street Dice Hall. It wasn't much to look forward to, but there would at least be a madame and a better chance for a roof over her head. The best she'd managed so far was a regular spot at the Crooked Road pub.

As she started brushing her fingers through her hair to straighten it, she spied a metal washbasin attached to a sidewall on a nearby tenement building. Maybe it was in working order?

She went over and tested the taps. The left one, for hot water, popped off in her hand, but the right functioned properly.

"Alright then," she said with a hint of a smile. "We'll fix us up, all proper."

She removed her lace gloves, tucked them down the front of her corset, and then cupped her hands under the running water. She splashed the cold liquid onto her face and gave herself a light scrubbing mindful of the shadow around her eyes so that it didn't run.

"Iver'll want an apology no doubt," she mused quietly to herself. "I'll give him a few days. Hopefully he'll see it right. I didn't take that dandy's money pouch after all."

The fop, who wasn't one of the pub's regulars, had lost his coin at cards and sought, for some odd reason, to blame her. He'd accused her of stealing and demanded she return his money. Unfortunately, she had just begun trolling the pub and hadn't made any coin for herself yet. The fool's desperate plan of shifting the blame to her for his own folly ruined her night.

"But we won't be needing some drunken sod to keep us warm during the dark hours," she went on as she scrubbed her arms, removing some of the stench of stale cigarettes and cheap ale that had clung to her from the barroom of the Crooked Road.

She moved back to glance at the reflection in the dirty window again, pleased with the result.

"Hah! Now there we have it! Looking better already."

She did have to admit that she was quite attractive with dazzling green eyes, golden locks, and a small but curvaceous figure. Her best feature, however, was her skin. Alabaster in hue, the creamy color hinted at innocence, even though she definitely was not, and her skin seemed to exude a slight glow, as if she was somehow illuminated from the inside. She'd also been fortunate not to have gotten any deep or lasting scars; it wouldn't help her to be so permanently marred.

"But this knee stills needs a thorough washing," she groused.

She glanced around for a pot or bowl; it'd be better than just splashing water on it from her cupped hands. She finally spotted four or five empty glass bottles sitting near the far end of the street.

"We'll be better than before, right quick," she whispered. "Be going again for my usual eight coin." She paused a moment. "No, I'll think it'll be ten this week. Yes, Miss Etiennette's favors are worth a full ten of coin, you lucky gents." She stifled a light chuckle as she went to the discarded glassware.

She had just reached her destination when a low crackling sound emanated from behind the building drawing her attention. She blinked in surprise.

"Could it be?"

She eased carefully past the glass bottles and tucked in close to the building's edge. The crackling stopped as she peered around the corner.

"It is," she whispered in awe.

Outlined by a streetlight about fifty feet away on one of the main thoroughfares sat a black rail car, one of the smaller ones often used by the rich or the aristocracy. The crackling sound she'd heard must have been the car's wheels sparking as it ran along the metal rails. Though equipped with front spotlights, neither of the lamps were lit; rather the only illumination to be seen came from the interior of the vehicle.

For a moment she thought the vehicle had broken down as it sat unmoving close to the garbage strewn entrance of a side-alley. After all, rail cars rarely stopped in this part of the city.

Suddenly the right-side door opened, and a thin man stepped out. Another man, shorter and stockier, was inside the cab of the vehicle and offered the end of a large burlap sack to the first. Together they managed to work the bundle out, finally laying it at the alley's entrance. Turning her attention back to the vehicle, Etiennette noticed a cloth banner lining the inside of the rail car's door: a blue rose on a silver field.

As she studied the odd crest, a third figure emerged from the cab, taller than either of the first two. She held her breath as she watched him with his precisely cut heavy black jacket, with matching pants, knee-high military boots, and scabbard sheathing a sabre. A crescent symbol with a trident passing through was embroidered on his sleeves. She knew the symbol well: the man was a member of the feared Warfare Overseers, a militant faction within the Abbey of the Everyman. She had seen Overseers before, but this one was dressed differently.

Whereas the embroidery on the sleeves of the Overseers' uniforms was universally gold, it was red on this particular Overseer's jacket. Also, if she remembered correctly, the uniforms of the faction were dark blue, not black. Finally, there was the metallic mask he wore. Usually a brilliant gold trimmed with black, this individual's mask was deepest ebony, with the trim around the eyes and mouth of a bloody crimson color, lending him a nightmarish appearance.

"Is it almost done, Styverson?" the Dark Overseer inquired, his voice slightly muffled behind his mask. "The drug will be wearing off soon."

"Almost," the shorter man replied with a nod. "Though I don't see why we had to drug her."

"Had we bound her, you fool, there would have been evidence on her wrists and ankles." The black-clothed figure moved around the rail car. "This needs to appear as a simple murder during a robbery. Nothing more."

"Why didn't we just kill her at the factory?" the short man, apparently named Styverson, asked under his breath as his thin helper untied the burlap sack and pulled it away to reveal the slowly moving form of a young woman.

"By the Void," Etiennette muttered as she watched from her concealed position. "They couldn't possibly be planning to…?"

The Dark Overseer strode confidently past the others and stood over the young woman who moaned lightly.

"You d-don't need to do this. P-please, I-I'm begging…" She shook her head slowly and was trying to reach up at him.

"No need to beg anymore," the Dark Overseer said coldly. He drew his sabre, looked down at his helpless prey, and struck without hesitation.

The young woman's body tensed as the sword plunged into her chest. She gurgled in agony as her attacker slowly twisted the blade back and forth, then finally after long terrible moments her form relaxed as life left her.

"Th-they killed her," the streetwalker whispered in horror. "J-just like that. Without mercy." She eased back into the shadows, away from the horrid scene. Her heart pounding, she moved slowly, as if in a trance, too stunned to think properly.

She remembered the row of empty glass bottles the moment she backed into them. They fell over, rolling and clattering onto the hard cobblestones behind her.

"What was that?" the Dark Overseer asked as he and the two men with him glanced toward her.

"Spies!" uttered the thin man, who had until this moment remained silent. He pointed at Etiennette's location.

"Kill them!" the black-masked murderer ordered, gesturing his sword in her direction. "Lest all of it be undone!"

The short, stocky man nodded and rapped his companion on the arm.

"Give them the shiv!" he barked as he pulled a long knife hidden in his boot. The thin man drew a similar blade from a sheath on his belt.

The streetwalker's eyes widened in dread as the men approached her position with grim purpose. She turned and ran, nearly tripping on the glass bottles she'd knocked over. Heeled boots were not designed for running along cobblestone paths she determined quickly, but twice tonight she'd been forced to do so.

Unlike the first time with Iver in pursuit, the villains behind her now wouldn't give up the chase so easily. They'd be resolute in keeping their secret and kill anyone who got in their way. Etiennette ran for her very life. She dared not glance back as any distraction could cause her to lose her footing and then she'd be at their mercy. The pounding of her heart increased as she heard the rapid footfalls of her pursuers quickly closing the distance with her. She prayed she would be able to reach safety in time…